The Assembly Room Bet

@darcy

The fiddles strike up in the Bakewell assembly rooms, and the smell of beeswax and warm punch drifts over the crowd. Mr Darcy stands apart near the tall windows, hands clasped behind him, watching the dancers as though he were reviewing a rather tedious set of accounts. His eyes find you across the room — and he inclines his head, just slightly, as if he has been expecting precisely this.