Chapter 2
As he brushed past his butler Mr. Pratt, Darcy was already making a dozen decisions. A disheveled footman handed him a lit candle as he passed. Darcy took it and locked himself inside his study. He touched the flame to a few more candles and crouched to start a fire, unwilling to keep any servants awake to do it for him. As soon as he was able to warm his fingers, he picked up a pen. The note Slipworth would deliver to Longbourn was merely a polite leave-taking and a promise for a longer letter he hoped Mr. Bennet would do him the honor of reading. He had not been master enough of himself, at the time, to do more.
The long ride had allowed Darcy to compose his thoughts. Now he was able to write a detailed narrative of the events that had occurred during the ball, expounding upon Miss Elizabeth’s innocence in the entire affair and his gratitude for her assistance. Though he did not mention Georgiana, he added what he had said to Miss Elizabeth about Wickham and offered further information about his former friend’s other proclivities. Mr. Bennet had five daughters. He ought to be warned. Finally, Darcy offered to produce the document Wickham had signed as evidence of his claim should Mr. Bennet require it and included the direction for Darcy House. He sanded the letter and, when it was dry, folded, sealed, and addressed it.
Then he bent to write several more notes, including a call for assistance to Fitz and a request to attend Aunt Matlock before her visiting hours that morning. By the time he sealed the last missive, it was light enough to send for a rider.
Having completed what he could for the moment, Darcy rang for a tray. He returned to his chair and settled back into the cool leather. Miss Elizabeth had wanted to talk about Wickham. To defend the man. It had been a disappointment.
Darcy had believed Miss Elizabeth thought well of him, even if they were not friends, precisely. He certainly admired her. Yet upon reflection, he admitted that he had fought valiantly to conceal his growing esteem. He could hardly blame her for missing his approbation when he could not afford to display it.
Notwithstanding her evident dislike, she had given him a fair hearing, and, in the end, had said she believed him. His respect for her only increased, despite her initial championing of Wickham.
Everyonebelieved George Wickham at first—Miss Elizabeth was not unique in that. Even his sister Georgiana, whom he had warned against the man—even she had chosen to recall only her father’s preference for his godson and allowed herself to be taken in by Wickham’s lies. She knew now that her handsome suitor had been romancing her fortune rather than her heart, but she was not yet recovered from her disappointment. A disappointment she might have been spared if she had listened!
Darcy knew he was partly to blame for Georgiana’s current unease—his sister was at an age where she wished for a measure of independence, and he had taken it away. His disapproval had deeply unsettled her. She jumped if he moved too quickly, her temper flared unexpectedly, and more than once she had left the room abruptly with tears in her eyes. He loved his sister more than reason, but her plans to elope with the very man he had cautioned her about had wounded him deeply. Evidently, he was not hiding that as well as he ought.
Aunt Matlock had finally suggested he take some time away, for both his own sake and that of his sister. He knew his aunt hoped that some time with a friend would clear his mind and help him to move past the bitterness that was beginning to take root in his heart. But Bingley had proven disappointing in that respect. Since the death of his father, Darcy somehow had been unable to find friends who had not eventually wanted something from him—a handout, support for a political endeavor, an investment, or his agreement to marry a female relation.
Masterman had come to him four years ago, mentioning a cousin barely seventeen, who had been seduced by a married neighbor and required a husband.
“I hate to ask, Darcy, but my uncle insisted,” Masterman said contritely. “She is his favorite, you see, despite all this, and he wishes her to marry a gentleman. She was raised to be the mistress of an estate and could be of use to you, as we all know you have no plans to wed. You are your own man, so would not need permission . . .” Masterman could not look Darcy in the eye. He cleared his throat uncomfortably before adding, “He would send her to you with a rather spectacular dowry, and you know he has connections in the Lords that your uncle would appreciate.”
Darcy had been shocked into silence at the request, and Masterman had taken himself off when it became clear he would receive no response to the entreaty. At the time, Darcy had been overwhelmed with the care of Pemberley, losing first his father and then old Mr. Wickham, the estate’s excellent steward. He had not even known which bothered him more—the assumption that he did not wish to ever marry, or the attempt to sell him a bride. He had heard of such things, of course, but never had he expected to be approached in such a way himself.
Fawkner had been far blunter a few years later, when Darcy had made a brief trip to London. He had suggested that Darcy, being in need of an heir, might wish to make a bargain with his mother’s new husband, an earl whose sixth daughter was unmarried and with child. The girl came with a large dowry and excellent connections. Darcy, having gained a bit more strength and understanding since Masterman’s petition, had Fawkner escorted from the house.
Even Howard, who had a fortune that equaled or surpassed Darcy’s, had tried to press him into marrying his enceinte sister last March. The fortune was substantial, the family—until now—entirely respectable. Darcy had sympathy, but no intention of granting Howard’s request. When he had declined, Howard had all but given him the cut direct.
Now Bingley had joined the growing list of men Darcy could no longer call friends. He snarled at the memory of it and poured himself a drink. I will marry where I choose, and my heir will be of Darcy blood. It was unfathomable that anyone should be angered by either declaration, particularly when he had the charge of his young sister. His wife must be someone Georgiana could emulate. If he could ever find such a woman. Ignoring his heart’s protest that he already had, Darcy downed the alcohol, loosened his cravat, and reclined on the settee. His chamber would have to be prepared for him, but until then, he could at least rest without fear of waking up shackled to some fortune-hunting harpy.
He was instead awakened by a flood. He sat up, sputtering. “What . . . Fitz?”
“Good morning, cousin.” Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam stood a few feet away, placing a now-empty glass upon a tray. “I appreciate your willingness to join me, as it is your letter that has my father’s house in uproar.”
“Uproar?” Darcy repeated dully, his head still full of cobwebs. He sat up and noted that Fitz was not in uniform.
“If you were only going to sleep,” Fitz said, a touch of annoyance in his tone, “and in your study, no less, you might have waited until a more reasonable time to send your missives. Mother was expecting you before calling hours. Fine way to spend my leave, being sent away without breakfast to track you down.” He stared down at Darcy. “I have called for something to eat.”
Darcy pulled out his watch. Half-past ten. He had been asleep for five hours. “Dash it all . . .”
“Spare me the dramatics, Darcy,” Fitz said, and drew a chair up to the settee. “Just tell me what is happening. Why are you back? You were not to return until the week before Christmas.”
Darcy glanced at the door, but of course Fitz had closed it upon entering. Despite his gregarious nature, his cousin was discreet when required. Darcy took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Fitz exclaimed derisively before Darcy could speak a word. “Not Bingley too?”
Darcy closed his eyes and nodded. “Miss Bingley.”
Fitz’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Bingley or Mr. Bingley?”
“Both,” Darcy replied, the sick feeling returning. “He sent me a message through a footman that he needed to see me in the library. It was during the ball . . .” He glanced up to see whether Fitz remembered that there had been a ball. His cousin held up one hand.
“You sent Georgiana a letter about the preparations. Mother related it to me in excruciating detail.” He grimaced before saying sarcastically, “By the by, thank you for that.”
Darcy tried to stretch his muscles—sleeping on the settee had been a terrible idea. “I was trying to entertain Georgiana. She always asks me for those sorts of descriptions.” At least, she had. It had been a painfully dull letter to write, but he had hoped his sister would like it. “Did she even read it, or did she just hand it to my aunt?”
Fitz shrugged. “How would I know?” He sat back. “What happened at the ball, cousin?”