Page 31

Not until she announced her intention to go had he troubled himself to look at her—and then he had been surprised to observe her distress.

Surprised! He had brought an innocent young lady—one whom he had, but four-and-twenty hours earlier, been ready to vow to cherish and protect—into an entirely inappropriate situation, without friend or protector, and informed her of a grossly improper incident and her family’s imminent ruin, and expected her prevailing sentiment to be regret for having inconvenienced him.

Apparently, he was devoid of all proper feeling! Except, he did not think he would ever stop feeling the remorse that had skewered him when she began to cry.

Fitzwilliam returned to his seat. “I am sorry. I did not mean to add to your troubles. I was trying to provoke you into admitting an affection, but clearly this is more complicated than I realised. What will you do?”

“Help, if I can.”

“Help…Miss Bennet? I meant what will you do about the rumours. Given your feelings on the matter…well, I would have thought you were eager to distance yourself from it all.”

“I am—more than you can know, but I have told her I shall do what I can to avert a scandal, and I mean to try.”

“To make amends?”

Darcy grimaced. He was profoundly sorry to have given Elizabeth such distress yesterday and sincerely regretted the disdain he had shown towards her aunt and uncle the day before; he wished he could atone for both.

But she had every reason in the world to think ill of him, and he had no appetite for courting absolution from a woman who despised him.

After so many months spent convincing himself that she was not for him, it ought to be easy to persuade himself of it again and walk away from the whole affair.

Indeed, that was what he had fully intended to do once he had told her the truth and cleared his character.

Only, then she had run from his house in tears, and it had felt as though she had ripped a part of him away and taken it with her, and he had known instantly that he could never let her go.

He had ridden after her without a thought to what he would do when he caught up with her, his mind fixed solely on the need to alleviate the misery he had caused.

Finding her faint with distress had only deepened his shame; finding that her mother had disappeared had only given him greater cause for concern.

Did he think helping her would earn him her forgiveness? He had no idea. Had he any choice but to try? Absolutely none. It was irrational, and painful, and demeaning, and he neither understood nor rejoiced in his own weakness, but he could not forsake her.

“It matters not why.”

“No, I suppose not,” Fitzwilliam answered. “And so, what can you do?”

“Make Bingley cease this grotesque affair so that Mrs Bennet can be persuaded to go home.”

“That should not be too difficult. Bingley invariably does whatever you tell him to.”

Darcy frowned. “You are the second person to say that to me, and I resent it. But I cannot tell him to do anything, because I cannot find him. Anywhere!” He gave a brief account of his numerous failed searches, after which Fitzwilliam drained his glass and discarded it carelessly on the nearest table before pushing himself energetically out of his chair.

“Well then, if you cannot find him, you had better try and find her. Come!”

“Come where?” Darcy asked, looking up at him in bafflement.

“Did you not say her friend is an actress?”

“Yes, apparently she is.”

“And who do you know who is on excellent terms with the gorgeous young creature who performs nightly at Covent Garden?”

A glimmer of hope brought Darcy to his feet. “You!”

“Me!” Fitzwilliam agreed, grinning. “Rebecca will know something. And if she does not, it is still a fine excuse for a visit!”

They found Miss Rebecca Hislop sprawled with two of her friends on a decaying chaise longue in a large hall full of stage scenery, wearing—barely—what Darcy could only assume was her costume for that evening and practising her lines.

Once her friends had been sent scurrying away, Fitzwilliam scooped her up into his arms, spun around, and sat back on the chaise with her now in his lap, much to her giggling delight.

Darcy rolled his eyes and walked away to another part of the hall, where he did not have to see or listen to his cousin’s lovemaking.

Several other women in similar costumes ran past, chattering loudly, and disappeared along a passage.

He peered after them, wondering whether, if Mrs Randall was presently at the theatre, she might be wherever the women were going.

The decision to follow them was one he very quickly came to regret. Mrs Randall was not in the room in which he found himself, but at least a dozen actresses were, all in various stages of undress. Every one of them stopped what they were doing upon noticing him, and stared.

“Forgive me for the intrusion,” he said, turning to go.

“You’re him!” someone exclaimed before he had crossed the threshold. “Here, Ethel, he’s that fella what’s got all the nobs in a lather about his secret engagement.”

Apparently not even the bowels of the Theatre Royal were a safe haven from gossip.

“Excuse me,” he repeated and stalked away.

“Everyone is talking about you, Mr Darcy,” someone called after him. “The way you whisked her off into the old west passage that night you were here last month was scandalous!”

Someone else shouted, “Don’t look so worried. We all thought it was wonderful!”

Darcy strode directly through the larger hall without stopping, calling to Fitzwilliam that he was leaving and emerging onto Bow Street to suck in several furious breaths. Would this madness never cease?

Fitzwilliam announced his arrival by slapping him on the shoulder. “What sparked your powder?”

“Never mind. Did you find anything out?”

“Of course.” He started walking and, once Darcy had fallen in beside him, said, “Mrs Randall has left the theatre.”

“Left? She only just returned.”

“Evidently her new sponsor has other designs for her.”

“Such as?”

“Dashed if I know, but did you not just hear me say that she has a new sponsor? I thought you might be a bit interested in my discovery.”

“It was not your discovery— I told you that. It is his name I need, or better, his direction.”

Fitzwilliam grimaced. “Got neither of those two, I’m afraid. But Rebecca did say she thought the chap was a friend of the Earl of Fulcombe’s. Perhaps, if you had a chat with him, you might find out more.”

“Fulcombe? Never met the man. He spends all his time with Perceval’s men.”

“Well, loosen your principles a little and get to know him, then. Get yourself invited to a dinner or something.”

“How in blazes am I to do that?”

“Upon my life, Darcy, with your present distinction you could probably get yourself an invitation to dine with the Queen if you chose to.”

If Darcy had wished to argue this point, he lost his chance when they turned the corner and walked directly into a gaggle of people who instantly began muttering and gesturing for each other to pay heed to his presence and—absurdly, since he knew not a face among them—curtseying and tipping their hats to him as he passed.

Fitzwilliam chuckled.

Darcy sighed heavily. “I suppose I could ask Lord Stewart—he knows everyone.”

“That’s the spirit,” his cousin replied cheerily. “If you cannot beat them, join them, eh?”

Darcy did not share his good cheer. The absurdity of exploiting the notoriety he so despised, to inveigle himself into the dining parlour of a man who was as good as a stranger, on the off chance that he was acquainted with a man who might be Mrs Randall’s new protector, in the hope that she might lead him to Mrs Bennet, whom he would much rather never set eyes on again, did not rouse in him any happy feelings.

There was only one woman alive for whom he would expose himself to such utter folly, and he was not even sure she would thank him for it.