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Hurst finished his port and reached for the decanter to pour another. “We could visit him there, Darcy.”

Miss Bingley frowned. “Charles is behaving like a child. If we pursue him, we shall only encourage him to continue.”

“You cannot pursue him in any case,” Hurst reminded her. “He has taken rooms in a gentleman’s establishment.”

“I am aware of that.”

“You have mentioned travelling there more than once,” Hurst said.

Bingley was not behaving at all as Darcy had expected. Perhaps decamping was a reasonable response to one’s sisters closing his house, dismissing his servants, and attempting to determine his future. But Darcy was surprised, nonetheless.

“Why did Mrs. Hurst tell me your brother was expected?” Darcy asked Miss Bingley.

She paled. “Because we believed he was.”

“Why? Did he send word that he would return?”

Hurst laughed into his wine.

“Not precisely.” Miss Bingley’s admission was reluctant at best.

“Then upon what did you and Mrs. Hurst base this belief?”

Miss Bingley appeared offended by Darcy’s request for an explanation. “Charles never remains angry for long.”

“Not usually,” Hurst agreed. “But neither does he typically have his man pack his breeches.”

They had no expectation of Bingley returning in time to speak with him, and Darcy did not wish to ponder why they had asked him to wait. Miss Bingley had probably wished to convince him to drag Bingley home by the ear. “If Bingley is at Jackson’s, I shall speak to him there.”

“Is that wise?” Miss Bingley asked. “Perhaps, if he is so unhappy with us, it would be best to allow him time to recognise that we have acted for his benefit.”

Had they?

Darcy’s participation in this scheme had been founded upon careful observation. He had soberly weighed every outcome before offering his opinion. He had not admitted his hope that Bingley might one day wish to marry Georgiana, for it had seemed premature, but that was neither here nor there.

“I will speak to him,” Darcy said.

“And will you encourage him to return to the house?” Miss Bingley asked.

“No,” Darcy said. “If he is settled at Albany, he has already made his decision.” It would be good for his friend to separate himself from his sisters.

Miss Bingley began to protest, but Darcy simply made his farewells and went to collect his coat before either of Bingley’s sisters could find another room to leave him in.

Darcy had not been to Jackson’s since before Michaelmas, but nothing had changed in the interim.

The noise rose as he stepped across the threshold. Men with their fists wrapped in mufflers struck padded targets. Shoes scraped across the wooden floor. Two men were engaged in a lesson—one man landed a blow to the other’s ribs, and the man who had been struck grunted in pain. Two other gentlemen stood a few feet away, offering advice to which no one was listening.

Jackson greeted him, sent a boy to take his coat, and motioned to the other side of the room, where Bingley was sparring with a broad-shouldered gentleman.

Bingley was a man who, like Darcy, enjoyed physical exertion, and sparring at Jackson’s was usually welcome exercise. He was quick on his feet, and quicker to laugh when a blow happened to slip past his guard. But there was no laughter in him today.

His opponent threw out a fist that Bingley deflected, and then he drove forward, forcing the other man to take two steps back.

Darcy folded his arms.

Bingley saw him, which cost him a blow to the shoulder, but he recovered, finished the exchange, and waited for the round to be called before turning towards Darcy.

“Did Caroline send you?” he asked. One of the men handed him a towel, and he dried his face with it.