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learned, was Mr. Lawrence Kendall. About fifty years old, he practiced the peculiar habit of some balding men who think to cleverly disguise their condition by combing their remaining three strands of hair over the tops of their scalps. The beefy man made up for his lack of locks with large jowls that seemed permanently frozen in a scowl. He nodded at Darcy and acknowledged his introduction to Elizabeth with minimal civility.
    His daughter, as Lady Chatfield soon revealed in a whisper,was the very Miss Kendall whose name had once been linked with that of Mr. Parrish. Juliet Kendall was as thin as her father was fat; high cheekbones fought sharp eyes for prominence in her white face. At perhaps twenty, her countenance had not yet settled into the sourness of her sire’s, though her current morose expression indicated that resisting heredity could prove a lifelong battle.
    Elizabeth scarcely had time to observe the other guests before the formal promenade to the dining room commenced. As a new bride, Mrs. Darcy was offered the honor of taking Lord Chatfield’s arm. Once downstairs, she found herself seated between the earl and Professor Julian Randolph, the archeologist.
    She enjoyed the opportunity to converse with Lord Chatfield. When she remarked upon the varied company, he confessed that he liked to invite markedly different individuals to his home to encourage lively exchanges. “Some of the parties we attend are so tedious,” he said between spoonfuls of turtle soup from a gold-rimmed bowl. His eyes were merry. “I like to mix things up a bit—seat my mother-in-law next to a naval officer and watch what happens.”
    Coming from a less affable man, the comment might have made her feel like an actress put onstage solely for the earl’s amusement. But he seemed motivated by the desire for all his guests to enjoy the social experiment.
    “I see, however, that you have no officers tonight,” she observed.
    “No, several men of learning instead. Always must have at least one—I discover so many interesting things that way.” He gestured toward Professor Randolph, who was fulfilling his conversational obligation to the woman on his right, the botanist’s wife. “Randolph is new to my table. Fascinating chap—you must ask him about his specialty.”
    “I will be sure to enquire. Meanwhile, tell me more of theother guests. I can see how Mr. Quigley, a man of letters, adds interest to the evening—what of Mr. Kendall and his daughter?”
    “That was my wife’s idea.” His voice lowered to a discreet level. “Miss Kendall has been down in spirits since—well, since last month. The countess thought to introduce her to Quigley, though I fear the effort futile. Kendall is wealthy enough that his only child can marry comfortably where she chooses—I understand she has a dowry of forty thousand pounds, and will inherit her father’s entire estate upon his death—but I suspect he intends to solidify his social position through his daughter’s alliance with a man of higher rank and fortune than a poet can offer.”
    Forty thousand pounds!—and the remaining Kendall estate not entailed away on some distant male heir, as Longbourn was. Elizabeth could scarcely comprehend the ability to bring that kind of fortune to a marriage. Yet it hadn’t aided Miss Kendall’s courtship with Frederick Parrish; Miss Bingley’s settlement was half that sum, and carried no promise of future inheritance. With such wealth at stake, what had led Parrish to abruptly drop his addresses to Juliet? Had the charms of his “dear Caroline” distracted him entirely from worldly gain? If so, his devotion to Miss Bingley must be great indeed.
    The soup course was nearing its end; Elizabeth would soon be obliged to direct her attention toward Professor Randolph. “And what of my husband and me?” she asked Lord Chatfield as the footmen removed their bowls. “What ingredient do we add to your conversational stew?”
    “My dear lady, you