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Chapter Eighteen

To the Right Honourable The dowager Countess of Matlock, Matlock House, Derbyshire

My dear Grandmother, I arrived in Town yesterday and have taken possession of my usual rooms, finding them in acceptable order for the Season.

Matters of business have required my immediate attention, and I anticipate no difficulty in settling them before Christmas.

You will be pleased to hear that my uncle and aunt are in Town somewhat earlier than expected, as Parliament’s demands have, it seems, pressed upon the earl’s leisure.

I shall, of course, endeavor to fulfil my social obligations as necessary, though I have little expectation of discovering anything of particular novelty among the London assemblies.

The neighbourhood of Meryton has been vacated for the present; the Miss Bennets, with whom you expressed some prior acquaintance, are now residing with relations in Gracechurch Street.

Their removal renders the area quite devoid of interest, and I judged it unnecessary to extend my stay in the country.

There is nothing further to require your attention at this time.

I trust this letter finds you in excellent health and spirits.

I remain, Your dutiful grandson, Fitzwilliam Darcy

D arcy blotted the letter hastily, folding it with a snap of the wrist and sealing it at once.

He summoned a footman, gave brisk instructions for express delivery to Derbyshire, and returned to his writing desk as if he had dispatched a trifling bill of account, not a plea for order thinly disguised as a family update.

There. Done. No cause for interference. No cause for alarm.

He glanced at the empty fireplace, then at the neatly stacked papers awaiting his attention.

None of it sparked the slightest interest.

The Gardiners. Gracechurch Street. Elizabeth.

No, Miss Bennet.

It was all in hand. All arranged. He had no reason to linger. No reason to hesitate. Their agreement, however misguided, demanded action.

Miss Bennet could hardly be expected to seek him out.

If introductions were to be made—if this absurd enterprise was to proceed at all—he must initiate it. Properly. Discreetly.

Entirely correct. Entirely necessary.

Perfectly normal.

Darcy stared at the carpet for a long moment, calculating and discarding a dozen strategies in turn.

He could not call directly upon Miss Bennet.

He could not force an accidental meeting — the Gardiners' society was unlikely to overlap with his own.

Although, occasionally it had, but most of those mutual acquaintances were from the country in Derbyshire, and not presently in London.

And he could hardly rely upon Bingley; the man would be busy allowing his sister to shepherd him through every fashionable drawing room in London.

But perhaps serendipity might serve where calculations failed. Elizabeth had a gift for turning up where she was least expected.

She had stumbled across him in bookstores, in drawing rooms, at picnic grounds, and market squares, as though some mischief of fate conspired to throw them together whenever his guard was lowest.

Perhaps, if he moved within the proper circles... if he made himself visible enough...

Perhaps fate would be kind again.

It was absurd. He was a man of nine-and-twenty years, master of Pemberley, responsible for more souls and estates than most peers of the realm. He could manage a simple social reintroduction without floundering like a schoolboy at his first assembly.

At that moment, the door opened without ceremony.

Colonel Fitzwilliam strode into the room, boots scattering the carpet runners, and tossed his hat onto a chair without so much as a glance.

“I thought I might find you buried in account books,” he said with a grin, “or sulking into your brandy. Must say, I am relieved to discover you only scowling.”

Darcy turned at the sound, his expression sharpening. “Spain finally let you leave?” he asked.

“Only just back,” Richard said. “Arrived in port two nights ago. I have barely had time to change my boots. But do not get too used to my company. I am being shipped off again—Eastbourne this time. The regiment is to be billeted there until spring. Salt air, freezing wind, and not a single decent game of cards to be found. Glorious holiday.”

He dragged off his gloves with short, aggravated tugs and sank into the nearest chair.

Darcy gave a slight nod, his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “It is good to see you, Richard.”

"And you, cousin. Though I must say—" Richard dropped lazily into a chair, sprawling in that careless, insolent way that would have earned him a rebuke in any house less indulgent than Darcy's, "—I had not expected you back in Town so soon.

Grandmother wrote me not three days ago, crowing about your expedition to the wilds of Hertfordshire.

Said you had gone to inspect a particular lady of promise. "

Darcy stilled. His hands flexed behind his back.

"The dowager," he said coldly, "has a remarkable talent for speaking out of turn."

Richard only laughed. "Does she? Then there must be some truth to it."

