20. Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
Darcy entered Brooks’s with a long, determined stride, his gloves removed, and his coat already half-off before the footman could assist. The familiar murmur of gentlemen in quiet conversation filled the air, mingling with the scent of pipe smoke and spirits. Today, the club’s usual comforts were an afterthought. There was work to be done.
Across the room, Lord Matlock and Richard were already seated at a table near the large bay windows, their heads bent in conversation. Richard was laughing at something his father said, but when his eyes flicked up and caught Darcy’s approach, the grin widened. “There he is,” Richard announced, pushing back his chair. “The man of the hour.”
Lord Matlock did not rise, but lifted an appraising brow. “It is about time.”
Darcy dropped into the chair opposite them, shaking his head at a manservant who offered him a drink. “I had other matters to attend to.”
Richard gave him a knowing look, his grin taking on a sly edge. “Other matters… or one particular matter?”
“I do not follow.”
“Oh, come, cousin! I can hardly turn round but I hear reports of Fitzwilliam Darcy escorting about some lively young lady from Hertfordshire, smiling like a sot and acting the perfectly smitten escort—a thing, I might add, of which he has never been accused before.”
Darcy shot his cousin a glare. “That is your father’s doing and no more.”
“And it has paid off in spades,” Matlock grunted. “I wager you spoke with a dozen more men at the garden party than you might have if I had let you go in there to stand by yourself.”
“Strategic it might be,” Richard chuckled, “but I was quite expecting Darcy to be off… er… furthering this convenient alliance, Father, rather than coming to speak with us today. ”
Darcy bristled, but before he could retort, Lord Matlock waved a dismissive hand. “Enough. We have more important things to discuss than your cousin’s… companionship.” His tone implied more, but he did not elaborate. “Stanton has the advantage of you, both in connections and experience. We need to solidify your support.”
“And what do you propose?”
Before the earl could answer, Mr. Harcourt appeared from across the room, weaving past groups of gentlemen deep in conversation, his eyes already fixed on their table. Conversations dipped as he passed, men tipping their heads in acknowledgment, others pausing mid-sentence to track his progress. When he reached them, he didn’t wait for an invitation—he simply pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it with the air of a man accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went.
“Darcy. Matlock. Fitzwilliam,” Harcourt greeted, taking the empty chair without waiting for an invitation. His sharp gaze settled on Darcy. “It seems you are the talk of more than just the social circles these days.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I had hoped to avoid such attention.”
Harcourt chuckled. “That is not how politics works, my friend. You should know that by now.” He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood. “I’d a letter from my steward this morning. Adams is, as you know, brother to Mr. Watson’s steward at Waverley, and he hears much. According to him, word from Derbyshire is… favorable.”
“Favorable?” Darcy echoed skeptically.
“There has been a deal of talk. Not just about Stanton’s usual bluster, but about you, Darcy.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Talk?”
Harcourt nodded. “And not just in Derbyshire, but those that are here in London, too. The smaller landowners—the ones Stanton assumes are in his pocket—are starting to wonder if there might be another way. They have seen you at gatherings, heard what you have to say. Some had letters by your personal hand. It is not just your name anymore. They see a man who offers something new.”
Darcy’s gaze flicked briefly to his uncle, who sat listening with a satisfied gleam in his eye.
Harcourt continued, “I’ll admit, many expected you to take a more… predictable route. An engagement to Lady Eugenia Fortescue or perhaps Miss Pembroke—both families firmly in Stanton’s camp. Christened as his successor, like enough. It would have been th e safest choice, politically speaking. But to openly challenge him, without relying on… shall we say, certain strategic alliances? No one thought it of you.”
Lord Matlock chuckled, raising his glass. “As you say—safe, but dull. And not half as effective as this.”
“You have surprised them,” Harcourt went on, ignoring the earl’s interruption, “You are charting your own course. And that,” he tapped his glass lightly against the table, “is what is catching attention.”
Darcy remained silent, digesting the words. He knew the truth behind his public appearances, but it was clear Harcourt did not. To Harcourt and the others, Darcy appeared as a man stepping out from under the shadow of his lineage, making choices that were his own.
“Independence, Darcy. That is what the men of Derbyshire are looking for. It shows you are not beholden to the same families who have let Stanton’s influence fester. It shows you have your own mind.”
Lord Matlock grinned, clearly pleased. “Exactly what I have been telling him.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the point without fully conceding. He knew the appearances were a carefully constructed facade, but hearing Harcourt’s perspective planted a seed of something unexpected. Possibility.
