Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  Jane sidled up next to me. “I didn’t expect Mr. Bingley to be so…” She trailed off and bit her lip, but I noticed that her eyes were very bright. “I mean, doesn’t he look like a nice person?”

  My poor, naive Jane. He did look “nice,” our Mr. Bingley. Just the kind of guy who’d let others do his dirty work so that he could maintain his facade of “niceness.”

  But maybe Jane was right. She often was. And if I’d had to pick the guy most likely to eliminate the competition by tossing out a life raft with a slow leak in it, it would be Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome.

  “Who is the guy with Bingley?” I asked Jane.

  “Oh, that must be Mr. Darcy. He’s on the Bingley Pharmaceuticals Board of Directors.”

  Figured. “He looks like Bingley’s bodyguard.”

  “I’ve heard they’re good friends.”

  Well, I thought, they do say opposites attract.

  I was about to reflect further on the subject when Dad came into the room. He looked a little like a mad scientist with his wisps of white hair sticking out at all angles and his preoccupied air. Like Mary, he’d rather have been back at his desk than partying, and I couldn’t believe he was thrilled about Bingley being there, even if he’d felt the need to invite him.

  Dad greeted Bingley and Darcy with a smile and outstretched hands, introducing them to the other employees and to Kitty and Lydia, who had joined Mom in a froth of giggles and flirtatious glances. I stood well out of the way, watching Jane gravitate ever nearer to Bingley while Darcy hovered behind his “friend,” treating everyone who came within spitting distance to a sneer worthy of Edward G. Robinson.

  Maybe they’re gay, I thought. That would certainly throw a wrench in Mom’s plans. But Bingley seemed to ignore Darcy completely, greeting everyone with the kind of friendliness that was hard to fake. He came to a dead stop when Dad introduced Jane. He looked at her, and she looked at him, a pair of angels heading for a fall.

  Now, I’ve never believed in love at first sight. It makes for good movies and bad novels, but it really comes down to sex. And Jane just wasn’t that kind of girl.

  I decided I’d spent enough time watching. I grabbed a couple of champagnes, served up in fancy plastic flutes, and joined them.

  Jane turned to me with the most radiant smile I’d ever seen. “Lizzy!” she said. “Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, this is my sister, Elizabeth.”

  I raised one flute in salute. “Nice to meet you,” I lied. “Care for some champagne?”

  Bingley grinned, showing a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. “Thank you, Ms. Bennet,” he said in a pleasant tenor. “I think I will. But please call me Charles.”

  “Charles.” I glanced at the formidable Mr. Darcy. “Would you like one, Mr. Darcy?”

  For the first time our eyes met, and it was like walking into a metaphor describing brick walls and immovable objects. I’d taken a step back before I even realized it, and the champagne sloshed over my blouse.

  Darcy didn’t seem to notice. He was staring at me with his piercing indigo eyes as if we were the only two people in the room and he was about to eat me for lunch.

  The picture that idea put into my mind made me feel…well, let’s just say it’s been a while since I had quite that reaction on meeting a guy for the first time. And I couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with me. I’d met other tall, handsome guys before.

  But not like him.

  I wanted to run screaming out of the room. Instead, I tipped back the plastic flute and drank the remaining champagne in one swallow, then promptly fell into a fit of coughing.

  Two seconds later Charles was pounding me on the back while Jane’s face swam in front of me like an old VCR tape copied one too many times.

  “Lizzy! Are you all right?”

  I straightened, blinking tears from my eyes. “Completely.”

  Except I could feel Darcy’s eyes skewering me, haughty and contemptuous.

  “How clumsy of me,” I said with a sharp smile. “You should have taken the champagne, Mr. Darcy.”

  “I don’t care for any, thank you.”

  His voice was crisp, formal and very English. My heart started to flutter like Marilyn Monroe’s white dress in The Seven Year Itch.

  “I think I’d better clean up,” I said, pushing the empty flute into Jane’s hand. “Excuse me.”

