Darcy’s uncle Matlock shook his head. “I could not have done this for him,” he said, his voice wavering. “He has his allowance, but this . . .” He grasped Darcy’s arm for a moment. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”
“Richard would never have allowed you to do it,” Darcy replied, “and there is no debt. I abhor disguise, but in this case, it was essential.”
The earl chuckled. “He ought to thank you, but instead, he will give you the devil for it.”
Darcy smirked. “I know. Were our situations reversed, I should do the same. But it is entirely self-interested, you know. I will need his help.”
“In the whole course of your life, you have done nothing entirely for your own interest,” the earl said, an amused glint in his eye. “But then, you boys never were happy when you were apart. Unless you were engaged in some sort of competition, and then it was knives to the throat.”
“Who says we are not in competition now?” Darcy asked. His mouth curled up in a sly smile. “I believe I win.”
The earl laughed aloud at that, and Fitzwilliam poked his head back into the room. “Are we off to Mayfair?” he asked, curling and uncurling his fingers. “My hand is entirely useless after signing all of your papers, Darcy. Could you not have asked my father to be the witness for some of them?”
“Why would I do that with you here?” the earl asked. “I have enough to do signing my own documents. Let us be off.” As Fitzwilliam disappeared, he clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “I will not forget this, Darcy,” he said, his voice breaking. “You have brought my son home to me.”
As the letter from his great-uncle had suggested, the townhouse in Mayfair was not in the best of condition. The chimneys required repointing, and the roof leaked. The leak in the roof had then created a small bit of rot in the lintel adjacent to one of the bay windows, and another window on a higher floor would have to be replaced, as a previous repair had been done improperly, making the weight of the glass too heavy.
Darcy held the sliding sash up with one finger and then removed it. The window crashed heavily onto the sill. “Rather reminiscent of a guillotine,” he told his cousin and uncle, and turned to the housekeeper. “May I presume to hope you do not have any of the maids attempting to clean the outside glass?”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Yardley said with a fleeting twitch of her lips.
“Well, let us see what else is on that list of yours, Mrs. Yardley,” Darcy replied. They would also be refurbishing the master’s chambers and creating another for Fitzwilliam once the repairs were finished.
It was dull work, but it was work, and Darcy was grateful for the exercise.
Fitzwilliam had resisted the sale of his commission, but he had ultimately capitulated to Darcy’s stubborn insistence. It had been hard on them both, watching their men continue to Badajoz without them. They had not even had the chance to take a proper leave. Yet Darcy had also felt oddly detached, adrift from his military life nearly as soon as the papers were signed. His mind was already on the challenge ahead.
Because Darcy could not yet travel without pain, he and Fitzwilliam had taken rooms when the army marched on. They had not set out for the long trip to Lisbon for over a month. Fitzwilliam had been such a woman about it all—he had not allowed Darcy to do anything but write letters and rest. It had been aggravating, but his ribs had healed well, and all that remained now was a longish red scar that was gradually fading to pink.
London was a revelation after having been so long away, and his new situation changed the way he saw it. They had been to Gunter’s for ices and Hatchards for books—not only did Darcy truly feel the luxury of purchasing three books in a single visit, but he also felt all the privilege of having a library in which to keep them. His uncle Matlock joined them for the few entertainments still being performed, though the earl remarked that the variety was nothing like it would be in the season. His uncle had also dragged them both to a tailor for new clothes, not something in which Darcy had taken much pleasure.
“Think of it as the uniform of a gentleman, Darcy,” his uncle had said with a touch of amusement. “You will grow used to it in time.”
“The ladies will swoon before you, Darcy,” his cousin teased. Fitzwilliam had chosen the cut and the cloth he wanted for any number of items, and was measured in a trice. Whilst he had rarely been out of uniform in the past years, he was familiar with fashionable dress. Darcy was not. Not only that, but he was a large man. The entire process took more time for him.
The sombre nature of the clothing was something to which he must accustom himself.
“If it is swooning you aim for, cousin,” he said to Fitzwilliam, “we might better have kept our red coats.”
It was a scandal how much all of it cost. Silks, wool with a superfine finish. Morning coats, evening coats, waistcoats, pants, breeches, hats, gloves . . . Darcy intended to eschew both the drawing rooms and the ballrooms of London with determination, and he could not imagine where else he would wear such finery.
The boots, though, and the riding clothes! They were of a quality he never thought to own when he was marching across the Iberian Peninsula. Those he liked very much.
Still, he could not help feeling a bit of a fop, buying new clothes and new books, having calling cards made, attending entertainments. It was almost difficult to believe that England was fighting a war.
Darcy had never been in London in August before, not that he could recall. Owing to his close friendship with Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s parents had taken the opportunity to send him north to Matlock every summer. The earl and the countess were benevolent, but not overly interested in the pair of them, and it had been marvellous for two young boys—plenty of land to explore and no one enforcing any rules so long as they stayed out of trouble. Not that they did, but they simply kept quiet about their scrapes. The two of them had even been invited to visit Pemberley a few times. There, the only taskmaster was Mrs. Reynolds, who was now Mrs. Yardley’s counterpart.
There was some life in London, though not much of it was in Mayfair. Cheapside was still teeming with activity. Most who lived there could not afford to leave the city in the summer. Darcy rather pitied them, for his great-uncle had been correct. London stank in the heat.
“Have you heard from General Bennet?” Fitzwilliam asked as they made their way to the third floor of the six-story townhouse.
“Just this morning. We are to join him in Hertfordshire when we are finished here and stay until near Christmas.”
“It will be good to see the old man,” Fitzwilliam said, relaxing a bit.
Darcy had originally desired to travel directly to Pemberley, knowing there was much to accomplish there. But Fitzwilliam had pointed out that they would only throw the routines of the place into upset, and as they did not yet know anything about harvest season or working with tenants, or anything else, really, that they might visit their former commanding officer for a time and travel to Pemberley in the spring instead.
Darcy hoped the visit would help his cousin feel more at home in England than he appeared to at present, and he also anticipated learning a great deal from their host. General Bennet had been an excellent commanding officer. His standards were high, but he had taught his officers the way he wanted things done rather than shouting at them for not somehow divining it on their own. Darcy had requested the general’s assistance to teach him and his cousin how to run an estate. When they did finally arrive at Pemberley, he wished to be ready to take on the responsibility of his inheritance.