“And that Miss Bennet of yours,” Harcourt added with a faint smile as he rose to leave, “seems to carry herself with remarkable poise, despite the scrutiny. My wife was rather taken with her. She reflects well on you, whether you intended it or not.” He made a little mock salute to Richard—Harcourt was a former cavalryman himself—and took his leave.
“What did I tell you, lad?” Lord Matlock grunted after Harcourt had left. “Fully half the voters you need to appeal to are smallholdings men. They want to believe you are one of them. Miss Bennet provides that illusion.”
“I am not interested in illusions,” Darcy said stiffly.
“Then be interested in results,” Matlock shot back.
Before Darcy could respond, Mr. Linton passed by, his expression considerably cooler than Harcourt’s, but he slowed, then lingered, and finally stopped to face them. He was a stockier man, his face weathered by years of managing his estate, and his handshake was as firm as his stare.
“Darcy,” Linton greeted curtly, nodding to the others. “I hear you intend to stand against Stanton. You think the name of Darcy is enough to win over Derbyshire? ”
Darcy met his gaze head-on. “I do not assume anything. But I know what Stanton represents, and I know what I offer.”
“And what do you offer? My tenants have been… restless. They hear about the Luddites, they hear other farmers are being fenced out of grazing areas. Squashing them under a boot will not work any longer but London has been slow to heed the warnings. The people want integrity, not another shiny bauble spouting worthless platitudes.”
“The people want stability,” Darcy countered, his voice firm. “They want to know their land and livelihoods will not be gambled away on false promises. Stanton thrives on chaos disguised as progress. I offer continuity with a conscience.”
Richard chuckled, raising his glass. “Continuity with a conscience—I like that.”
Linton, however, was not so easily swayed. He studied Darcy for a long moment, then said, “Stability sounds good in theory. But the people need to see it. Words will only carry you so far.”
“They will see it,” Darcy promised quietly. “Through action.”
Linton nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded. “Then you might stand a chance.”
As Linton rose to leave, Richard clapped Darcy on the shoulder with a grin. “Look at you, Cousin. Almost convincing. I could almost believe you enjoy this.”
Darcy allowed himself the faintest of smiles, but inside, something shifted. For the first time, he did not just see this as a duty—it felt like a fight he was meant to take on.
Matlock leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “We need more than just Linton and Harcourt. The smaller votes matter, but the larger landowners—men like Brighton over in Derby and Harris near Chesterfield—they will talk to their neighbors, sway them and tip the balance.”
“Have you calculated how many votes we need?”
The earl nodded. “There are approximately eighty eligible voters in Derbyshire—give or take. Stanton has a firm hold on about thirty of them—men he’s either bribed, threatened, or aligned with through mutual interests. Perhaps ten or twelve young bucks—smallholdings men and a few former merchants—who will vote for you merely based on your age… about fifteen who will vote for anyone but Stanton. And the rest are undecided.”
Darcy absorbed the numbers, mentally sorting through names he knew. “The undecided are the key.”
“They are,” Matlock agreed. “But they will not stay undecided long. ”
“Names?”
The earl ticked a few off his fingers. “Ashcombe, Farnsworth, Redgrave…. Now, he might go for Stanton, because his sister married Stanton’s cousin.”
“And he promptly left her in London and went to Scotland with his mistress,” Richard put in. “Redgrave was livid. Said Stanton squandered his sister's dowry.”
The earl’s brows arched. “Had not heard that. Well, then you might have Redgrave. Let me see… Montclair, Hollinghurst, Thornton… perhaps Langford and… oh, maybe half a dozen others. Stanton has been working upon all of them, naturally—promising them land security, lower rents, even improvements in trade routes. He is selling dreams he cannot deliver.”
“Then I need to show them I can deliver,” Darcy said, more to himself than the others. He sat back, the wheels already turning in his mind. “I will write to Sir Frederick tonight, as well as my steward. I want precise details about Stanton’s acquisitions. If he is operating on the edge of legality, there has to be something we can use.”
“And appearances,” Matlock added. “You will be seen at every Derbyshire event in London—every luncheon, every gathering. And Miss Bennet must be with you.”
Darcy stiffened, but before he could protest, Richard spoke up.
“She is more than just a convenience now, Darcy. People believe what they see, and what they see is a man who understands them because he has chosen a woman who is one of them.”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. “I have not chosen anyone.”
“Not officially,” the earl said with a knowing smile. “But that hardly matters, does it?”
