Page 2 of The Matchmaker’s Mistake

She handed him the tea. “And?”

“It was well attended.”

She waited. He looked back at her over the rim of his teacup.

“Did you dance?” She poured her own cup and lifted it to her lips.

“No.” He had not written a word about the ball at Netherfield, for he was aware of the danger. His mother could construct a courtship from a single set of dances, and he had rather more than that to conceal.

His mother took a breath. “What of Mr. Bingley’s party? They all travelled comfortably, I hope?”

She sounded hopeful. Darcy could not allow that to continue.

“They did. Bingley left for town before us, but Miss Bingley and the Hursts were very comfortable.” He had not been, but his mother was not really asking about his comfort.

“Miss Bingley. Such an accomplished young woman. I heard her play at Lady Laraby’s in June. So elegant!”

He knew what she wanted, and he was not going to give it to her. “Yes. She presents herself very well.”

“She does.” His mother smiled brightly at him. Too brightly.

He set down his cup as a thought suddenly became clear. “You did not simply take advantage of the visit. You arranged Netherfield. The entire venture.” Of course she had. Darcy felt rather stupid for not realising it before.

His mother remained silent for a few seconds before she said, “Charles Bingley is a grown man.”

“Mother.”

She did not attempt to reply, only reached for the teapot instead.

“Bingley was considering three properties,” Darcy said. “Two in Exeter, one in Northamptonshire. Nothing in Hertfordshire. By the end of August, there was only Netherfield, and by Michaelmas he had signed the lease.”

“Netherfield has very good shooting.”

“Does it?”

His mother met his gaze. “Apparently.”

“And how did you come to know it had very good shooting, and was available to be let, and was suitable for a young man in Bingley’s precise circumstances?”

She finished pouring her tea and set down the pot. “Lady Milburn wrote to me in July.”

“Ah.” One of his mother’s great confederates in all matters of love.

“She mentioned in passing that the great house at Netherfield was to be let, the old gentleman having died last year, and I immediately thought of Mr. Bingley. He had been speaking of taking an establishment for some time. It seemed a kindness to pass the information along.”

Darcy did not, even for a moment, believe his mother’s display of innocence. “A kindness,” he repeated. “You thought of Bingley immediately.”

“I did.”

“You did not think of me?”

His mother’s gaze met his with a serenity so complete he knew it to be false, for she was not a naturally serene woman. “Really, Fitzwilliam. Not everything is about you.”

“That is what you say when you know I am right.”

“Lady Milburn is an old friend. Her letters are a pleasure to me quite apart from any practical intelligence they contain.”

“I do not doubt it. I also do not doubt that when she wrote about Netherfield, you were already in correspondence with at least two other friends about two other country houses. Did Netherfield win your approval because Lady Milburn’s letter arrived first or because Hertfordshire is but a half-day’s ride from London?”