Page 26 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Mrs. Jenkinson looked distinctly displeased at this suggestion, knowing that curricles seated only two. “Perhaps I should follow in a hackney,” she began, “to ensure proper chaperonage…”

“Oh, but Mrs. Jenkinson, I had quite depended on your assistance this afternoon,” Elizabeth said smoothly. “I have a great amount of invitations to respond to.”

“An essential task,” Lady Matlock observed.

“Mrs. Jenkinson, I am not concerned about additional chaperonage being required. The young ladies are quite sensible, and the gentlemen have honourably assured us they will remain on public roads. Certainly, your time will be better spent assisting Mrs. Darcy.”

The marquess, Kitty observed, had grown increasingly rigid as these arrangements were made, his expression one of barely concealed frustration. “Miss de Bourgh,” he began with forced composure, “I had hoped to continue our discussion of estate management this afternoon. Perhaps another time?”

“Indeed, my lord,” Anne replied with perfect politeness. “Another time.”

As the morning callers took their leave, making arrangements to return later with their curricles, Kitty found herself filled with a pleasant anticipation that warmed her from within.

The viscount had singled her out specifically, had thought of her when making his suggestion for the outing, and seemed genuinely pleased by her acceptance.

Whether his tales of Grecian temples were entirely truthful or somewhat embellished mattered little compared to the undeniable fact that he found her company worth seeking, her attention worth cultivating.

She found his company entertaining above that of anyone she had ever met, and the prospect of an hour in solo conversation with him was truly something to look forward to.

The marquess departed last, his farewell to Anne carrying an undercurrent of thwarted purpose that made Kitty wonder at his persistence despite Anne’s evident preference for Lord Joseph’s company.

As the door closed behind him, Kitty exchanged a glance with Elizabeth that suggested her sister-in-law had noted this tension as well.

For now, however, Kitty preferred to focus on the pleasant afternoon ahead, and on selecting precisely the right bonnet to complement her riding habit.

The curricle moved with a delightful swiftness that made Kitty feel as though they were flying through the London streets.

Viscount Shandly handled the ribbons with unexpected skill, his normally theatrical gestures transformed into the precise movements of a genuinely accomplished whip.

Kitty had not expected him to be so competent, having somehow assumed his stories of racing Italian nobles along coastal roads were as exaggerated as his tales of ancient Greek temples.

Yet here was evidence that at least some of his adventures might contain more truth than she had credited.

“You handle the horses beautifully, my lord,” she remarked, genuinely impressed as he navigated a particularly narrow turning with confident ease.

The viscount beamed at the compliment, though his eyes remained properly focused on the road ahead.

“Kind of you to notice, Miss Bennet. I learned to drive in Sicily, where the mountain roads demand both precision and courage. One particularly treacherous route near Mount Etna has claimed the lives of at least three aristocratic drivers in the past decade alone.”

“How frightening!” Kitty exclaimed, though she could not help but notice that the viscount’s voice had taken on that particular tone he used when embarking on one of his more elaborate tales.

She settled comfortably against the curricle’s well-sprung seat, prepared to be entertained.

“Did you ever encounter any dangers yourself?”

“Indeed I did!” he declared. “While driving along the Amalfi Coast, I came upon a blocked passage where a rockslide had nearly sealed the road. My Italian companions advised retreat, but I recalled certain techniques I had observed among the mountain drivers of Austria.”

Kitty listened with appropriate expressions of astonishment as the viscount described an increasingly improbable series of manoeuvres involving backing the carriage to the edge of a cliff, executing a precise turn while balanced between safety and certain doom, and eventually navigating through a gap barely wider than his vehicle’s wheelbase.

“The local villagers subsequently named that particular bend ‘Il Coraggio dell’Inglese’ in my honour,” he concluded with evident satisfaction. “Though I suspect the name has since been corrupted in the local dialect.”

“How remarkable,” Kitty replied, her tone warm with genuine amusement rather than mockery.

There was something rather endearing about the viscount’s complete commitment to his stories, regardless of their plausibility.

Unlike Lydia’s former flirtations with red-coated officers, whose compliments had been as insincere as they were predictable, the viscount seemed to genuinely enjoy Kitty’s company and conversation, even if his way of showing it involved somewhat excessive storytelling.