  I rushed out and ducked into the bathroom, as rattled as if I’d just woken up from one of those dreams where you’re walking around your old high school in your underwear. I skidded to a stop in front of a mirror and leaned over the sink.

  Lydia used to tease me about not caring how I looked. For her, looks are everything; for me, not so much. But now I was thinking of Darcy staring at me, and I noticed that my hair was curling in all the wrong places, I had dark circles under my eyes from staying up late reading the latest Sue Grafton and the subtle lipstick I’d put on was smeared.

  I hit the sink with my fist and instantly regretted it. I shook my hand until it stopped buzzing, combed my hair with my fingers, repaired my lipstick and examined my blouse. No help there, unless I ran back to the store and grabbed a T-shirt.

  To hell with Darcy. I didn’t give a damn what he thought.

  Did I?

  In spite of my determination to pretend I hadn’t made a fool of myself, I hesitated outside the door to the meeting room. I could hear two men talking very quietly just inside, and immediately recognized the voice of my nemesis.

  “You know how I detest such gatherings, Bingley,” he said. I have no interest in the affairs of this company’s employees, least of all those of the family.”

  “You can be such a jerk at times, Darcy,” Bingley said. “You didn’t exactly refuse when I asked you to come. And anyway, these people should have your sympathy.”

  “Bingley Pharmaceuticals belongs to you, I believe.”

  “And I should have been paying more attention to how it’s being run.”

  “You have carried on your father’s work in seeking cures for obscure diseases that no other company will touch,” Darcy said. “You need feel no qualms about acquiring a business that is on the verge of collapse.”

  “Your business advice is usually sound, but in this case—”

  “If you wish to succeed in the work you support, you cannot be sentimental in such matters.”

  “I know how much you want Bingley Laboratories, Darcy, but this isn’t the place for one of your lectures.” He cleared his throat. “What do you think about her?”

  “To whom are you referring?”

  “Didn’t you see her? She’s so beautiful.”

  “Tolerable.”

  “What do you mean, tolerable? All that beautiful blond hair…”

  “Ah. I fear I misunderstood. You refer to the elder sister.”

  “Of course. What did you think I…” A chuckle. “Oh, I get it. You thought I meant Elizabeth. I should have known she’d be more your type.”

  “Hardly. Unlike you, Charles, I am more particular in my choices. You can scarcely expect me to be engaged by a woman incapable of drinking a simple glass of champagne.”

  CHAPTER 2

  MY FACE WAS SO HOT THAT I KNEW I’D SCARE JANE half to death if she saw me now. Who did he think he was? No interest in the affairs… He was worse than I’d thought. Much worse. And where had he learned to talk, anyway? His speech was like something out of a Victorian novel.

  “I am more particular in my choices.” It wasn’t just an insult to me, but to my whole family. He’d made very clear what he thought of us.

  Girding my loins, I charged into the room, nearly knocking Bingley off his feet. I paused to apologize and batted my eyelashes at Darcy, who actually looked a little perturbed.

  “Are you all right, Elizabeth?” Charles asked with a look of genuine concern.

  “Fine, thanks. Would you like more champagne?”

  Charles patted his stomach. “No, thank you. You have so much good food here that I couldn’t eat another
bite.”

  “You can thank Jane for that.” I glared at Darcy—who subjected me to a cool, cynical stare that consigned me to the ranks of scurrying, pestiferous hexapods—and walked away with my head high and my heart playing hopscotch under my ribs.

  I went directly to Jane, who took one look at my face and pulled me into a corner. I proceeded to tell her what Bingley had said about her—winning a blush and a shy smile—and then filled her in on Darcy’s judgment of me and our family.

  “He didn’t mean it, I’m sure. Though he does seem a little serious.”

  “Serious!” I laughed. “‘You cannot be sentimental in such matters.’ He’s a creep, and you know it. But Charles…”

  “Oh, Lizzy. He’s perfect. Bingley Pharma can’t be as bad as some of the others if he’s researching cures for rare diseases. It isn’t so different from what we’ve been doing for years.” She lowered her voice. “From from what you’ve said, Charles obviously hasn’t known what’s going on with the negotiations.”

