Page 14 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Darcy stepped down from his carriage into the dim glow of a Mayfair evening.

The city pulsed around him. Lanterns flickered against polished carriage doors.

Footmen wove through the throng, and link boys hovered, torches in hand, eyes keen for alms. Laughter trailed from passing ladies beneath the weak glow of glass-encased oil lamps.

The Season was in full force, and with it, an endless parade of obligations.

Inside the grand townhouse, the air was thick with wax, perfume, and conversation—a hum beneath the distant strains of a quartet. Darcy handed his greatcoat to a waiting servant and stepped into the drawing room.

Another evening. Another ball. Another exercise in futility.

“Ah, Darcy, you have finally come to your senses!” Lord Everton clapped him on the back, a broad grin on his florid face.

Darcy sniffed. His exuberant host had already helped himself to a generous amount of port. Darcy forced a tight smile. “Everton.”

“You have been absent all Season. One might think you were hiding… Good heavens! What happened to your face?”

“I cannot imagine what you mean?”

“What are those bruises? Were you set upon?”

“Do not be absurd.” Darcy looked down his nose until Everton blinked. He arched a brow. “And what, precisely, would I be hiding from?”

“Ah, I do not know. Perhaps it is the light? Never you mind. Lady Jersey has asked for you. She shall corner you and insist you dance with her goddaughter.”

Darcy sighed and adjusted his cuffs. “Had I known such a fate awaited me, I would have engaged in fisticuffs.”

Everton laughed. “Then you will never marry, and Pemberley will crumble under the scandal.” He gestured towards the glittering room. “Come, let us find you a wife.”

Darcy barely suppressed a grimace. He had already danced with four young ladies this week. He had listened to endless chatter about the latest fashions, the Season’s most sought-after heiresses, and the merits of Almack’s assemblies.

None of them had been her . He had searched. Lord, how he had searched. But with every passing evening, every tiresome introduction, the possibility slipped further away.

“Darcy?”

His thoughts scattered. Lady Jersey stood before him, an expectant smile upon her lips.

“You are a rare sight indeed,” she said, taking his arm. “I trust you will not refuse me this time?”

Darcy suppressed a sigh and bowed. “Of course not, my lady.”

She led him inside. Later, after toasts and endless talk of weather, cousins, and Almack’s...

“I have someone with whom to acquaint you.”

Darcy looked at the young lady. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a charming smile. Another perfect prospect.

A breath stirred against his ear, soft as memory. She is not here , his mother's voice murmured. He bore the young lady’s conversation until he could take his leave without giving offence.

He returned to Darcy House well past midnight, exhausted in body but restless in spirit. He had no patience for the empty compliments, the false smiles, the ceaseless parade of insipid conversation.

In the study, a small, wrapped box awaited upon his desk. Barty had been occupied elsewhere; this must have arrived by courier. Darcy sat eagerly and unwrapped it with care. Beneath the paper, a velvet case cradled a newly commissioned locket—silver, understated, yet finely wrought.

He opened it.On the left side, his mother’s miniature smiled back at him. Lady Anne, rendered with exquisite precision. Opposite her, a likeness of Georgiana, captured only a year past, her features delicate, her expression luminous.

He stared, caught by the astonishing likeness between them. The same brow, the same tilt of the mouth, the same light shining from them. He traced the edge of the locket with his thumb.

“One day, Sister, when you marry, I shall place this in your hands.” Until then, it belonged near his heart—both of them did.

With steady hands, he slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket, close to where his pulse beat strongest. He stepped to the sideboard and poured himself a small libation, then returned, glass in hand, to his favourite chair.

He easily deflected Lady Catherine’s declarations, but his father’s pressure weighed heavier with each passing Season. Yet, in the dim solitude with only his mother’s journal for company, his thoughts returned to a promise he had made to a girl he had yet to meet.

He had searched for her, scrutinized every new heiress, but none had matched the vision his mother had planted in his mind.

A pair of mismatched eyes. Hair like a Derbyshire autumn. A laugh that touches one’s heart.

Had her last wish been whimsy? No. He would not believe that. It could not have been folly.

But as his fingers traced the leather-bound book, a whisper of memory stirred: his mother’s hand upon his cheek, her soft smile, the certainty in her voice.

“She exists.”

He wanted to believe his mother. Was he a fool to still do so? He massaged his temple with two fingers. “Where are you?”

He opened the Book and flipped the pages.

The world is full of painted smiles. Look beyond them.

Blood hummed in his ears. He would have sworn the page had been empty before. He traced the words with his fingertip. The ink gleamed faintly in the lamplight as though it had only just dried.

He sat back, heart pounding, the book cradled against his chest.

* * *

Southwark, October 1807

A dampened billet lay discarded on the ground.

See The Spectacle:

The True Rogue vs. Lord Fancyhands

Coin, blood, or honour—place your bets.

An emptied-out tavern yard, slick with mud and ale, had been transformed into a crude amphitheatre.

Ropes hung slack between rough timber columns, dark with moisture and fraying where too many hands had gripped them.