They had turned into a less fashionable section of London, the neat terraces of Bloomsbury replacing the grander facades they had left behind. Kitty was about to inquire about their route when something, or rather someone, caught her eye on the pavement ahead.

A young woman pushing a perambulator was walking with her head slightly bowed, her bonnet shadowing her features.

Despite this, there was something hauntingly familiar about her posture, about the particular tilt of her chin and the quick, decisive way she moved.

Kitty felt her heart begin to race as recognition dawned.

“Lydia?” she whispered, then louder, “Lydia!”

The young woman’s head snapped up, confirming Kitty’s suspicion. It was indeed her sister, though a strange expression flashed across Lydia’s face, something that looked alarmingly like fear before her features arranged themselves into unconvincing surprise.

“My lord, please stop!” Kitty exclaimed, gripping the viscount’s arm in her agitation. “That’s my sister. I must speak with her!”

To his credit, the viscount responded immediately, bringing the curricle to a smooth halt beside the pavement without questioning her sudden request. “Of course, Miss Bennet. Shall I accompany you?”

“No, thank you,” Kitty replied, already reaching for his hand to assist her descent. “That is, if you wouldn’t mind waiting with the horses? It will only take a moment.”

As the viscount helped her down, Kitty noticed that Lydia had stopped walking and was standing frozen, her knuckles white where they gripped the handle of the perambulator.

She approached quickly, her initial delight at this unexpected encounter fading into confusion as she observed her sister’s strange demeanour.

“Lydia! What a wonderful surprise!” Kitty exclaimed, reaching out to embrace her sister. “We had no idea you were in London. Why haven’t you called at Darcy House?”

Lydia returned the embrace stiffly, her eyes darting nervously over Kitty’s shoulder toward the viscount, who stood holding his horses’ heads at a discreet distance.

“Kitty,” she said, her voice oddly formal. “How... unexpected to see you here. I was just taking some air with little Beth.”

“Beth?” Kitty repeated, puzzled by her sister’s strange formality and the unfamiliar name. Then realisation struck. “Oh! You’ve had your baby! How wonderful! May I see my niece?”

Without waiting for permission, Kitty stepped forward to peer into the perambulator.

A healthy, round-faced infant gazed back at her, eyes bright with curiosity, one tiny fist raised to her mouth.

The child was dressed in a beautifully embroidered gown with matching cap, clearly the recipient of loving care and attention.

“She’s beautiful, Lydia,” Kitty breathed, genuinely enchanted by the baby.

Then confusion clouded her joy as she took in the child’s size and evident development.

“But she must be... she looks at least three months old. How can that be? Your letters only mentioned expecting a child a few months ago.”

Lydia’s face paled visibly. “Oh, well, she’s... she’s growing very quickly. The doctor says she’s advanced for her age. Some babies are like that, you know.”

Kitty frowned, trying to make sense of this explanation. “But that would still make her practically a newborn. She’s clearly much older.”

“You’re mistaken,” Lydia insisted, her voice taking on a brittle quality Kitty had never heard before. “Beth is exactly the age she should be, given when James and I married.”

“James? Who is...” Kitty began, then understanding dawned. “Oh, you mean Major Wallace? I didn’t realise you called him by his Christian name in company.”

“He is my husband,” Lydia replied with unexpected dignity. “Of course I use his name.” She glanced again toward the viscount, who was making a studied show of not listening to their conversation. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Kitty felt oddly reluctant, sensing some strange undercurrent to this encounter that she couldn’t quite identify. “That’s Lord Shandly. We’re out for a drive with the others... Georgiana and Anne are in separate curricles with their own companions. Elizabeth arranged it all.”

“How nice for you,” Lydia said, her tone containing a trace of her old flippancy, though it seemed forced. “I’m glad you’re enjoying London society.” She bent to adjust Beth’s blanket, though the child seemed perfectly comfortable.

“Lydia,” Kitty said, lowering her voice, “is everything all right? You seem... different. And I don’t understand about the baby. Where are you staying? Why haven’t you written to let us know you’re in London?”