Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“ Y ou made it clear you would not pay the money demanded in the last note? May I enquire what happened?” Mr Andrews regarded Darcy from his seat in Darcy’s study.
“I sent one of my men to the assignation point. A large man attempted to rob him— presumably to take the expected money. Fortunately, my man Mr Easton was well-prepared for a fight and subdued the villain. He delivered a letter, explaining that I would not pay the sum demanded. Instead, I offered one hundred pounds in exchange for information regarding the source of the blackmail, as you and I had discussed. I received word that my offer has been accepted.” Reaching inside his coat, Darcy pulled out a letter and placed it in Mr Andrews’s hands. It contained no reference to Georgiana, merely a time and place for the transaction.
The solicitor read the note before returning it to Darcy. “Send two men next time. Whoever collects the money will be better prepared.”
“I sent two men to deliver this first note,” Darcy said. “One to carry it and another to follow whoever was sent to receive it. The man made his way to a property on Denzell Street, near Covent Garden. This is the address.” Darcy extracted another piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Mr Andrews, who said he would make enquiries about the house’s residents. “Make haste. I have gambled that one hundred pounds will delay the actions of whoever is involved in this plot, but…”
“We must find a way to end the threat once and for all,” Mr Andrews said. The chair creaked as he rose to bid Darcy adieu. “I shall send word as soon as I have learnt anything.”
Alone in his study, Darcy’s mind raced with worry as he imagined having to tell Georgiana that news of her foolish indiscretion in Ramsgate had spread like a disease throughout London. Wickham was presently in Brighton and, by all accounts, causing trouble amongst the virtuous and not-so-virtuous women there. Could the reprobate be organising the plot from afar? A troubling doubt had begun to take seed in Darcy’s mind, telling him that someone other than Wickham was behind this. But if it were not him or Mrs Younge, who might it be? No one apart from himself and Fitzwilliam knew of the affair. Darcy recalled Fitzwilliam’s face when he told him the dreadful news of Georgiana’s near-elopement. It had been difficult to convince his cousin not to call out Wickham. Darcy had only just succeeded in persuading Fitzwilliam that to do so would inevitably lead to speculation and could expose his sister’s misdeeds.
And I could not bear to lose another family member to a duel.
Fitzwilliam would not have told anyone of Georgiana’s shame. Darcy could not understand where the threat came from. Mistrust and isolation were terrible bedfellows, and they plagued him constantly, robbing him of sleep.
He stood from his chair and moved restlessly about the room. Suddenly, he longed for an embrace—a soft secure hug from his mother reassuring him that all would be well and that he had chosen the best path of action—and yet he felt ridiculous for desiring it. Tears stung his eyes as he recalled all that he had lost. His mother and father…and Dominic. Darcy would not have shared his worries with his young cousin, but Dominic would have helped to distract him from his cares. He had always had a book he wished to discuss, or a piece of art, or a play.
I would have found myself drawn into a ridiculous debate where the only aim was the conversation itself, not to change our opinions. He pictured Dominic sitting across the room from him, his unruly golden hair swept from his eyes, enthusiastically effusing over a poem. A lump formed in Darcy’s throat; he tried to swallow it away, but his mouth was dry. You must conquer this feeling if you are to be of any use! Flinging himself back onto his chair, he drummed his fingers against the dark, smooth walnut and thought of Elizabeth. Every time he did, the writhing anxiety in his stomach disappeared. Her company was soothing as nothing else could be; she was amusing, articulate, and quick-witted. And so extraordinarily lovely. He had not meant to kiss her hand, but it had been in his, and he had been overcome with the desire to show some mark of his admiration.
S he does not regard me with affection, he thought dully. How many times had he told himself that it was only his pride that had been wounded by her rejection but, if that were the case, why did his heart ache so?
