Dinner at Worthingham House was as elegant as ever, though Alexander found himself the subject of far too much scrutiny for his liking. Eleanor had insisted on seating him between herself and Henry, ensuring he had no chance of evading her further inquiries.
For the first half of the meal, conversation remained pleasant, revolving around the children, mutual acquaintances, and the latest on-dits of society. Charles, as always, was a man of few words, contributing only when necessary, while Elliot attempted to impress his uncle with his knowledge of historical battles. Charlotte, more interested in her pudding than anything else, had little to say on the matter.
Alexander, for his part, played the role of the dutiful brother, offering polite responses, though he remained wary of Eleanor's watchful gaze. He knew his reprieve would not last.
Sure enough, as soon as dinner had concluded and the children were sent to bed, Eleanor wasted no time in addressing what had undoubtedly been on her mind all evening.
The moment they settled in the drawing room—Alexander with a brandy in hand, Eleanor perched on the settee, and Charles nearby with his own drink—she fixed him with a pointed look.
"There are rumors about you, you know," she said, swirling the wine in her glass.
Alexander lifted a brow. "There are always rumors, Eleanor. That is hardly news."
"These are different." She leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp. "They began about two months ago. At first, it was mere speculation—whispers that you had been seen in the countryside when you were supposedly in London. Then, word spread that you had vanished entirely. It did not take long for the gossips to latch onto it."
Alexander took a measured sip of his brandy. "And what, pray, is London saying about me now?"
Eleanor's expression was unreadable. "That you have fled the country to avoid scandal. That you are secretly in France, engaging in treasonous affairs. That you were shot in a duel and left for dead on some country estate."
Alexander exhaled through his nose. "Creative."
"Oh, it gets better," she said wryly. "Some believe you were abducted. Others claim you were last seen in the company of anopera dancerand have since been hiding away in disgrace."
Alexander huffed a quiet laugh. "I appreciate that the rumors grant me such an adventurous life."
Eleanor, however, was not amused. "It is not a laughing matter, Alexander. The ton is fickle, but your absence has not gone unnoticed. People are asking questions." She paused. "And not justsociety. Lord Harrington has inquired after you twice in Parliament."
That caught his attention. He set down his glass. "Harrington?"
"He claims to be concerned about yourwelfare—which we both know is nonsense. He is sniffing around for something."
Alexander's expression darkened. He had always known his absence from London would not go unnoticed, but he had hoped that his carefully laid groundwork would prevent too much speculation. Clearly, he had underestimated the reach of his name.
Eleanor studied him closely. "Alexander... is there something I should know?"
He met her gaze, considering his response. There was a time when he might have shielded her from his affairs, but Eleanor was no naïve debutante. She was sharp, perceptive, and—above all—loyal.
"I cannot tell you everything," he said at last. "But know this: I am involved in something of great importance. It isnota scandal, nor a personal folly, but something I must see through to the end."
Eleanor's fingers tightened around her glass. "Is it dangerous?"
A beat of silence.
"Yes."
She inhaled sharply, but to her credit, she did not immediately protest. Instead, she asked, "And you will not tell me more?"
"I cannot."
Eleanor studied him for a long moment, then let out a quiet breath. "I see."
To his surprise, she did not press further. Instead, she leaned back, her expression thoughtful. "Then I will do what I can on my end. If questions arise, I will answer them carefully. You have enough to contend with—you do not need London turning against you as well."
Alexander inclined his head, gratitude flickering in his storm-gray eyes. "Thank you."
She gave him a knowing look. "Just promise me you will not disappear again without notice. My nerves cannot take another mysterious absence."
A small smirk touched his lips. "I shall endeavor to leave a note next time."
Eleanor rolled her eyes but did not argue.
Charles, who had remained silent through much of the exchange, finally spoke. "You have your sister's support, Ravensworth," he said, meeting Alexander's gaze. "And mine."
Alexander nodded. He had always known he could count on Eleanor, but it seemed, despite his long absence, that his brother-in-law had come to trust him as well.
For the first time that evening, Alexander allowed himself to relax.
He was still walking a dangerous path—but at least he did not walk it alone.
A few days after his dinner at Worthingham House, Alexander found himself standing at the edge of a grand ballroom, an untouched glass of champagne in his hand and a carefully neutral expression upon his face. The chandeliers above gleamed with a thousand candles, casting a warm, golden glow over the elegantly dressed crowd. The air was thick with music, laughter, and the faint scent of expensive perfume.
It was a familiar setting, one he had navigated with ease for years. Once, he had played the role expected of him—the dutiful duke, the charming conversationalist, the partner for an endless line of young ladies eager to secure his hand for a dance. Tonight, however, he remained on the outskirts, watchful, silent, and, to his own irritation,bored.
His gaze swept across the room, noting faces both known and unknown. The usual players were present—wealthy gentlemen discussing politics, ambitious mothers guiding their daughters toward eligible prospects, and the perpetual flutter of fans and whispered gossip. He had once found amusement in it all, but tonight, the evening stretched before him like a tiresome obligation.
A waltz began, and as he observed the couples take their places, his mind drifted somewhere else—somewhere far from London, from the gilded walls of this ballroom, from the artificial charm of society.
Longbourn.
The thought came unbidden, but once it had settled, he found it impossible to shake.
How different an evening like this might be ifshewere here.
Mary Bennet.
A month ago, he would not have thought to remember her at such a moment. A quiet country girl, unassuming, easily overlooked by most. And yet, now—now—he could not help but wonder what she might have made of all this.
Would she have endured it in silence, as she so often did at gatherings in Meryton? Or would she have found herself a quiet corner, far from the swirling chaos, content to observe rather than partake?
No, he decided, she would have done neither.
She would have been listening.Thinking.
Mary Bennet did not seek the attention of others, nor did she crave their approval, but she saw more than people realized. He had witnessed it himself—the sharpness of her mind, the quiet certainty in her words when she chose to speak.
She would have made some dry, astute remark about the entire affair, spoken so solemnly that half the room would have dismissed it outright.
Buthewould have noticed.
He exhaled softly, shaking his head. When had his thoughts begun drifting toward her so often?
Perhaps it was simply that, compared to the world around him now, she had been...real. There had been no pretension with her, no carefully constructed artifice. In Mary's presence, he had not needed to perform, to mask his intentions behind the expected charms of polite society.
She was neither a spy nor an informant, neither a threat nor a tool to be used. She was simplyMary, with her steady gaze and thoughtful words, her fingers gliding across ivory keys, her mind filled with books and philosophies that few ever took the time to appreciate.
And the thought of her, so distinct from this world of glittering gowns and empty conversations, made the evening feel all the more insufferable.
He glanced toward the doors. He had done what was required—been seen, exchanged the necessary pleasantries, reassured those who might wonder at his absence that he was still very much present in society. There was no reason to linger.
Setting his untouched champagne on a passing tray, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, indifferent to the swirling waltz behind him.
For the first time in years, the London Season had lost its charm.