Page 66 of Honor Requires

They exchanged greetings, and for the nonce, the conversation turned to more general matters.

“I hear,” the colonel said with a hint of amusement, “that your new neighbor has already set the ton in a state of agitation.”

Elizabeth’s lips curved. “It seems so. I have rarely witnessed such enthusiasm for a gentleman who has not even been seen.”

“Ah, but that is part of the appeal,” he replied. “Mystery is a powerful inducement.”

“And wealth,” Elizabeth added lightly.

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “They say he is richer than Croesus.”

“Then London will not rest until he is properly examined,” she said.

The colonel laughed. “Nor until every ambitious mama has calculated his suitability.”

Elizabeth’s gaze flicked briefly toward the surrounding crowd, where more than one eager expression seemed to confirm the truth of that observation.

“Two gentlemen,” she said, her tone touched with humor, “are quite enough to set the ton on its head, it seems.”

The colonel’s eyes glinted. “Let us hope they are equal to the attention.”

Elizabeth smiled.

Beneath the lightness of her words, however, a small, persistent thought remained.

Ashcombe House. The count. The oddness of it.

A curious, unaccountable sense lingered with her.

Something long buried and long denied had shifted, though she could not have said how.

Elizabeth had not intended to linger in the park. The morning had begun much as any other, with the orderly rhythm of the household guiding her from one small duty to the next. Jane’s children had required attention, their lessons supervised and their boundless energy gently redirected; letters had been answered; Mrs. Bennet’s most recent lament read with affectionate patience. It was only after luncheon, when Jane was engaged elsewhere and the house fell briefly silent, that Elizabeth found herself drawn outdoors.

The air was cool, touched with the faint sharpness of early spring, and though the trees had not fully leafed, there was a delicate quality to the light that promised warmer days to come. Hyde Park, though not yet crowded, held enough life to make it pleasant—carriages rolling at an easy pace, riders passing in frivolous elegance, and a scattering of ladies walking beneath the bare branches.

Elizabeth walked without haste, her thoughts only lightly engaged.

It is a fine thing, she reflected, to be neither expected nor required anywhere for an hour or two.

Even as she allowed herself that small indulgence, her mind returned, with curious persistence, to the subject that had occupied so much conversation of late.

The Count of Vendicarsi.

She could not have said why the matter held her attention as it did. London received new figures each season—gentlemen of fortune, ladies of distinction, the occasional foreign curiosity—and few inspired such immediate and widespread speculation. The very absence of knowledge seemed to render him more interesting than any established acquaintance.

And I have not even seen him, she thought, faintly amused at herself. How foolish to be so engaged by a name alone.

She had nearly convinced herself of the truth of that sentiment when a sudden disturbance broke the easy flow of the path ahead.

A carriage, moving somewhat faster than was prudent, turned sharply into the drive, its horses checked at the last possible moment. A lady just before Elizabeth gave a small cry and stepped back, her companion catching her arm. The coachman called out an apology, though his tone suggested more irritation than contrition.

Elizabeth paused, her attention drawn at once to the scene. The carriage had come to a halt not ten yards from where she stood. Before she could think further on it, the door opened. A gentleman descended.

There was nothing immediately extraordinary in the act itself, and yet—something in the manner of it, in the assurance with which he moved, in the economy of his motion—arrested her attention at once.

He was tall. That was her first clear impression. Taller, perhaps, than most men present, though not in a way that called undue notice to itself. His figure was well proportioned, his bearing upright without stiffness. He wore dark clothing, finely cut but without ostentation, and there was an air of command about him that required no embellishment.

He turned, speaking a brief word to the coachman, his voice low and controlled.