Page 19 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)
“Beautiful?” the viscount repeated, placing his free hand over his heart.
“Miss Bennet, mere words cannot do justice to the transcendent beauty of Florence at sunset, when the dying light gilds the dome of the cathedral and the Arno flows like liquid amber between ancient stones! I wrote a series of sonnets attempting to capture the experience, but found language woefully inadequate to the task.”
Georgiana watched as Kitty expressed appropriately rapturous interest in these sonnets, prompting the viscount to promise their delivery to Darcy House at his earliest convenience.
There was something almost choreographed about their interaction, as though both were playing roles in a drawing room comedy, though to what purpose, Georgiana could not quite determine.
“He is rather... effusive, is he not?” Anne murmured beside her, startling Georgiana with this unexpected observation.
“Indeed,” Georgiana replied softly. “Though Kitty seems to enjoy his stories.”
Anne’s lips curved in the faint suggestion of a smile. “I wonder how many of them are actually true. That story about the villa seems remarkably similar to one Lord Joseph told about his own Grand Tour, though in his version it was allegedly once owned by Dante.”
Georgiana blinked in surprise at this evidence of both perceptiveness and gentle humour from her usually silent cousin. “Perhaps they visited the same establishment,” she suggested, feeling a small thrill of mischief as Anne’s smile deepened fractionally.
Their attention was drawn back to the viscount, who had now progressed to a dramatic recounting of a near-death experience in the Swiss Alps, involving an avalanche, a St. Bernard dog, and a mysterious hermit who spoke seven languages and claimed to be the illegitimate son of a Russian prince.
“I was trapped for three days in his cabin,” the viscount declared, his free hand gesturing expansively to indicate the dimensions of this supposed shelter.
“Subsisting on nothing but cheese and philosophical discussions about the nature of beauty! The old fellow had the most remarkable collection of Byzantine icons, smuggled out of Constantinople just before the Ottoman conquest, or so he insisted. Personally, I had my doubts, but his knowledge of Eastern Orthodox liturgical practices was impressively detailed.”
“How fascinating,” Kitty exclaimed, though Georgiana thought she detected a glint in her friend’s eye that suggested she was not quite as credulous as she appeared. “And did you ever discover his true identity?”
“Alas, no,” the viscount replied with a dramatic sigh. “When I awoke on the fourth morning, he had vanished, leaving behind only a cryptic note written in ancient Greek and a small carved figure that I later learned was a protective amulet dating from the pre-Christian era.”
“How extraordinary!” Kitty gasped, placing her free hand against her cheek in a gesture of astonishment that struck Georgiana as slightly exaggerated. “What became of this amulet?”
The viscount’s expression turned mournful.
“Tragically, it was stolen from my luggage during my journey through the Italian countryside. Bandits, you know, are still quite common in the more remote regions. I narrowly escaped with my life, though I did manage to preserve my journals, in which I had recorded detailed descriptions of both the amulet and the hermit’s teachings. ”
“What a relief,” Kitty said with apparent sincerity, though Georgiana was now almost certain she detected a glimmer of amusement behind her friend’s wide-eyed fascination. “Perhaps someday you might allow me to read these journals? They sound most educational.”
“My dear Miss Bennet,” the viscount replied, pressing his hand to his heart once more, “nothing would give me greater pleasure than to share the fruits of my travels with someone of your evident sensibility and appreciation.”
As they completed their circuit of the park and began a second, the viscount’s narrative expanded to include encounters with Italian nobility, French artists, and German philosophers, each anecdote more improbable than the last. Yet Kitty listened with unwavering attention, asking questions that seemed perfectly calculated to elicit even more grandiose tales.
Georgiana found herself oddly fascinated by this performance, for she had begun to think of it as exactly that: a carefully choreographed dance between two people who were, perhaps, more aware of the game they were playing than either let on.
The viscount clearly enjoyed having such an appreciative audience, while Kitty seemed to take genuine pleasure in his theatrical stories, whether she believed them or not.