"There is none."

"No?" His cousin lifted a skeptical brow. "And here I had already placed my wager on a Christmas engagement. Thought you might have a ring tucked away in your pocket."

Darcy's jaw set. "You were misinformed."

"Not the first time, nor the last," Richard said cheerfully. "There is still time. Plenty of clever girls in Town, if you know where to look. And if you do not, well—" he shrugged, "—luckily you have me."

Darcy's patience thinned to a fine, irritable edge. "If you have called only to parade your social calendar before me, you may spare yourself the effort."

"Hardly," Fitzwilliam said easily. "I came to rescue you. Or to mock you. Possibly both. You must allow, it would ease a great many minds if you chose a bride soon. The family trustees grow restless. And Father has been seen sharpening his matchmaking knives."

“And what of Georgiana’s mind?” Darcy snapped. “Or her future? One misstep—one whisper of scandal—and the damage is irreparable.”

"Never fear," Richard continued, grinning.

"I have a list. There is to be a musical evening at the Harringtons' on Saturday, intimate and fashionable, which is to say tolerable for about an hour.

And plenty of charming young ladies eager to ensnare the proud Mr. Darcy of Pemberley.

I happen to know Miss Tyndale will be present.

You remember Miss Tyndale? Tall, fair, frightfully accomplished. Plays the harp, I think."

"I do not require a harpist," Darcy said coldly.

"She has a friend, if that is more to your taste." Fitzwilliam's smile widened into wicked suggestion. "Miss Talbot. Rather less of a harp, more of a—"

"Enough," Darcy said, rising with such suddenness that the colonel blinked.

“Well, I beg your pardon. I was only trying to be helpful. It is not like you to leave something this important off to the last moment like this.”

Darcy turned away, flexing his shoulders inside his coat and pacing restlessly. “It was not intentional. I meant to have the matter settled by last spring, but there were… complications.”

Richard grunted, and Darcy heard him rise from the chair to walk to the decanter. “By the by, how is Georgiana?” he asked. This was followed by the clink of crystal and a slosh of liquid.

Darcy sighed. “Well enough. She is staying at the dower house with Grandmother for the present.”

“Ah.”

Darcy turned back to his cousin. “I dare not imagine what will come of her if your father has his way. Or if…”

“No luck with those letters?”

Darcy shook his head. “The best we can hope for is that Wickham burned them or tossed them in the waste bin.”

“A fanciful bit of naivety, even for you.” Richard extended a glass, his face sobering as he studied Darcy’s expression. “And you are… certain there was no luck to be had in Hertfordshire? The… er… game , there, as I recall, is rather fine.”

Darcy turned a flat stare upon his cousin. "That depends upon a man’s taste, I suppose."

"I suppose it does," Richard said mildly, swirling the brandy in his glass. He watched Darcy over the rim with speculative interest. "Tell me, then—if not an heiress nor a country beauty, what exactly are you waiting for?"

Darcy said nothing for a long moment.

He ought to have an answer ready.

It was a simple enough question, on the surface.

A woman of sense. A woman of virtue. A woman who could bear the weight of Pemberley’s name without flinching.

Instead, what formed unbidden in his mind was a different litany altogether:

A woman who would laugh at him when he deserved it.

Who would look him squarely in the face, without fear or calculation.

Who would spark in him not just admiration, but battle, and exasperation, and that dangerous, unnameable thing that made him forget how to breathe.

Darcy scowled and turned back toward the hearth. "I seek nothing unusual. A lady of character. Good understanding. Temperament suited to a quiet life in the country."

The words were not his. They belonged to a sun-struck afternoon five years ago. A pair of bright eyes and a quick tongue. A promise made too easily and put aside too soon.

"Pretty words," Richard said, unimpressed. "But I notice you said nothing about fortune."

Darcy shrugged one shoulder. "It is not my first requirement."

"Nor beauty?"

"Nor beauty."

"Nor... compliance?" Richard’s mouth twisted in amusement. "Not one of the simpering lilies who would expire at your feet if you so much as frowned?"

Darcy only sighed, which was answer enough.

Richard laughed. "Remarkable. In all my life, I have never known you so easy on any matter, Darcy. Are you not the same man who once spent six months examining wallpaper for the drawing room? Did I not attend you on three different occasions to the wainwrights to clarify your requirements for a town coach?”