Chapter Eighteen #4
The viscount sighed. It was all becoming tedious.
He had been kept quite busy with the American war being added to the one against the French, but it was always the same thing.
Quiet messages being passed, a word in the ear of the right man, playing the fop at the gambling tables to pick up the warnings issued by highly placed men in their cups.
He enjoyed his work but hoped he would be sent out of London soon.
A short visit to his brother Richard’s estate to see his new nephew would not go amiss.
Even a trip to Pemberley would be welcomed.
Darcy had married a very pretty, very clever woman and through her influence, become reasonably sociable.
Richard was not missing the army—his life was more active than it had ever been.
The first year of his marriage, he had written how he depended on the frame-breaking croppers to make any profit on the wool he sold—without their work to smooth woolen fabrics for use, there was little market for it.
He had therefore engaged himself in wage negotiations on their behalf with the mill owners, in addition to learning how to grow crops—the poor harvest had not done him in, but it was not encouraging.
However, a year on, he and his family seemed to be thriving.
The workers and the mill owners credited him with helping avoid the violence engulfing other parts of Yorkshire, and his crops seemed to be growing better this year than last.
Richard had always enjoyed a challenge.
So did the viscount, and yet currently there was little to be found.
He sipped the last of his wine from a glass with a twisted stem, his expert gaze sweeping over the dancers who had just reached the point in the steps where they were all moving at once.
It was a crush, again. The air was hot and stale, again.
A footman stopped to take his empty glass and provide him with a full one. The new glass had a small note folded tightly and shoved beneath the base. With a practiced flip of his wrist, it was secreted in his sleeve before the man moved away to serve the other guests.
His duty complete, the viscount took another sip of wine before setting the glass aside. He stepped forward into the light before strolling languidly in the opposite direction of the footman. As he reached the doorway leading into the hall, however, a rough laugh stilled his step.
The owner of that laugh had been sent abroad a year past when he had embarrassed his father one too many times. He ought to be away still.
“Henry Fitzwilliam!” cried an older man with liberal streaks of gray in his red beard. Henry smiled. It was Lewis Dixon.
Dixon gave Henry a sharp bow. “How good it is to see you!”
“You as well, Dixon.” Dixon’s cousin had two daughters who had been instrumental in unraveling a plot against Darcy in the autumn of ’11. Henry had not seen Lewis Dixon since.
Dixon leaned in to say, “As you can see, Lord Bartholomew has returned from the continent. He has convinced his father that he has reformed.”
“Indeed,” Henry drawled, cautiously turning towards Lord Bartholomew. The rogue’s skin was tanner and his belly a little softer than it had been a year past. “And has he?”
Dixon snorted. “He has not.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully as Dixon slapped him on the arm and returned to the festivities. Town had suddenly become more interesting.
Want to read “A Gentleman’s Justice” in its entirety? Get your copy here:
For all Melanie Rachel Bonus Content:
Or scan the QR code:
An Unexpected Inheritance
A Pride and Prejudice Vagary (excerpt)
August 1811
“Is this it?” Darcy asked, pulling up to study a narrow path heading away from the little market town of Meryton.
“It astonishes me,” replied Fitzwilliam, “that you never once lost your way in Spain or Portugal but cannot seem to navigate good English roads.”
“Yes,” Darcy said drily, “there is nothing like being shot at to sharpen one’s directional senses.”
Fitzwilliam ignored him. “The blacksmith said that there were two paths. Netherfield to the east, Longbourn to the west. This must be it.”
“Very well,” Darcy replied, still rather dubious.
He gazed through the trees at an opening wide enough for two horses to ride abreast. He guided his mount along the path, and they rode silently for a time.
Not far along, the path opened onto a proper road, and Darcy shot Fitzwilliam a dirty look. “We turned off too soon.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “As long as we arrive in good time, does it matter?”
Darcy plucked a twig from his hat and let it fall to the ground. “It does not matter to you. You are short enough to ride through an entire forest untouched.”
“That you are the size of a giant is not my fault.”
Fitzwilliam was short only in comparison to him, and Darcy knew it. Fitzwilliam might be the elder, but Darcy was the taller by four inches, a constant source of irritation for his cousin.
They meandered through the village that surrounded the estate and up through the gates to the manor, where they handed off their horses to a groom. An older gentleman was waiting for them in the portico.
“Welcome to Longbourn, Colonel, Lieutenant Colonel,” he said.
“Lieutenant General Bennet, sir,” Darcy said by way of greeting. Fitzwilliam snapped off a salute, and Darcy looked at him askance.
Bennet returned the salute with less sharpness and a good deal of humour.
“Now that we have the ranks out of the way,” Lieutenant General Bennet remarked, his eyes twinkling, “call me Bennet. I am no longer in command of thousands of soldiers but a dozen or so stubbornly independent farmers of barley and corn.”
“It suits you, sir,” Darcy replied.
“And you are hoping it will suit you?” Bennet responded with a smile. “Come in, boys, come in.” He slapped each of them once on the back before he led them into the house.
The general appeared healthier than he had after being wounded and suffering through the infection that followed.
He was stouter, and all traces of the limp that had finally persuaded the man to relinquish his command appeared to have vanished.