  “You may be right,” I said. “Darcy, on the other hand…”

  “He can’t be as bad as he seems, Lizzy. Listen… Charles will be at the next meeting. I believe Mr. Darcy will be there, too. I’ll tell you what I observe.”

  Through the most shocking pink of rose-colored glasses. If I hadn’t been heading off to the Frankfurt Book Fair—a trip for which I’d been saving for the past two years—I would have asked to be in on the meetings, too.

  If Darcy were the real brains behind the takeover, Dad needed all the backup he could get. How could I blame my quiet, unassuming father for failing to stand up to such a…

  Since this story is rated for general audiences, I won’t say what I really thought of Darcy. I tried to ignore him completely as I rejoined the party, pretending I didn’t notice him watching me when I offered a toast to my dear old dad and joined in the general conversation and good-natured ribbing. Once or twice I managed to watch him glaring at Jane and Charles, who were showing no signs of losing interest in one another.

  Given the conversation I’d overheard, it didn’t seem unreasonable to assume that Darcy didn’t want his friend spending personal time with the daughter of the man whose company he intended to devour. I was almost tempted to go right up to him and challenge him on exactly that point—and a couple of others—but before I could get him alone, the party was over and he was striding out of the office, Charles trailing after him with mournful puppy-dog eyes.

  “Did you see how much Mr. Bingley liked Jane?” Mom said, breaking into my thoughts with all the subtlety of a charging rhinoceros. “Exactly as I suspected. I knew she couldn’t be so pretty for nothing!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But oh, my poor Lizzy-girl! Jane told me what that awful man said about you. Let me tell you, my heart would be broken if he did like you. Everyone agrees that he is a conceited so-and-so who thinks he’s better than everyone else.”

  For once Mom wasn’t exaggerating.

  I saw Jane one more time. She was walking on air, a radiant Venus with Cupid’s arrow firmly stuck between her arched blond eyebrows. I didn’t see much point in warning her that she might be jumping the gun; I’d have to rely on the common sense that usually prevented her from making serious mistakes when her naturally trusting and gentle nature led her astray.

  You’d better not let her down, Bingley.

  And as for Darcy…the next time we met, I’d let him know exactly what I thought of his attitude. If I didn’t, I might actually become afraid of him. And that was a situation not to be tolerated for an instant.

  THE WEATHER WAS FINE IN Frankfurt, and I’d managed to forget about Mr. Darcy for a whole twenty-four hours before I opened my inbox and found Jane’s e-mail.

  Dearest Izba,

  I’m more certain than ever that I was right. We have had two meetings since you left, and it’s clear that Charles had no idea what was really going on in the negotiations. He treats Dad with respect, and he’s already backed away from the other negotiators’ more unreasonable conditions.

  Good, I thought. Maybe he could be trusted after all.

  I have a very good feeling about all this, Lizzy. I’ve spoken to Charles privately after both meetings, and I only like him more each time.

  “Of course,” I muttered.

  On the other hand, I really don’t understand Mr. Darcy at all. He is quite an imposing person, even a bit frightening at times. I think he believes that Charles can’t take care of himself. Charles certainly listens to him whenever he actually has something to say, and I do think that Mr. Darcy would prefer to return to the previous way of doing business.

  “Bastard,” I said loudly, earning the censorious glance of the English bibliophile sitting next to me in the Kaffeestube.

  Still, I don’t dislike him, Lizzy. How can he be all bad if he’s Charles’s friend?

  “Ha!” I exclaimed.

  The bibliophile stabbed at his keyboard, closed the laptop and stalked away. I managed to finish reading the e-mail in silence. When I’d finished, I sat at my table until the coffee was cold.

  There’s something else… You won’t believe this, Izba. Charles has invited me to come for a weekend at his mansion, Netherfield, in Westchester County. Oh, I know you’d say it’s too soon. But you also know that I won’t do anything stupid… Charles’s sister will be there, too. Both Mom and Dad think I should go, and I really don’t see the harm in it.

