“There are no coals here,” he said, ignoring his cousin’s statement. “I shall fetch them from the other room.”
“You should have someone start the fire in your study first,” Fitz said. “It is probable no one will notice, but if there is smoke from the chimney but no fire in your . . .”
“Yes,” Darcy replied abruptly. Grateful that he had the chimneys cleaned and repaired every summer, he stood and pushed against the wall. It was heavy but swung open to reveal both his study and his stunned valet, who was standing near the desk.
Darcy glanced back to be sure the bookshelf was in place. “Slipworth,” he ordered, “go find a maid to make up my fire. Have someone bring up a new basket of coal.”
Slipworth blinked. “Yes, sir,” he responded.
Darcy watched his normally imperturbable valet open the door to the hall and trip slightly over the threshold, nearly tumbling into the stern woman on the other side. Without changing his expression in any way, Darcy released an irritated sigh.
“Mrs. Spencer,” he said flatly, and waited for the woman to speak. She did not. She allowed her eyes to roam the room and then fix upon him.
“We shall have a proper meal for you tonight, Mr. Darcy,” she said at last. “Do you wish to open the dining room?”
Darcy frowned. “No, I think not.” He paused. “Tell Mr. Pratt to leave the knocker down as well. Colonel Fitzwilliam and I will be engaged in a great deal of business for the next few weeks, and I will not open such a large room for the two of us. We will take our evening meals here unless I send word otherwise.”
The housekeeper studied Darcy with an unwavering gaze. “Very good, sir.” She stepped back and disappeared down the hall.
Darcy stood alone in the room. Twenty-four hours ago, he had been alternately dreading and anticipating the ball at Netherfield, his concerns focused almost entirely upon whether or not to solicit Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s hand for a dance.
That world was gone.
Elizabeth Bennet and his cousin were hidden not ten feet behind him in a room that, to his knowledge, had not been opened since he was a boy. Charles Bingley was a scoundrel, Elizabeth was a victim, and he must determine how to save her reputation as well as his own, all while keeping his staff—Anders in particular—clear of any suspicion.
He had allowed himself to become distracted by Elizabeth, and what had it achieved? He had nearly been caught in Bingley’s trap, only to fall neatly into a scandal with the potential to rock London to its core. A Darcy scion smuggling an injured, gently bred young woman into his home? Good God, Georgiana’s thwarted elopement would be nothing to this. He stifled a groan. Five years it had taken to establish himself as his own man, an honorable man, and it could be gone in an instant. He did not even know why.
One of the maids entered, dragging a large basket of coal. With a hasty curtsy, she set to her work and started the fire. When she was finished, Darcy locked the door behind her. He opened a drawer where the candles were kept and removed a few, setting them atop the pile of coal. Then he pressed a spot in the back of the bookshelf, the one directly behind his head when he sat at the desk. The door released, though it remained only slightly ajar. He took up the basket of coal in one hand and pulled open the door with the other, careful not to dislodge the books as he stepped through.
Fitz was sitting about as far from Elizabeth as was possible in the little room, and Darcy clapped him on the shoulder. “She does not bite.” He dropped the basket near the hearth. “Will you fetch me the water pitcher from the study?”
His cousin was there and back very quickly. Darcy asked for his handkerchief and Fitz passed it over. Darcy carefully cleaned the palms of Elizabeth’s hands. The wounds were superficial, so he did not bind them.
Fitz shifted his weight from one foot to another. “It feels deucedly awkward to be alone in here with her.”
“Are you afraid I will insist you marry her?” Darcy asked lightly, reaching out to clap his cousin’s shoulder.
Fitz’s teeth gleamed in the darkness of the room. “She is a comely little thing, and her father will be eager to dispose of her well, I think. Perhaps he has a fortune with which to persuade me?”
Darcy unconsciously gripped his cousin’s arm. Hard.
“Release me, you pathetic oaf.” Fitz knocked his hand away. “I am no widgeon. I saw your face when you thought she was dead, and then you nearly took my head off over it. This is no cream pot love, but if she were eligible, you would not have left her in Hertfordshire, no matter how quickly you were forced to depart. Not without at least speaking to her father.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“How do you know I am not a molly?” Darcy asked quietly. “I know there are whispers.”
Fitz’s sharp laugh was disbelieving. “Because I know you. Not only do you clearly have feelings for Miss Bennet, I saw you fall in love with Rebecca Braggs the summer after you turned sixteen.”
It felt a very long time ago. “Father told me I was in no way ready to wed, and I would not approach a gentlewoman, that being the case. He took me to . . . “
His cousin grinned. “I know. Father took me, too.”
“I did not like it, Fitz. Not the . . .” Darcy’s face warmed. “That I liked very well. But in the end, it was not what I had hoped. It was business for the girl, that was all. I felt badly for her, and I admit, badly for me. I could not help but feel I was missing something important.”
“You are a romantic. Always have been,” Fitz replied.
Darcy did not believe that to be true. He simply had never had the time for women. He refused to follow Wickham’s lead at university and he would not risk disease or father a child he could not claim. His father had died only weeks after he graduated from Cambridge. There had been no time to dally in London or enjoy a grand tour. He had simply thrown all of his energy into fencing, shooting, riding, caring for Georgiana, and maintaining the family interests.
He did not bother to reply, and his cousin did not press him. “No,” Fitz continued, “I would be less surprised if Henry were.”