Chapter 2 #5
“Oh, the usual, my dear,” she said sweetly. “Another new family trying to overreach. It is better to keep the story simple, and I am sure Miss Bingley’s reputation precedes her.”
He nodded, still disappointed that Bingley was so much like his sisters. “Thank you.” He hesitated, thinking about his own. “I do not suppose Georgiana would welcome a visit . . .”
Aunt Matlock shook her head. “Leave her be until Christmas, my dear, as you originally planned. I will tell your sister that you asked after her.”
Darcy grimaced. “Very well. If she should desire to see me before then, send a note and I shall attend her promptly.”
“William,” his aunt said firmly, “she is regaining her confidence. Allow her the time she needs to face you.”
He schooled his features and acquiesced. As he stood and turned to the door, Fitz followed. “Where are you going?” Darcy asked.
“With you,” his cousin answered glibly.
“I have not invited you to join me,” Darcy pointed out. What he wanted was to be alone to mourn the loss of his sister’s good opinion and the barriers to earning Miss Elizabeth’s.
“Was Angelo’s not an invitation then?” Fitz inquired drolly. “Is your cook serving dinner tonight or will we dine at the club after our match?”
“You know I have hardly slept, and you are trying to gain an advantage. It will not work,” Darcy responded.
Fitz slapped him on the back. Hard. “I require no advantage to best you at swords,” he growled.
Darcy grinned. It was not often he was able to successfully goad Fitz—most often it was the reverse. “Swords, perhaps, but not foils. Fencing takes more than strength and endurance, cousin; it requires a quick mind and an elegance of movement.”
“Yes, that sounds like you,” Fitz replied. “You are so light on your feet. We all know how much you enjoy the dance.”
Darcy knew the match was being observed. He even heard, distantly, the other men chattering like gossiping dowagers. But when it came to fencing and shooting, he was always focused. Fitz was his most difficult opponent, shrewd and experienced, and today they were almost evenly paired.
Darcy’s boast was true—between himself and his cousin, he knew he was the better fencer.
He also knew that he held the advantage only because fencing was a sport.
Had he ever met Fitz on a battlefield where there were no rules, their positions would be reversed.
Darcy had a great deal of respect for his cousin, and he always learned something new when they crossed blades.
Today was no different. Fitz had made an alteration to a carte he had always favored, nearly winning a point with it; fortunately, Darcy had registered the move with a second to spare and stepped lightly to the right.
The tip of the weapon slid past, upsetting his cousin’s balance slightly, and Darcy took advantage. Fitz’s eyes narrowed as he acknowledged the hit.
Darcy’s mind wandered just a bit as they moved back to their positions. Why had Bingley not returned to London? Had he stayed to damage Miss Elizabeth’s reputation before he abandoned her sister? He shook his head to clear it and faced Fitz.
They traded feints and parries for a time before Fitz performed a perfect thrust, turning his wrist, raising it above his head, and striking with speed.
Darcy turned again at the final moment, but the hit, while not direct, was strong enough that he acknowledged it.
Fitz’s expression was smug and satisfied.
Darcy recalled the way Elizabeth had stood toe to toe with him, her little chin lifted bravely, using her words as he used his blade. The way her eyes had flashed with righteous anger. The confusion that had marred her features when he explained about Wickham.
Damn it, he had to stop thinking of her.
He and his cousin moved to their original positions and began again.
“I have you this time, Little Fitzy,” Fitz jibed as he moved swiftly to his right.
The detested nickname had gotten Darcy’s back up as a young man; today he knew his own worth.
Fitz would always be tougher. He had attended The Royal Military College and was a decorated colonel.
Still, Darcy was no soft boy. He had survived many trials since their boyhoods, including being treated by nearly all he knew as nothing more than a bank expected to offer loans on very easy terms. Even Georgiana had expected him to sign over her fortune to that blackguard with nary a protest.
Well, his sister’s situation was not precisely the same—but it still hurt. He lifted his foil in salute.
At university, Darcy had done everything to distinguish himself from Wickham.
He had learned to box, refined his fencing, devoted himself to his studies.
It had given him an outlet for his energies—he refused to behave like Wickham, running up debts and visiting brothels.
Later, after his father passed, it was a way to release his grief and anger.
He was angry at his false friends, angry at a society that cared little for his happiness and everything for his purse.