“They appear well suited,” Elizabeth observed quietly, having fallen back to walk beside Georgiana while Lady Fitzsimmons engaged Anne in conversation. “Though I wonder if either truly knows the other beneath their respective performances.”
“Do you think Kitty believes his stories?” Georgiana asked hesitantly, unsure whether such a question might be considered impertinent.
Elizabeth’s lips curved in a thoughtful smile.
“I think Kitty enjoys them, which is not quite the same thing. My sister has always loved drama and romance, though she once sought it in rather less refined company. The viscount offers her a kind of entertainment that is socially acceptable, even admired in certain circles.”
“And Lord Shandly?” Georgiana ventured. “What does he gain from Kitty’s attention?”
“An audience,” Elizabeth replied simply. “And perhaps something more valuable still, a companion who appreciates his flair for the dramatic without mockery or disdain. Not a small thing, to be accepted for precisely who you are, even if who you are happens to be somewhat... theatrical.”
Something in Elizabeth’s tone made Georgiana wonder if she was thinking of her own unexpected romance with Fitzwilliam, of the way they had each needed to see beyond initial impressions to discover the truth of one another.
The thought was oddly comforting, suggesting that perhaps the various courtships unfolding around her were not as straightforward as they might appear, each containing depths and complexities invisible to casual observation.
Ahead of them, the viscount had launched into yet another improbable tale, this one involving a midnight gondola chase through the Venetian canals, complete with masked assassins and a mysterious contessa.
Kitty’s delighted gasps and exclamations carried back to them on the spring breeze, and Georgiana found herself smiling despite her initial scepticism.
There was something rather charming about such unapologetic enthusiasm, even if its foundation in reality was questionable at best.
As the others continued along the path, Georgiana found herself falling slightly behind, her attention caught by a particularly fine display of spring tulips arranged in a geometric pattern near the water’s edge.
She was admiring their neat symmetry when she became aware of a presence beside her, and turned to find Mr. Townend standing at a respectful distance, his expression uncommonly hesitant for a man who typically projected such certainty in matters of musical judgment.
“Miss Darcy,” he began, his voice lower than his usual confident tone. “I hope I am not intruding upon your solitude. I wished to speak with you privately, if I may.”
Georgiana felt a flutter of nervous anticipation.
“Of course, Mr. Townend,” she replied, careful to keep her voice steady despite her discomfort at being singled out.
“Is it regarding the music you so kindly lent me? I have been practising the Clementi sonata, though I fear I have not yet mastered the third movement.”
“No... that is to say, yes, it does concern the Clementi, actually.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a gesture so uncharacteristically uncertain that Georgiana found her curiosity overcoming her usual reserve.
“I wished to apologise for my behaviour yesterday. My criticism of your playing was unconscionably rude, particularly in a social setting where such technical discussions were entirely inappropriate.”
Georgiana blinked in surprise. She had indeed been mortified by his abrupt corrections during her performance, but had not expected him to acknowledge the impropriety of his actions so directly.
“Your technical observations were quite accurate,” she offered, her natural fairness prompting her to acknowledge this truth despite her lingering embarrassment. “The tempo was indeed too cautious for that particular passage.”
“Accuracy does not excuse poor manners,” Mr. Townend insisted, meeting her gaze directly for perhaps the first time since their introduction. “My father frequently reminds me that my passion for music often overwhelms my sense of social propriety. It is a failing I struggle to correct.”
There was something so refreshingly honest in this admission that Georgiana felt her reserve melting slightly.
“We all have subjects that inspire us to forget ourselves occasionally,” she said softly.
“For me, it is often a particularly moving piece of music that causes me to lose awareness of my surroundings.”
“Yes, exactly!” Mr. Townend’s face transformed with sudden animation. “That moment when the music speaks so directly to one’s soul that the room, the audience, even one’s own self seems to vanish, leaving nothing but the pure expression of sound.”
His eyes held such genuine passion that Georgiana found herself responding with unexpected warmth. “You speak as one who not only appreciates music but creates it.”