Darcy did not respond immediately. Instead, he reached for the brandy Matlock pushed toward him, letting the warmth settle as his mind sharpened. Setting the glass down, he met his uncle’s gaze squarely. “I will start with the Broadmoor and Cartwright families. Their influence among the smaller landholders is considerable, and while they have remained neutral thus far, their support will sway others. I will arrange a private meeting with Cartwright within the week—he has interests in estate reforms that Stanton has ignored. As for Broadmoor, he prides himself on his tenants’ loyalty. A few well-placed words about my stewardship at Pemberley should appeal to him.”
Darcy leaned back slightly, his eyes flicking to Richard. “And I will continue to be seen with Miss Bennet. If they believe I am a man of fresh alliances, so much the better. The appearance of independence from appears to be serving me well.”
Richard broke the silence with a grin. “You know, Darcy, for someone so reluctant to enter politics, you’re starting to sound an awful lot like a politician.”
Darcy allowed himself a faint smile, but as the conversation drifted back to strategy, he felt a new sense of resolve settle over him. This was no longer about obligation or family expectations.
Stanton posed a real threat—not just to Derbyshire, but to everything Darcy believed in.
And for the first time, he was ready to fight.
The soft clatter of a carriage outside the Gardiners’ townhouse caught Elizabeth’s attention just as she was folding the corner of a book she had been pretending to read. She moved to the window, expecting to see the familiar figure of her uncle returning from his business, but instead, the sleek, unmistakable crest on the door of the carriage made her pulse skip.
Mr. Darcy.
Before she could fully process that realization, the bell chimed downstairs, and moments later, the maid’s hurried steps echoed up the staircase.
“Miss Bennet,” the girl announced breathlessly, poking her head into the sitting room. “Mr. Darcy is here to call on you.”
Oh. Goodness. She must have forgot some planned engagement. She sprang up from the settee, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirts with one hand and hastily tucking an errant curl behind her ear with the other. The book lay abandoned as her eyes darted around the room, scanning for anything out of place. A stray shawl tossed carelessly over the arm of a chair, a cup of half-finished tea—she set to rights what she could in the brief seconds it took the maid to retreat.
By the time Darcy entered, Elizabeth was standing near the mantel, feigning a calm she certainly did not feel. “Mr. Darcy,” she greeted, curtsying with what she hoped looked like practiced ease. “Forgive me, I must have forgot an appointment. Was there something we were meant to attend?”
Darcy seemed slightly taken aback. “No,” he replied, his brow knitting slightly, as though her assumption puzzled him. “I simply thought to call. ”
Elizabeth blinked. That was… unexpected. She gestured toward the window with a hint of a smirk. “I see. And who, pray, is meant to witness your carriage stationed outside? I should hate to think I have disrupted some grand scheme for public appearance.”
Darcy’s confusion deepened, and for a rare moment, he seemed genuinely at a loss. “I... doubt anyone is observing me so closely,” he said slowly, as though the idea had not occurred to him. “I assure you, Miss Bennet, there is no scheme. Not this time.”
“Then… are we to plan a scheme? Ah, I understand. Easier to talk over plans in person.”
He frowned. “That is not a bad notion, but it was not my intention.”
Elizabeth’s curiosity finally overcame her skepticism. “Then… why are you here, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy’s mouth opened, then closed again. He glanced at the floor as though the answer might be hiding in the intricate weave of the carpet. He even turned about once, his eyes casting almost plaintively toward the door, but then twisted back to his original place. Just as Elizabeth began to wonder if he might leave without saying anything at all, his expression cleared.
“I was thinking about the… ah… the letter,” he said suddenly. “And the key. It occurred to me that my cousin, Richard, might know something—or at least, he might inquire discreetly.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave an odd little jolt, though whether from disappointment or relief, she could not say. She moved to the side table where her reticule lay, her fingers brushing over the delicate embroidery before slipping inside. “I... I opened the letter,” she admitted, withdrawing the folded paper with a furtive glance at Darcy. “I could not help myself. But I did seal it up—here, see? It looks entirely unmolested. Perhaps I am cut out for espionage, after all.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he seemed not even to hear her joke. “And? What did you learn?”
She passed it to him, the edges slightly crumpled from being stuffed inside her reticule. “It is in French. I can read French, but this—this is nonsense. Some kind of code.”
He glanced at the letter, then back up at her. “You did seal it rather well. I would never imagine it had been opened.”
She lifted her shoulders. “One of my few talents.”
“Well, what did it say?”
