Page 22 of The Slipper Scandal
And then she had dumped an entire plate of fish into his lap.
"There, sir," said Hastings with quiet satisfaction. "The trousers will require proper laundering, of course, but they should pass for the remainder of the evening. The waistcoat, I fear, is beyond immediate remedy. However, Mr. Abernathy is of a similar build to yourself. He has offered this as a temporary replacement." He fetched a dark green waistcoat of fine silk from where it hung over the back of a chair.
Darcy examined the garment. It was of excellent quality and not dissimilar to his own taste. It was a little larger around the middle, but not much. "That is most generous of Mr. Abernathy."
Hastings held the trousers out to assess his handiwork. "That should suffice, sir. Although—" He paused, his nose twitching slightly. "Might I enquire, sir, about the wine?"
"Wine?" Darcy repeated blankly.
"Yes, sir. There appears to be a distinct aroma of claret emanating from your person. Particularly from, if you will pardon me, the vicinity of your—"
"Ah," Darcy said hastily. "Yes. There was a minor incident with the wine service before the, er, main event."
Hastings's expression did not change, but Darcy sensed a flicker of understanding pass through the man's eyes. "I see, sir. A most unfortunate coincidence.” He located a powder and disappeared with the offending article of clothing.
And suddenly, with a clarity that stopped him in his tracks, Darcy understood too.
The fish. The dramatic scene. Miss Bennet's exaggerated distress and fulsome apologies. She had created a spectacle deliberately, ensuring all eyes were on her, not on him and not on the damning evidence of spilled wine in a most unfortunate location. She had diverted attention away from his embarrassment by manufacturing a larger one of her own. She had not created the second scene to be malicious, but to be kind. In an odd, very Miss Bennet sort of way.
"Good God," he murmured.
"Sir?" Hastings called from the other side of the dressing screen.
"Nothing," Darcy said. "I was merely . . . considering something."
"Very good, sir.” He reemerged, holding the trousers that now smelled a great deal less like the food and drink being served.
As he dressed, Darcy found his anger gradually subsiding. The picture he made was not perfect, but it was far better than he had dared hope. His coat had been brushed, his neck wiped clean, and between the borrowed waistcoat and the cleaned trousers, his clothing showed little evidence of the dinner table calamity.
“If there is nothing else, sir,” Hastings said, “I believe you are ready to rejoin the company."
Darcy was not entirely certain he was ready for anything of the sort, but he thanked the valet with genuine gratitude and made his way back towards the dining room. His steps slowed as he approached, his mind still turning over this new revelation.
Miss Bennet had protected him—or his reputation, at least. She had taken the blame entirely upon herself, ensuring she would be the object of gossip and amusement, not him.
And she had made certain the servants would not be blamed either.
The men would certainly have their jests, perhaps even speculate about what he might have said or done to make his intended angry. They would laugh about that, the way men did, with knowing glances and ribald comments. But they would not focus on the wine stain or its implications.
She was a mistress of diversion. A tactician. She had told him as much. And she had deployed her skills on his behalf.
Miss Bennet didnothate him. Even if she could not yet admit it.
Darcy paused outside the dining room door, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. He would have to tuck away that bit of knowledge, he thought. One never knew when it might become useful.
He smoothed his expression into one of calm composure and pushed open the door to face the remainder of the evening.
Chapter Seven
"Lizzy, you simply must tell us what happened," Arabella declared, her eyes alight with barely suppressed mirth as she poured a fresh cup of tea. "I have been attempting to piece together the events of last evening, but each time I think I understand, I begin to laugh all over again."
She and Arabella had been the first to the breakfast table, though Elizabeth was not hungry. "I am not entirely certain I should recount the tale," she replied, accepting the cup from her friend. "It was most abasing.”
"For whom?" Mrs. Abernathy asked as she joined them, settling into her chair with grace. "Poor Mr. Darcy looked as though he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole."
"Yes, well." Elizabeth took a deliberate sip of tea. "That was rather the point."
Mrs. Abernathy's eyebrows rose. "Was it indeed?"