Crates, barrels, and splintered planks stood stacked waist-high, just enough to keep the fighters in, and the drunk and desperate out.

Men at each midpoint heaved buckets of sawdust over the muck, one after another, trying in vain to soak up the worst of it.

The crowd pressed close, shouting wagers and slurs with equal venom.

Darcy shivered, sweat cooling against his bare torso. The air stank of blood, earth, and exertion, the scent of men proving themselves not with words but with fists. Coins changed hands with open laughter and sharper whispers.

Across the ring stood The True Rogue, Ned Turner. Broad as a smithy door, with knuckles scarred from matches no referee dared call.

Darcy could have chosen a lesser opponent. He did not.

Jackson, arms crossed, stood nearby. “All right, ya silent toff. Show me your mettle.”

Darcy turned to his opponent. He and Turner had danced the first steps, a few light exchanges to test reach, reaction, and rhythm. The actual battle had yet to begin.

Darcy shifted, light on his feet, breath steady. He waited for the tell. Just one: the wrist, the hip, the blink of decision.

“Hold!”

The crowd stilled. Wagerers hesitated. Even the drunkards, halfway into a curse or a cheer, fell silent. A pocket opened in the throng, cut clean as by a sabre.

Three men advanced, silent, cold-eyed, and each marked by the kind of violence that needed no boasting.

Darcy recognised his cousin’s men—armourers—killers in scarlet. Villiers. Reeves. Legget. Their names, when spoken, were followed by the tally of enemy slain.

The gamblers scattered.

Fitzwilliam passed between them; his scarlet coat brilliant against the smoke-laced gloom. He held up a creased fight billet. “Lord Fancyhands?”

“I did not choose it.”

“Was the Mayfair Bruiser already claimed?”

Darcy turned to face his cousin. “Is this a social call, or have you come to scold me like a governess?”

Fitzwilliam stared at him, unsmiling.

“You did not send word you had leave.”

“Six weeks.” Fitzwilliam surveyed the room, his lip curling. “Long enough to see your newest folly.”

Darcy wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I would have thought you to visit my sister.”

“I have.”

“Georgiana must have been ecstatic.”

“She was.” Fitzwilliam’s words were clipped. He gestured toward the edge of the pit. “Come away a moment.”

Darcy hesitated, then followed. They moved where the ropes sagged into a gap between some crates. The crowd shouted their displeasure.

“Something is off,” Darcy said. “You disapprove.”

“I found her companion wanting.”

“Mrs Younge?”

“Is that the name she gave you?”

“You believe she lied?” Darcy blinked.

Fitzwilliam nodded once. “Georgie is at Matlock House. Safe.”

He looked across the ring. “Who is that?”

Darcy wiped his knuckles against his breeches. “Mr Ned Turner.”

At the sound of his name, Turner stepped forward. “That another toff cove of yours?” He raised his fists. “I wager he bleeds scarlet same as he wears it. Come on, then—let’s see if your coat hits harder than your fist.” He spat.

The killers halted. Villiers rolled his eyes. Reeves smirked. Legget crossed his arms.

Fitzwilliam smiled—a cold, terrible thing.

The crowd roared. Wagers flew. Shouts rose.

“Ten guineas on the redcoat!”

“Fifteen on Turner. He’ll drop him in one!”

Fitzwilliam shrugged off his scarlet and tossed it to Darcy.

“Mind the creases.”

He stepped into the ring, stripped off his shirt, and rolled his shoulders. The movement was fluid. Effortless. In the dim tallow light, pale white scars gleamed across his skin. Something about him shifted.

Darcy had seen it once before at the menagerie: the moment a great cat stirred. Not show, not a threat. Only certainty. Turner had taunted a predator.

Jackson hissed through his teeth. “Rogue, are you daft?”

Turner stepped forward, fists raised. Fitzwilliam prowled left.

* * *

The gamblers had long moved on. Jackson and another man dragged Turner from the ring. Darcy doubted he would walk upright for some time.

Villiers handed Fitzwilliam a towel. He cleaned his hands, one bloody finger at a time, as if Turner had been nothing at all.

At opposite ends of the pit, Legget and Reeves leant against door frames.

Fitzwilliam folded the towel in thirds and tucked it under his arm. Then said, cool and even, “Mrs Younge was Mrs George Wickham.”

Darcy blinked. “What?”

“She gave a false name.” Fitzwilliam handed the towel to Villiers. “Did you confirm her references?”

Darcy faltered. He could not recall. His father’s illness had consumed everything: estate matters, investments, his martial training—

“She would have taken your sister.” Villiers helped Fitzwilliam with his coat.

Darcy knew not what to say. Only that something must be said. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“You may be an excellent fencer. A promising pugilist. But you mistake skill for survival.” He seized Darcy’s arm just above the elbow and squeezed.

Darcy’s teeth snapped shut against the pain.

“Need I remind you again?” Fitzwilliam released him and reached into his pocket, pulling out a black-edged letter. “You are needed. At Pemberley. ”