Mann snorted. “I daresay Bingley was not the only one in that family with hopes. Though I must thank you, Darcy. I have made a pretty penny on your flight. I had odds on one of them making overtures once they had you out in the country. Had you waited even a few days more, I should have lost a hundred pounds.”
Bile burned Darcy’s throat. He rarely checked the books at the club. He was not averse to laying a bet on the outcome of a fencing match or a horse race, but never more than he could afford to lose, and never on the events of another man’s life. It was a distasteful practice. He recalled that Bingley had teased him about his disinclination to wagering—Bingley, who had, once, on a whim, bet fifty pounds on the speed of a raindrop as it made its way down a windowpane.
He felt entirely stupid. Had everyone seen Bingley’s ploy coming but him?
Suddenly, he wondered whether Bingley himself had gambled on the outcome of the visit. Darcy made his excuses to the men, his cousin included, and strode into the room where the betting books were laid out. As always, it was crowded and noisy, but he flipped through the pages, seeking Bingley’s name, and mentally noting each credit and debt.
At last, Darcy paged back to the most recent entries and left the books open on the table.
Dudley and Mann had drifted away, and he found Fitz conversing with two other men. “Reid,” he said with a nod, greeting the man he knew. Jonathan Reid was an acquaintance from last season that he would not mind getting to know better. He was a bit older than Darcy and had inherited his family’s property in Surrey a few years back.
“Darcy,” Reid replied good-naturedly. “Tell me you understand cabbages. This weather is driving me to the madhouse.”
“Corn and barley, lead and coal, cattle and sheep,” Darcy replied with a grin. “None of your cabbages here. Potatoes, either.”
Reid chuckled and motioned to a thick-set but solid man on his left. “Darcy, this is my friend, Mr. Ward. His estate is not far from your own, as it happens.”
Mr. Ward waved off the introduction. “Ward, if you please. I am not one to stand on ceremony—you are practically a neighbor.”
Darcy nodded and offered the same informality.
Ward’s property was known to Darcy, but he had never met the family. It was a pretty piece of land in Staffordshire, not more than fifty miles from Pemberley, though no more than half its size. Ward had inherited from an elderly relative after some time in the army, he explained, and had been quite busy setting the estate back on firm footing. The three of them chatted about crops and livestock until poor Fitz’s eyes glazed over.
Darcy finally took pity on his cousin, excusing himself and tipping his head to a more private corner of the room. Fitz joined him there after making his own farewells. As they settled into a pair of chairs near the fire, Darcy poured them both some port, but he did not drink it. Instead, he turned the glass in his hands and gazed into the dark liquid. Fitz took a sip from his own glass and waited.
“Bingley did not gamble on the result of my visit—at least, it is not recorded in the books,” Darcy informed Fitz. “He has, however, lost a substantial amount of money over the past year and a half.”
Fitz sat back in his chair. “How much?”
Darcy glanced around the room. Their corner of the room was private enough and he spoke in a hushed tone. “Between the off-book wagers I have witnessed and those in the books here? Nearly twenty thousand pounds.”
His cousin paled. “Good God, Darcy.” After a moment’s reflection, he asked, “Has he satisfied them?”
Darcy nodded. He had wondered, too. “As far as I can tell, yes—which must have created a significant strain on his income. And he has often complained about his sister’s unwillingness to be constrained by her allowance.”
His cousin’s expression cleared. “Miss Bingley is certainly an expense he would like to unload, then.” Fitz set down his glass. “The fact that his new brother might be willing to help him recover financially would be an added advantage to the match.”
“And Mrs. Bennet announced that her eldest daughter’s son would inherit Longbourn,” Darcy mused. “Without the need to cover Miss Bingley’s expenses or to purchase an estate, Bingley would still have ample funds to expand Longbourn and make it more prosperous.” He shook his head. “But surely he would verify Mrs. Bennet’s claim before paying his addresses to Miss Bennet.”
Fitz snorted. “Indeed. Thoroughness in his financial and personal dealings perfectly describes what we now know of his character, you are quite right.”
Darcy’s head ached.
It had been his belief since entering Meryton society months ago that the Bennets were fortune hunters. The Bennets, with their ties to trade and their respectable but rather small estate, were barely clinging to the lower rungs of the gentry. Even without an estate, the Bingleys were well-off. If their money was new, they had at least been brought up to understand and demonstrate proper manners and behavior.
Yet it was the Bingleys who had sought access to his fortune while none of the Bennets ever had.
The middle Bennet girl was less accomplished than she believed, and her younger sisters paid rather more attention to the officers than they ought, but they were all of them young. He had neither witnessed nor heard anything worse of them. To Darcy’s knowledge, none of them had considered an elopement, as his own sister had. Mr. Bennet, who had appeared disinterested in his family, had been quick-witted and ingenious in their defense when Elizabeth disappeared. Mrs. Bennet was a loud, crass woman, but she had not, after their introduction at the assembly, sought his notice. In fact, she had gone out of her way to both avoid and insult him, which was not behavior typical of a fortune hunter.
“Darce?” Fitz asked warily. “Are you well?”
“No,” Darcy replied, setting down his glass. “I am a fool.”
Elizabeth pulled a cloth from the work basket Mrs. Spencer had just set down beside her. She had thought it was a handkerchief, but its size was . . . prodigious. She stared at it for a moment before looking up at the housekeeper. The older woman was wearing a affectionate expression.
“This cloth is too large for a handkerchief,” Elizabeth said playfully. “May I assume it is meant to propel a ship on its way to the peninsula?”
“It is one of Miss Darcy’s embroidery cloths,” Mrs. Spencer informed her. “She is still learning.” She chuckled. “She does not wish them to be seen, therefore she chooses a size she believes will render them unusable—but Miss Darcy makes them, so the master carries them anyway.” She shook her head fondly. “I do not think she knows.”