Mostly, he was angry that his parents had passed so early, leaving the responsibilities of their lives for him to complete.
He advanced, his anger hardening into steel.
Fitz retreated, and Miss Elizabeth’s face again appeared in Darcy’s vision. She had not wanted anything from him but the truth. He chased the specter away.
During that split second of hesitation, Fitz moved his blade to his left hand.
A left-handed fencer had an advantage when fighting against a right-handed man, and Fitz clearly meant to throw Darcy’s concentration off by changing in the middle of the challenge.
It was an unfair tactic, but Darcy merely lifted one brow and switched his own blade from right to left, erasing the benefit of Fitz’s gambit.
The noise of the crowd increased and at last intruded upon his notice, but Darcy was not distracted.
Fitz’s eyes widened before he barked out a laugh and switched back to his right hand.
Darcy mirrored the movement. He had been practicing assiduously during Fitz’s time on the continent, but his left hand was still a touch weaker. Not that he would ever admit it.
Fitz advanced, then Darcy, as they circled the floor. Finally, Darcy attacked, Fitz parried, and Darcy answered. As the tip of his weapon touched his cousin’s breast, the voices of the gathered men burst into loud calls and scattered applause.
“Brilliant riposte,” he heard Dudley say, and “I thought the colonel had him this time,” from another man, one Darcy did not know. Money was exchanging hands, but Darcy ignored it all and bowed to his cousin.
Fitz returned the bow, his expression a mix of admiration, frustration, and pleasure in the exercise. “I will best you one day,” he grumbled.
Darcy laughed. “I do not doubt it, cousin,” he said. “But not today.”
Fitz wandered off to accept his share of the congratulations for a match well-fought and the ribbing that must accompany his loss.
Darcy suspected that any felicitations he received himself would be influenced by how many pounds had been made or lost on his victory.
Still, he received both the thanks and the friendly oaths graciously. He could do no less.
“Bravo, Darcy!” shouted Webb. Darcy’s lip curled.
Webb had been a friend at university. When Darcy had finally emerged from mourning his father, Webb had been all sympathy and kind advice, but traded on their friendship to lay wagers in Darcy’s name.
As if this were not insult enough, Webb had fully expected him to absorb the losses.
Rather substantial ones. When he had warned the man to stop, Webb had agreed, but the friendship was permanently fractured.
Webb was far less affected by that than Darcy had been.
“See now, Darcy?” Webb asked pleasantly. “I have yet to run myself aground. You ought to take more after your cousin the viscount.”
Darcy forced his features into indifference. How dare the man throw the viscount in his face? Henry was a reckless fop. He asked politely but directly, “Why do you not lay a wager on yourself and step to the floor with me?”
Webb laughed. “There would be no odds on that match,” he replied, and turned away.
Darcy scowled. Though he had made no sound, Fitz’s eyes were upon him.
“Now you must feed me,” his cousin announced, and the men around them laughed.
“I believe I was the victor,” Darcy replied sardonically. “Should you not be feeding me?”
“You do not wish to eat what I can afford,” Fitz responded blithely.
Darcy shook his head. “It is hours before dinner, Fitz, but let us go back to the house and try our luck.”
At home, Darcy was informed that his carriage had arrived from Hertfordshire while he was out, and that his presence had been requested. Darcy thought it strange but said nothing, instead leaving Fitz to refresh himself while he walked out to the mews to speak with his valet.
“Mr. Darcy,” Slipworth greeted him, as several of the footmen carried Darcy’s trunks into the house. “I had to wait a time at Longbourn, as the housekeeper was not in and the family was still abed, but eventually I was able to leave your message with a manservant.”
Darcy nodded. Mr. Bennet ought to have his longer letter by now as well. “And the Bingleys?”
Slipworth shook his head. “They did not approach me, sir. The servants did say Mr. Bingley spoke with Miss Jane Bennet at length before the family left Netherfield. The Bennet carriage was the last to be called.”
Darcy had no doubt of that, nor how it had happened. Mrs. Bennet was not subtle. It was interesting that Bingley had approached Miss Bennet even after Miss Elizabeth had witnessed the scene in the library. Perhaps he hoped to convince Miss Bennet that her sister was mistaken.