The Theatre Royal was crowded, and Darcy hoped Elizabeth would not mind the crush. He had arrived alone, and slowly made his way to the saloon that led to the private boxes to await Elizabeth and the Fulfords. He sensed curious eyes on him and heard mutterings of ‘Miss B’ and the Morning Gazette . Why had he suggested coming to the theatre? His invitation had been a rash, spur-of-the-moment decision. He should have waited and discreetly introduced Elizabeth to a few well-placed matriarchs of the ton , which would have allowed her to gradually earn their favour. Instead, Elizabeth will be as much a spectacle as the performance on stage. Chastising himself for his stupidity, he hoped that the evening would not be too much of a trial for her. He would do his best to protect her and show the world there was nothing irregular about their connexion.
He went to a window and watched the street. Carriages slowly made their way past the entrance, and he attempted to discern the Fulfords’. Just then, he recalled Elizabeth’s implication that not all was well with his cousin and her husband. Inexcusably, he had not enquired further.
A strange hush swept across the room, and he turned. Elizabeth stood in the doorway, looking like an angel who had escaped Heaven and made her way to Earth. She was wearing an elegant gown of fashionable white and had a red shawl draped over her arms. Her hair was pinned away from her neck, exposing her slender shoulders. A jewelled headpiece—one of Cecilia’s, he supposed—was woven through her hair, its sparkling jewels little competition for the bright glow of emotion in her beautiful eyes. How could I have said she was merely tolerable ? Darcy felt a surge of desire, protectiveness, and possessiveness. She was the handsomest woman in the room, and he doubted she was aware of it. Her expression was resolute but polite, and he saw her gaze sweep across the room, tactfully overlooking those who were gaping at her, until she saw him. Her face lit up and instantly everything was right in his world, if only for the next few hours. He went to her and offered her his arm, which she readily accepted.
“You look radiant,” he leant closer to her, murmuring in her ear.
Elizabeth smiled shyly before answering. “I believe it polite to wish someone good evening when you first greet them, but as you are being so generous with your praise, I shall forgive you.”
He laughed. “It is not generosity. It is the truth.” Glancing at the Fulfords, who stood behind her, he noticed that they were not even looking at each other, and his cousin seemed uneasy. Elizabeth’s body stiffened.
“Has something happened?” he asked quietly. “Has someone upset you?”
“Now is not the time or place to discuss it. Rest assured, I am well.” She spoke so that no one could hear but him.
Darcy wished he could take her somewhere private so that they might speak freely.
She continued. “Is there anyone here you wish to introduce me to?”
He did not know whether she was thinking of his friends and acquaintances or their plan to find her a different man to marry.
She must have seen his confusion; with a hint of mischief, she added, “Or should I say is there anyone I ought to avoid? I would not want to be accosted by another of your relations and accused of stealing you away from some other faithful maiden.”
“There is no one else.” Darcy’s words were far more abrupt than he intended. “No other women, I mean.”
“Then I am safe—for the moment!” Elizabeth gave him an arch smile.
Fulford loudly demanded that a bottle of the finest red wine be brought to him, drawing Darcy’s attention. The man was unquestionably in his cups. He hated knowing that Elizabeth and his cousin had shared a carriage with him. Elizabeth’s present discomfort told him more than words ever could. He had only met Cecilia’s husband once before, shortly before the couple’s wedding. Darcy had been led to believe that Lord Fulford had been a reckless man in his youth but had changed his ways after his father’s death. It was then he had decided to find a respectable wife to bear an heir to the family’s estate.
Overlooking Lord Fulford, Darcy turned to Elizabeth. “There are several people you should meet. Allow me the honour of introducing you to them, if only for the pleasure of accompanying the most beautiful woman in the room.”
She gave a shy laugh and playfully swatted his arm. “How could I refuse such a request!” She smiled broadly at him, “Indeed I am pleased for your company, and happy to see you looking better.”
“I always find myself much improved by your presence.”
A pink stain coloured her cheeks. “Your ability to pay a compliment has also improved.” She leant towards him, her eyes shining with promise. “I look forward to the rest of the evening.”
It had been impossible for Elizabeth not to disclose the viscount’s call to Lady Fulford. When Elizabeth had repeated her brother’s message that Mrs Wilder would be in attendance, she had simply nodded, a grim set to her jaw, and no more was said about the matter.
