Page 182 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"I suggested a mild fever. The Countess said, and I quote, 'How convenient. We shall wait.'" Charles's voice carried exhaustion. "Caroline, I do not think they are leaving. The Earl has asked for more scones. He seems to be settling in for good."

Caroline pressed her fingers to her temples. Her hair was unwashed. Her eyes were swollen. She had been wearing the same nightgown for days. She looked, in short, exactly like a woman who had spent forty-eight hours crying over a man who had called her a lemon and then had the audacity to claim he loved her.

"Schmidt."

"Yes, Miss?"

"The grey silk. The one with the pearl buttons. And the cameo. And—" She caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror and winced. "A miracle."

Schmidt was already moving. "I'll do what I can, Miss. But I'm a lady's maid, not the Almighty."

"You have thirty minutes."

"I'll need forty."

"You have thirty-five."

Forty-two minutes later, Caroline descended the staircase at a deliberately measured pace.

The grey silk had been an excellent choice. It was subdued. Dignified. It saidI am a woman of impeccable taste who is absolutely not devastated by your son's betrayal. The cameo at her throat added a touch of classical severity. Her hair, thanks to Schmidt's frankly heroic efforts, was pinned into a style that suggested elegance rather thanrecent emotional collapse.

She looked, if she said so herself, almost human.

The drawing room doors stood closed. From within, she could hear the low rumble of the Earl's voice and the lighter tones of the Countess. And, somewhat surprisingly, Charles.

Her brother had not fled.

This was unusual. Charles's standard response to confrontation was to develop a sudden pressing engagement elsewhere—a friend to visit, a horse to inspect, a cloud formation that required immediate study. The fact that he had remained suggested either that the Matlocks had blocked the exits, or that Charles had been temporarily replaced by a changeling with a spine.

Caroline straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin. Became, once more, the immaculate Miss Bingley—all polite ice and hard-won composure.

She opened the doors.

The tableau that greeted her was not what she had expected.

The Earl of Matlock stood by the fireplace, a half-eaten scone in one hand, looking grudgingly impressed. He was a large man,built like a bulldog that had learned to wear waistcoats, and his eyebrows alone could have commanded a regiment.

The Countess sat in Caroline's favourite chair—the one by the window with the excellent light—looking as serene and threatening as a cat watching a mouse hole. Her grey silk gown was finer than Caroline's, which was irritating. Her posture was perfect, which was more irritating. Her eyes, when they landed on Caroline, held a calculating gleam that was most irritating of all.

And Charles—

Charles stood between the Matlocks and the door. His arms were crossed. His jaw was set. His entire posture radiated a stubborn determination that Caroline had not seen since he was twelve years old and had refused to give up his pet trout despite their mother's hysterics.

He looked, impossibly, like he was protecting her.

"Miss Bingley." The Earl's voice was a rumble that seemed to originate from somewhere around his boots. "You have emerged. Excellent. The scones were adequate, but I prefer conversation with my tea."

"My lord." Caroline dropped a curtsey precisely calibrated to convey respect without warmth. "My lady. I was not aware you intended to call."

"We did not send a card. Cards can be refused. We find the direct approach more effective."

"That is true." Caroline moved to the settee, positioning herself with the window at her back—a tactical choice that put the light in her visitors' eyes. "To what do I owe this honour?"

The Earl exchanged a glance with his wife. A silent communication passed between them, born of decades of marriage and shared campaigns.

"We are here," the Earl said, "about our son."

"I have nothing to say about Colonel Fitzwilliam."