He wondered why Slipworth had not simply spoken to him in his chambers—there was nothing urgent in his explanation—but the man did have a few oddities. He was about to thank his valet and return indoors when his coachman cleared his throat rather loudly.
“Anders,” Darcy called. “Are you well?” The coachman was sitting atop the large trunk that served as the boot at the back of the carriage.
Anders opened his mouth, but closed it again, and Darcy was alarmed by the sickened expression on the man’s face. He left Slipworth and strode over to Anders, who scrambled to his feet.
“Are you ill?” Darcy asked directly.
“No, sir,” Anders replied, stiffening a bit at Darcy’s brusqueness. He glanced back at the trunk. “It is only . . .”
Darcy waited while Anders paused and swallowed. His impatience must have shown, because Anders glanced around and said, quietly, “It is only that some of the tools in the boot require repair, sir. I think we ought to take the entire box inside so I can work on ‘em tonight.”
“The tools,” Darcy repeated, staring at the man.
“Yes, sir,” Anders said stoutly.
Had the man been drinking? He stepped a bit closer and sniffed but did not detect the odor of any spirits. He was relieved. Anders was the best coachman Darcy had, one of the best in all of London, he believed; he should hate to have to send him away.
“Slipworth,” Darcy called, and the valet appeared at his elbow. “Help Anders carry that trunk inside. He will show you where it is to go.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Darcy,” Anders replied, swallowing anxiously, “I think you will want to see them.”
He returned his attention to the coachman. “The tools,” Darcy repeated. He simply wanted to be certain.
Anders nodded, his demeanor grave.
“Why would . . .” Slipworth began to say, but Darcy cut him off.
“I will meet you . . .” He paused to allow Anders to finish the statement.
Anders did. “In the old sewing room, sir.”
Slipworth’s cheeks flushed. It was beneath his position to be hauling trunks, but Darcy gave him a stern look, and the valet reached for one of the leather loops. Darcy walked ahead of the pair, keeping a watch for any others on his staff.
Darcy entered the sewing room, a small room down the servants’ corridor from the kitchen.
It was used for storage now. When Mrs. Spencer, the housekeeper, had mentioned in her clipped, stern way, how dark this room was, he had given her leave to fit up a larger, airier room with better light on the other side of the house.
No one would think twice about Anders taking a trunk there, though they might wonder why the master accompanied it.
Slipworth and Anders came in behind him, struggling with the trunk between them.
Darcy closed the door and rested against it.
“What is it we have hauled in here?” Slipworth asked imperiously, addressing Anders. “It feels as if you had filled the entire thing with earth.”
There was a quick knock. “Darcy?” It was Fitz, speaking just above a whisper. “What the blazes are you doing in there?”
Darcy sighed. Fitz was impossible to mislead. Whatever this was, it would be unwise to keep his cousin out of it. He opened the door just wide enough to pull his cousin inside and shut the door again.
“I was trying to procure something to eat, but your cook defends her borders better than the French,” Fitz said, eyeing the trunk. “I thought I heard you in the back hall. What is all the mystery?”
“We were about to be enlightened,” Darcy replied, and nodded at Anders, who silently assessed Darcy and then the other two men.
“Come, Anders, let us see what you have hidden away,” Darcy said, a little impatiently.
“Oh, it was not me, sir,” Anders insisted, growing paler than he had been outside, no small feat for a man whose complexion was so dark. “Not me.”
Darcy frowned and exchanged a troubled glance with Fitz. His cousin motioned with a tip of his head to the valet and raised an eyebrow.
He knew that Fitz was asking whether the man was reliable.
Though Slipworth was rather pompous and had his oddities, he was loyal and entirely discreet.
Whatever Anders had to show them, none of the men in this room would reveal it.
Darcy gave his cousin a single nod, then turned his attention to Anders.
The man threw back the boot’s lid, the buckles on the straps hitting the wood floor with a muted thud.
Darcy stepped forward and peered into the box. The room was rather dark even in the middle of the day. He could make out a mound of brown wool and a mop of chestnut curls. His heart nearly stopped in his chest.
It was a woman.
From behind him, Fitz released a long hiss. Darcy crouched beside the trunk to brush the hair from the woman’s face. For a long moment, he could not breathe. He rocked back on his heels and grabbed at the edge of the trunk to steady himself.
Inside, curled up and unmoving, was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.