Lord Fulford kept to himself for most of the afternoon; judging by the pungent smell on his breath when he appeared for their departure, it was clear he had spent his time drinking. He stumbled down the steps, falling into an innocent footman whose clumsiness he loudly cursed. In the carriage, he made critical comments on everything about his wife’s appearance—her hair was wrong, her dress a fright. Lady Fulford countered with a jibe about his drinking, saying that if he spent less money at the establishments of Covent Garden, she might have more to spend on herself. Elizabeth remained quiet, not wishing to become embroiled in their argument. Drawing the delicate, cherry-red shawl Lady Fulford had lent her about her shoulders, she trained her gaze steadfastly out the carriage window, an action that Fulford took umbrage at.
“So quiet this evening, pretty Miss Bennet! Where is your tongue?” he asked, and when he did not receive a sufficient reply, he tutted loudly and turned his attention to his wife, demanding to know who else would be at the theatre. The carriage bumped and jostled over the road, taking what felt like an eternity, leaving Elizabeth with a suffocating feeling, like a bird trapped in a cage.
Entering the saloon and seeing Darcy with his back to the room, standing so tall and rigid, a familiar sense of relief washed over Elizabeth. He turned to look at her, and for a moment it seemed as though there was no one else in the room. He came to her and in an instant all the unpleasantness of her carriage ride with Lord Fulford was forgotten. How handsome he looked in his black tailcoat and stark white cravat, his manners attentive, civil, and pleasant. Over the next while, he introduced her to so many people that she felt giddy, and she was glad when Lord and Lady Matlock arrived, and they could at last go to their seats.
You might never sit in a theatre box again, she told herself. Nor be seated next to an earl and a countess. Savour the experience.
Elizabeth beheld the stage with wonder; the noise and energy about her was invigorating. Lord and Lady Matlock sat behind Darcy and Elizabeth, with Lord and Lady Fulford in the final row. Colonel Fitzwilliam was unable to attend, and there was an empty chair where Viscount Thorpe was meant to be. The viscount's whereabouts were unknown; no note of apology or excuse had been given to explain his absence, which was apparently not unusual. Elizabeth was glad he was not there after how brazenly his eyes had travelled across her. It was enough that she had to tolerate Lord Fulford’s company.
Several times, Darcy leant towards her and murmured information about the performers or asked if she was enjoying herself, which she assured him she was.
“The theatre in London is unlike anything I have ever experienced,” she said during the intermission. “There is a kind of magic, watching a story unfold before your eyes. Do you often come?”
“Not as often as I should. I used to attend a variety of shows with my cousin Dominic. He adored anything creative.” There was a wistful expression in his eyes. “I have not been to the theatre or an art gallery since his death some two years ago. I told myself I did not have the time, yet I understand now that grief kept me away.”
Elizabeth nodded in sympathy. “Thank you again for the invitation. I had no idea it would force you to revisit your loss.”
“I fear forgetting him more than I fear the pain of reliving old memories.”
“Where else did you go with him?”
“He dragged me everywhere.” Darcy’s eyes lit up in recollection. “I suspect he knew I only went to humour him, and he would find the most outlandish performances and outré exhibitions. He was shy and did not have many friends, so I always agreed to accompany him.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched in amusement at the image he created. “Dare I ask what he made you see?”
“He once forced me to attend the pantomime. Watching Grimaldi the clown sing ‘Tippteywitchet’ is an event I should dearly like to forget.”
She laughed. “Forgive me. I feel awful laughing, especially when you are speaking of your cousin, but I refuse to believe you sat through a pantomime.”
“Unfortunately, I did.” Darcy gave her a brief grin. “The impudent whelp knew I hated every minute of it. He bought me a ghastly print of that grotesque clown for my birthday. I think he did it to test my forbearance.”
Elizabeth laughed again, and two exquisitely bejewelled women in the adjacent box who had been watching them scowled disapprovingly. She smiled apologetically before asking Darcy, “Do you think there will be a time when people do not stare at me?”
“People will always look at you because you are beaut—” He cleared his throat. “I have often found that the theatre is a place where people come to take note of one another, not simply what is on stage. You must pay them no heed.”