She wetted her lips and recited, “ Le corbeau chante à minuit. Les fenêtres sont fermées mais le vent est fort. La clé ouvre la porte qui ne doit pas être vue. ”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “You may be able to read French, Miss Elizabeth, but your accent is deplorable. I could hardly make out a word of that.”
She slanted him a wry look and a mock pout. “Some people did not have the finest masters. I interpret it to mean: ‘The raven sings at midnight. The windows are closed, but the wind is strong. The key opens the door that must not be seen.’ Obviously, it is some sort of code, do you not think?”
The light in his eye dimmed from amused to concerned. “This is more serious than I thought,” he murmured. “If they are using coded correspondence, it means they are taking great pains to conceal their intentions.”
Elizabeth’s skin prickled at the implication. She thrust the key and the letter toward him as though they might burn her. “Then take them. I don’t want them. Find out what they are for, who they belong to—but I want nothing more to do with it.”
For a moment, Darcy seemed hesitant, as if accepting them would bind him to something he had not fully considered. But seeing the fear flicker in Elizabeth’s eyes, he relented, tucking the items into his coat. “This does not mean you are safe,” he warned. “Someone knows you had these, Miss Bennet.”
“And what, precisely, would you have me do to prove my innocence? How can I convince anyone that I am entirely ignorant of these plots?”
Darcy opened his mouth, but no words came out. His eyes searched hers, something unspoken flickering there, until finally, the words tumbled from him without thought or filter.
“Marry me.”
Elizabeth froze. The room seemed to contract around her, the ticking clock on the mantel suddenly loud in the oppressive silence. She gaped at him, her lips parting as if to respond, but no sound emerged. She tried again, and again, but the words refused to form.
Darcy, realizing what he had said, shut his eyes as though pained by his own words and waved a hand in a futile attempt to erase them from existence. “I did not mean that— literally ,“ he muttered, though his face betrayed far more than his words could conceal. A flush crept up his neck, coloring his usually composed features. “I simply meant to imply that… well… that a more formal arrangement between us might appear advantageous … under the circumstances.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, but he plunged ahead, his usual eloquence slipping further from his grasp. “Not that I presume you would… that is, I did not intend to suggest th at you would desire such an arrangement,“ he stammered, the words tripping over each other in his haste to correct himself. “Merely that… from a practical standpoint, given the, ah… the precarious nature of your situation, it might offer a degree of, well, security.”
Her lips twitched, but Darcy was too engrossed in his own floundering to notice.
“Of course, I recognize that such a proposal—no, not a proposal—such a suggestion might seem… abrupt,” he continued, his hand rising to tug at his cravat as if it were suddenly too tight. “But the notion of an engagement, however temporary, could serve to—ahem—dissuade any further suspicions about your involvement in this… unfortunate matter.”
Elizabeth took a step closer, watching him struggle with barely concealed amusement. He was so rarely anything but composed, so unfailingly precise in his words, that seeing him now—disheveled in spirit if not in dress—was oddly endearing.
Darcy, realizing he was spiraling, stopped abruptly and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am making a hash of this,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Elizabeth’s smile finally broke free. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, the unexpected softness of the gesture silencing him instantly. His breath caught, and he went perfectly still, his eyes widening as though unsure whether to retreat or lean into her touch.
“I have no intention of marrying you, Mr. Darcy,” she said softly, her thumb grazing along the faint line of stubble that shadowed his jaw. “You are stuffy and stubborn and opinionated—and not at all my type of man.”
Darcy let out a breath, though whether from relief or disappointment, Elizabeth could not say. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, though his eyes never left hers.
“But,” she continued, her smile growing, “you are also rather sweet. And I would not mind dancing with you again.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her, as though his mind was struggling to reconcile her words with the warmth of her touch. Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—the corners of his mouth lifted into a smile, small and hesitant, and almost boyish, but genuine.
“You will have the opportunity,” he said, his voice low and roughened by the tangle of emotions still tightening his throat. “We will be expected to dance again tomorrow evening, at Lord and Lady Matlock’s ball.”
Elizabeth laughed and stepped back just enough to study him. “I already have the invitation… and a new gown that mysteriously appeared in my room this morning. ”
His smile deepened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Silver, I believe? With hints of lavender when the light strikes it just so?”
She pursed her lips and tilted her head. “And how would you know that, sir?”
“Call it a hunch. I look forward to seeing you wearing it.”
As Darcy bowed and took his leave, Elizabeth found herself wondering just how much longer they could pretend this was all for appearances’ sake.
Because with every passing day, it felt less and less like a charade.