Page 3 of The Heroic Mr Darcy’s Bad Manners

Darcy

Darcy was discouraged as he stood on the pavement outside the corner house on Berkeley Square. The knocker was down. He scratched his head and blinked, but that did not change the fact that Limerick House was not receiving visitors. His lordship had fallen ill at the ball the previous night, which had cut their evening short. The ailment must be serious since not even the ladies were accepting callers.

It was to be hoped that the marquess would soon recover and allow him to gaze upon the face of the most intriguing lady he had ever met. The fact that he was infatuated with a woman he had not even seen was proof of how captivated he had been. He was not concerned about her suitability; the company she kept proved she was of elevated rank, and that his dear mother had invited her to tea confirmed her excellent connections. She was a graceful and elegant dancer, though she had mis-stepped when he had accidentally or not bumped into her back. He could not fault her for that, and the long look she had given him upon her departure convinced him that she had been as affected as he. They had been standing right beneath a chandelier that had allowed him to study the emerald-green eyes that were scorched into his memory as the most striking, irresistible, enchanting…

Darcy sighed deeply and turned towards his uncle’s house. Richard was an early riser and would not mind the intrusion. He walked the few yards and was admitted by Matlock’s butler and escorted to the library, where his cousin was sipping his coffee whilst perusing the morning gazette.

“God! You look awful.” Richard flinched in an exaggerated fashion as he tried to keep a straight face.

“Thank you.” Darcy bowed and accepted both the chair and the cup of coffee his cousin offered.

“Did you not sleep at all?” Richard asked with a smirk.

“I did, but apparently not long enough to restore my handsome face. Though I am certain my beauty will be returned much quicker than your ugly snout.”

Richard grinned. “We both know that there is no salvation from the aristocratic Matlock nose. Count yourself lucky you resemble your father. But I must admit that I am surprised to see you this morning. I would have put twenty guineas on you being in Lord Limerick’s front parlour by now.”

Darcy felt warm and tugged at his cravat. “I would have been if the knocker had been up,” he admitted.

“I surmised as much, but that you confess it so readily intrigues me. I have never seen you so bewitched by a lady, and you have not even seen her face. Which is significant. What if she needs the full-face mask to hide a hideous feature?”

Richard was not usually so sceptical by nature, but it was his prerogative to think of both plausible and far-fetched impediments to every event. Yet, Darcy was not concerned. He had seen her beautiful eyes and long lashes—even her lush lips when she drank the ratafia—but it was not only that which had drawn him in. It was her quick wit, unassuming comportment, and easy conversation that had made him remain by her side until the marquess’s sister had ripped her from him. Her pleasing figure was far down the list of her attributes and accomplishments, he reckoned, though it could not be overlooked as his initial incentive. Her tangible qualities were exquisite, yet it was the incorporeal attraction—the intense feeling that heightened his senses—that had drawn him in. He could not walk away, even though he risked ridicule and incessant badgering from his cousins. No, he had followed her around like an obedient puppy and catered to her every need—with no regrets or concerns for his reputation. She must have cast a spell on him because it was exactly the opposite of his usual behaviour. He, who prided himself on being impossible to trap, would not mind so much if it were Queen Elizabeth who ensnared him. Not that he would expect such behaviour. She did not fawn or act coquettishly. No. She charmed him effortlessly without using any arts or allurements.

“What did Lady Melbourne put in that ratafia?” Richard muttered.

Darcy did not know. Perhaps she was a witch and had laced the beverage with a love potion, because Queen Elizabeth had rendered him spellbound from the moment he looked into those enchanting emerald orbs. Immediately, a bolt of lightning had travelled through his core and created a desperate ache for her company. It was so very unlike him that he would not be surprised if he had been drugged out of his wits. Yet, he had not imbibed much before, during, or after the ball, and he had definitely not taken any opiates. He had seen what those substances did to reasonable young men, and he was not tempted. Wickham sprung to mind, though he would rather not think of that reprobate, who had had the audacity to request the Kympton living when he had already been compensated for its value.

“I see that you are not forthcoming, but that will not prohibit me from enquiring… Why are you here?”

“That they have taken down the knocker implies that Lord Limerick’s ailment is more serious than I first assumed,” Darcy mused.

“Then you simply wait until tomorrow, or the next day. It is likely that whatever ails him, it will pass eventually.”

Darcy sighed. It was fortunate that Lord Limerick’s sister, in her distress, had called his queen by her real name, but the revelation had not spurred any memories about who she was. All he knew was that she had met his mother. The conundrum was driving him from his senses and he, who prided himself on his patience, would have liked to have seen Eilís this morning. The lure of her unmasked was a temptation he simply could not withstand.

Richard asked him to join the Matlocks for refreshments, and he accepted as his stomach grumbled its displeasure.

Lord Matlock scowled at him as he entered the breakfast room tailing his cousin. The patriarch disliked Lord Limerick and had already been apprised about his dance partner at the ball.

“I have heard that you danced with Lord Limerick’s niece, Darcy. I forbid you to have any form of acquaintance with that despicable family.”

“Dearest, it was a long time ago.” Lady Matlock tried to placate her husband.

“Twenty odd years is not enough to forget the depravity of that family. You must avoid all association with them. I shall not brook opposition,” the earl thundered.

Darcy raised his eyebrows to Richard, who gave a slight shake of his head in reply. He clearly did not know what his father was talking about either.

“Could you tell us more?”

“It was the greatest scandal that London’s superior society has ever experienced. The marquess’s niece, though he was but an Irish baron back then, married a friend of mine. Sir Arthur was a Scottish baronet with a modest estate in Dollar. She dabbled in counterfeit goods—Egyptian artefacts and coins to be precise. She was caught and convicted in a very public trial. It was the talk of town for years. When was this, Audrey?”

“1789, if I remember correctly,” Lady Matlock mused whilst buttering her roll.

“Yes, I believe that is accurate.”

“I still cannot believe it of Catherine.” Lady Matlock was staring absentmindedly out of the window and spoke to no one in particular.

“I am sorry you were deceived by a family friend,” Lord Matlock comforted his wife, patting her hand.

“Was Lady Catherine involved?” Darcy was incredulous. He could not believe his very proper and strict aunt was a criminal.

“I was not speaking about my sister-in-law,” Lady Matlock corrected him. “Lady Campbell’s Christian name was Catherine. She came out the same year as my youngest sister, but they were bosom friends from an early age. She married the baronet, moved to Scotland, and my sister never spoke to her again. She lived so far north and Felicity in Hertfordshire. By the next Season, she was already incarcerated at Newgate.”

#

A week went by, and the knocker was still not up when Darcy received a disturbing letter from Georgiana. Wickham had been calling on her at Ramsgate, and she fancied herself in love with him. She hoped for her brother’s blessing to marry the ne’er-do-well, which was never going to happen.

He called for his carriage, travelled to Ramsgate as quickly as possible, and managed to save his sister. The journey took him days to complete. He chased Wickham to hell and paid for the servants’ silence. When he returned, Limerick House was empty of its residents; the marquess had clearly recovered enough to leave for his Irish estate.

Darcy would have ridden to Limerick if not for his need to comfort his despondent sister. Not a note had she left him. She could not breach propriety by writing to him herself, but she could have requested that Lord Limerick pen a short missive—instead of leaving him in a void of uncertainty.