The play resumed, and he turned to watch the stage. Elizabeth felt as though she had spoken out of turn, although she could not explain why. She noticed one of the women from the next box pointing at her and speaking to her companions, and other people began to gaze at Elizabeth. Perhaps it was her annoyance that the moment of camaraderie she had shared with Darcy had ended, or maybe it was because their stares reminded her of why she was here in the first place, but a sudden boldness took hold of her.
“Take my hand,” she whispered to Darcy. He looked at her in shock, and she added, “If they wish to gossip, then we should give them something to talk about.”
She placed her gloved hand on the edge of the box, and without hesitation, he placed his large one on hers. A shock, a frisson of energy rippled through her. Heart racing, she looked into the theatre, their show of unity causing a flurry of whispers amongst those close enough to see. Elizabeth ignored the sound, instead relishing the comforting weight of his hand and the fire it sent through her body. He had such an effect on her, one no other man ever had. The singer on stage began a melody, haunting and low, reminding her of Jane’s singing. What has my life become? It was as though she were caught in a spell, belonging neither to this new existence nor to her old one. Suddenly, she was overcome with apprehension as she contemplated what else the Fates might have in store for her. Darcy must have noticed her unease; he gently turned her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers, and slowly she began to calm.
A loud crack behind them broke the moment, and they turned to see its source. Lord Fulford was on the ground next to his splintered chair. Cheeks red, his wife attempted to help him stand.
“Get away from me,” he hissed, viciously hitting her hand away.
Darcy’s face darkened and, with an apology to Elizabeth, he went to Lord Fulford, who was angrily demanding more wine. With a single easy motion, Darcy hauled the man to his feet. Despite Lady Fulford’s head being lowered, Elizabeth saw a tear drip onto her wrist.
Still gripping Lord Fulford’s upper arms, Darcy pushed him out of the box. Elizabeth heard the muffled cries of anger in the corridor. Her heart quickened, fearful that Darcy would come to harm.
“I do hope Darcy is not too rough,” Lady Matlock said, her expression unconcerned. “Young men do not always know their strength.”
Lord Matlock huffed. “I shall speak to Fulford in the morning. His behaviour tonight is unacceptable.” Indicating Elizabeth, he continued. “Miss Bennet has suffered enough shameless exhibitions from our family.” He gave his daughter a sympathetic smile before returning his attention to the stage.
Astounded by the earl and countess’s indifferent response, Elizabeth went to Lady Fulford, taking her by her arm and leading her to a quiet corner at the back of Darcy’s box. It was the most privacy they could have at present.
“Do you wish to return home?” she asked her friend.
“Not particularly. I hope Darcy knocks some sense into him, or sufficiently angers my husband so that he stays away all night,” Lady Fulford muttered.
“I urge you to confide in your family about him and your unhappiness.” Elizabeth placed a comforting hand on Lady Fulford’s shoulder and looked towards the door that led to the saloon, silently praying that all was well with Darcy. “Your cousin would help you, and what of your brothers?”
“My brothers?” Lady Fulford’s eyes glinted with anger. “What would Fitzwilliam do from his barracks? It suits him well to be absent. And as for Thorpe, it was his idea that I marry Fulford. They have long been acquainted. No doubt they met in the back streets of Covent Garden. That dreadful Wilder woman connects them, I believe. Indeed, I am told she is particularly familiar with many men of wealth and consequence.” She drew a shaking breath, and her voice was bitter when she continued. “In the end, I had no choice. Thorpe arranged it all. I protested, but my mother insisted I accept. I was too old and too outspoken for anyone else. Fulford inherited everything upon his brother’s death last summer, and my parents believed the match was better than anything I could hope for.”
“Mr Darcy would wish to know.”
“For what purpose? He is my cousin and has no say in my affai—” A movement in the box across from them caught her eye.
Elizabeth followed the direction of her gaze. “What is it?”
“Speak of the devil, and she doth appear,” Lady Fulford gestured towards a lithe, dark-haired woman who was taking her seat.
“That is Mrs Wilder?” Elizabeth leant forward to gain a better view of the woman. “Who is that with her?”
Lady Fulford sighed heavily. “My brother. Thorpe.”