He walked them back to his study, a decent-sized room lined with bookshelves that fairly groaned with the weight of the tomes they held.
Darcy smiled. “A pleasant room, Bennet.”
Bennet laughed, as did Fitzwilliam. “I think you might be content all your life if you could but spend it with your nose in a book,” Fitzwilliam said.
They had returned to Hatchards more than once before removing from town.
“I have a taste for books myself,” Bennet replied, “but on an estate, there is always more to be done. I am pleased you arrived for the harvest. There is much to learn in observing it.” He lifted a decanter in question, and they both nodded.
“This inheritance was something of a surprise, your letter said?”
“I do not believe I have ever seen anyone more shocked. It was a full quarter of an hour before I could persuade him to speak of it,” Fitzwilliam said.
Darcy’s face grew hot. It had not been a quarter of an hour, but his inability to speak had certainly made Fitzwilliam anxious.
“I have inherited Pemberley, the family’s country estate,” Darcy confirmed. “And a townhouse in London.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “We toured the townhouse with the solicitor. Very fine.”
“There are a number of repairs to be made, however,” Darcy added. “My great-uncle had remained in the country for his health the past few years. The work should be largely completed by the time we return near Christmas.”
“When you wrote, I sent out some inquiries about Pemberley.” Bennet motioned for them to sit and handed them each a glass of port.
“Nearly three times the size of Longbourn, and I expect four or five times the income. You shall have your work cut out for you. But then, I presume that is why you have brought your cousin home?”
Darcy nodded. “One of many reasons. I could not do it without him.” He accepted a glass from Bennet.
“He could, as he is well aware,” Fitzwilliam mumbled, embarrassed. “He is the clever one with books and accounts. I am here because he needs me to talk to women on his behalf.”
Darcy sighed and addressed Bennet. “Obviously, I regret my decision already.”
Fitzwilliam grinned, clearly pleased to have irritated him at last.
Darcy was tall, physically strong, and an excellent man on the field of battle.
Fitzwilliam had often told him so, usually begrudgingly.
The problem was that it was the fashion to be slender, and his size intimidated women.
A gentleman did not wish to appear as though he had to labour for his livelihood.
It was all nonsense, but the women of his aunt Matlock’s acquaintance were not used to men who looked like him.
He tried to be gentle, but his manners were those of a soldier.
Along with everything else, that would have to change now, he supposed.
He might not wish to dance in London, but he would be in company with women nonetheless. Beginning with the general’s daughters.
Bennet was watching him quietly, but Darcy was fully aware that the man’s mind was always active.
“Perhaps you ought to practice with my girls,” he remarked. “They are used to the manners of men like us and not easily frightened.” Bennet’s slow smile made Darcy uneasy. “As a gentleman, you know, you shall have to learn to dance.”
How had the man guessed precisely what he was thinking? “I know how to dance,” he said uneasily.
Fitzwilliam burst out laughing. “Is that what you call it?”
“I had a master in to teach the girls, and they are each of them beautiful dancers now. I wish Fanny could see them.” He gestured at the room.
“She would have loved being the mistress of an estate. Clucking over her chicks, dressing them in fine clothes.” He cleared his throat and produced a handkerchief to swipe at his eyes.
The two younger men were silent out of respect for Bennet’s departed wife.
Darcy had thought Mrs. Bennet a bit flighty and at times a little crass, but he could hardly blame her, given that she lived all her married life among soldiers.
More to the point, she had a good heart.
She had treated the men under her husband’s command as sons and brothers, nursing them when they were ill or injured.
She set a bountiful table for the officers and had likely sent more food out for the enlisted men.
With her three eldest daughters trailing behind, she had delivered baskets of food to the needy.
The general’s wife had always been busy.
It was on one of her missions of mercy that she had contracted influenza and died shortly after the general’s own recovery.
The mourning had been difficult for them all. Mrs. Bennet had been universally beloved.
“Elizabeth would be a suitable partner for you, Darcy,” Bennet said abruptly, shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket.
“Her feet are as quick as her tongue, and she will not be cowed by you.” Bennet lifted one craggy eyebrow at Fitzwilliam.
“And neither Jane nor Elizabeth will put up with any of your foolish games.”
“Games?” Fitzwilliam cried, placing one hand over his heart. “My dear Bennet, I do not have the pleasure of understanding you.”
Bennet tipped his head slightly to one side. “Do you not?”
In all his life, Darcy had never seen his cousin blush. It was worth everything to witness it now.
The older man sighed. “Five daughters.” He shook his head ruefully. “Would that they had come out into a society where men still feared me.”
There was a soft knock. “Come,” Bennet called.
Darcy blinked as a young woman entered. Great God, she was stunning.
Eyes the colour of mahogany, dark curls touched with gold framing her face, a light and pleasing figure tall enough that he would not appear an ogre in comparison.
She was looking at her father and not at him, thank heavens.
It would be a disaster to be caught ogling the general’s .
. . Bennet’s daughter. He glanced away and spied Fitzwilliam wearing a lopsided grin.
Damnation. Fitzwilliam had noticed. He would never hear the end of it now.
“We shall join you in the drawing room, my dear,” Bennet said, rising from his chair. “Come, gentlemen,” he said as the woman curtseyed and left them. “It is time for you to meet my daughters.”