  I forced myself to drink the coffee and swallow it. Dad must really feel they were making progress in the negotiations if he was willing to send Jane off to Charles Bingley’s estate. Mom must be thrilled that her scheme to catch a rich bachelor for one of her daughters was working out so well.

  It did seem a bit soon. But could I object if Jane really cared about Charles, especially if Charles’s liking for her might be encouraging him to be more liberal with his terms? Jane could end up being the family’s salvation, which would delight her no end.

  I sighed, closed my laptop and returned to the book fair. I salivated over first editions I couldn’t afford to purchase, attended fascinating lectures and mingled with eccentrics, collectors and aficionados who provided me with endless opportunities for study. Two days later, just as I was packing up for my Rhine River cruise, I got another e-mail from Jane.

  Dearest Izba,

  First, let me tell you how incredible Charles’s estate is, and what a wonderful host he’s been. I’d barely arrived when he introduced me to his sister, Caroline Bingley. What a beautiful woman! She must buy all her clothes from the top New York designers, and she wears them like a queen. But she’s very friendly, and made me feel right at home.

  I have a little bad news. The evening after I got here, I slipped on the stairs (how embarrassing!) and sprained my ankle. Now Charles insists that I stay a few more days, until I can walk again.

  Oh, my poor Jane! She was normally far from clumsy, but I guess that’s what love does to a girl.

  You might be interested to know that Mr. Darcy is staying with Charles. He’s polite, but I think he’d rather not have me here. Can you believe that I still haven’t learned his first name?

  Without giving it any more than a moment’s thought, I called the cruise line, canceled my trip and booked a flight straight home. Twenty-four hours after I arrived in New York I was on my way to Westchester County.

  Charles Bingley’s mansion was every bit as amazing as Jane had suggested. It was a Gothic monstrosity made out like a European estate, suggestive of excess and the kind of money even the Depression hadn’t touched. It had its own miniature lake, a wood blazing with color and tennis courts.

  I rang the buzzer at the gate, waited a few minutes and gave my name to the man who eventually answered. The gates swung open and I followed the curving drive up to the forbidding front entrance.

  A man wearing an impeccable formal suit greeted me at the door. I guessed he was the butler or some kind of servant, hard as that is to believe in the twenty-first ce
ntury.

  “Miss Bennet?” he asked with an inclination of his graying head. “Mr. Bingley is expecting you in the grand salon. May I take your coat?”

  I shrugged out of it and handed it to him, suddenly conscious of my jeans and baggy sweater. I hadn’t been thinking about my clothes when I’d raced out of my apartment. My mind had been full of Jane…and Mr. Darcy.

  Now I realized that I’d made a strategic mistake.

  “Thank you,” I said with a smile I hoped didn’t seem too nervous. I clutched my handbag tighter under my arm and followed the butler into a hallway adorned with marble floors and oak paneling so polished that it reflected me like a mirror. The driving rhythm of fast jazz echoed in the corridor.

  As soon as I entered what I guessed was the “salon,” Charles Bingley shot up from the sofa near the huge flagstone fireplace and strode toward me, hand extended, smiling so infectiously that I felt myself grinning in return.

  “How are you, Elizabeth?” he asked, pumping my hand. “It’s great to see you again. I know Jane will be very glad that you’ve come.”

  I cleared my throat, more than a little overwhelmed by his enthusiasm. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead of time.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” He tugged on my hand, pulling me toward the arrangement of handsome antique sofas and chairs that I knew weren’t just fine reproductions. “Caroline, look who’s here!”

  My first glimpse of Caroline Bingley told me that Jane hadn’t been exaggerating. Elegant isn’t a word you hear often these days, but Miss Bingley wore it as easily as I did my favorite jeans. The dress alone must have cost several thousand dollars, and it fit her model’s figure like the proverbial glove. She wore a very tasteful pair of diamond earrings and a matching choker that could probably have bought a small country.

  “Elizabeth, this is my sister, Caroline,” Charles said. “Caroline, Elizabeth.”