Page 167 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

The words were meant to comfort. They landed like blows.

Caroline curled onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest, and stared at the wall. Schmidt sat beside her, her hand resting on Caroline's shoulder, a silent anchor in the gathering dark.

Meanwhile, downstairs…

Charles Bingley stood in the centre of the drawing room, staring at the figure of his brother-in-law. Hurst remained sprawled upon the Louis XVI settee—which had cost enough to feed a small village for a decade—snoring with a rhythmic intensity that suggested he was attempting to saw through the very foundations of the house.

Charles looked at the gravy stain on Hurst's waistcoat, then at the empty brandy decanter on the side table, and finally at the closed doors leading to the hallway. He thought of the way the Colonel had handled Hurst at the opera—with quiet efficiency. He thought of Hurst's hand closing on Caroline's wrist.

He walked over to the bell pull and gave it a tug that was remarkably devoid of his usual hesitation. The butler appeared instantly, looking as though he had been waiting for this moment since the Hursts first arrived with their mountain of trunks.

"Nichols." Charles's voice reached a note of authority that caused even the snoring Hurst to snuffle in his sleep. "Send for the Hursts' carriage."

The butler's eyebrows made a valiant attempt to disappear into his powdered wig. "The carriage, sir? Is Mr Hurst going for a drive?"

"Mr Hurst is going home," Charles declared with a cheery finality that was far more dangerous than a shout. "To Seymour Street. As is Mrs Hurst. I have decided that Louisa requires the tranquillity of her own establishment for the remainder of her confinement. I am sure the air in Portman Square is far too stimulating for her nerves."

"But sir," Nichols ventured, "the Seymour Street house has been shuttered for months. The linens will be cold."

"Then have them warmed," he replied, flashing a bright smile that did not reach his eyes. "And Nichols? If Mr Hurst findsthe transition difficult, do remind him that I am the one who pays for the port. Or rather, I was the one. From this moment on, he shall have to consult his own bank account for his liquid refreshments."

He turned back to the settee. With the toe of a boot that was, for once, perfectly polished, he nudged Mr Hurst's dangling arm.

"Wake up, Hurst," Charles murmured, looking down at the man who had treated his home like an inn and his sister like a nuisance. "Your carriage is waiting. And I believe—if I am not mistaken—it is time you finally learned how to open your own front door."

Chapter Twelve: The Barricades

Richard arrived at Portman Square with the confidence of a general expecting a glowing report from the field. The tea at Matlock House had gone splendidly, as far as he could tell. Miss Bingley had been safely ensconced among civilised women who would not mock her for the colour of her gown. She had been drinking tea. Eating lemon cakes. Engaging in pleasant conversation.

He had checked on her—purely for strategic reasons—and found her perfectly intact. No tears. No hysteria. No signs of social devastation.

Victory.

Now he simply needed to review the next phase of their campaign. There was Lady Starmer's musicale on Thursday, which would provide excellent opportunities for Miss Bingley to be seen without actually having to sing. And Lord Ashford's card party on Saturday, where her sharp tongue could be deployed to impress rather than alienate. And during those outings, he intended to court her. For real. Unbeknownst to her, of course. Because he had discovered to his utter terror, thatshewas the one.

Richard knocked on the door of the Bingley townhouse, already composing his opening remarks. He would be diplomatic. Encouraging. Possibly even complimentary, though he would have to be careful not to overdo it and alarm her.

The door opened. Instead of the butler, Schmidt stood in the doorway like a very hostile piece of architecture. Her arms were crossed. Her gaze could have curdled milk. Her entire posture radiated threat and fury.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam." Her voice was flat. Cold. The verbal equivalent of a door slamming in one's face.

Richard blinked. "Good afternoon, Miss Schmidt. I have come to call on Miss Bingley. Is she receiving?"

"No."

"Ah. Is she indisposed? I can return later—"

"No."

Richard frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Miss Bingley is receiving callers. She is not indisposed. She is simply not receiving you." Schmidt's eyes—which had been warm and grateful at the teashop—now held all the warmth of a Siberian winter. "Good day, Colonel."

She began to close the door. Richard's hand shot out, stopping it. "Wait. What do you mean she is not receiving me? We have an arrangement. I am assisting her—"

"Miss Bingley no longer requires your assistance."

"That is absurd. Of course she requires my assistance."