Chapter Nine The Royal Oats
The Prince Regent’s stables in Brighton were not stables. They were a Mughal palace constructed entirely for the benefit of horses.
Elizabeth Bennet stood beneath the breathtaking glass cupola. The golden morning light poured downward, illuminating the swept stone floors and the polished mahogany mangers. It was an architectural marvel dedicated to equine luxury.
“I had always assumed the phrase ‘living like a prince’ referred to actual royalty.” Elizabeth looked upward, her bonnet tilting dangerously backward.
“I see now it refers exclusively to their livestock. These animals have a significantly better view of the sky than I enjoy from my bedchamber at Mrs Forster’s. ”
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was pacing the length of the stable block. He did not appear to be enjoying the view. He was quivering with outrage.
“It is a travesty.” Richard gestured wildly to a remarkably smug grey gelding. The horse was calmly consuming oats from a trough that seemed to be carved from solid oak. “A military travesty.”
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her gloved hand. “The gelding seems quite content, Colonel.”
“Of course he is content! He resides in the Vatican Palace!” Richard stopped his pacing and glared at the horse.
The horse blinked slowly and continued chewing.
“My regiment spent the entirety of last winter quartered in a leaking barn in Portugal. We had three blankets between fifty men. We survived on boiled turnips and resentment. This creature lives in a palace.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth suggested mildly, “if you learned to trot with sufficient elegance, the Prince Regent might offer you a stall in the east wing.”
Richard turned his glare upon her. “I am perfectly capable of trotting elegantly, Miss Bennet. I simply refuse to do it for oats.”
A deep, familiar chuckle sounded from the shadow of a nearby archway.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stepped into the golden light, wearing a coat of green wool and an expression of deep amusement. He had clearly been observing his cousin’s descent into madness for several minutes.
“I have already spoken with the head groom, Richard.” Mr Darcy strolled to them. “I informed him that you may wish to join the cavalry as a mount, given your admiration for the superior accommodations.”
Richard crossed his arms over his chest. “You are a traitor to your own blood. If the French invade the southern coast, my regiment will make its final stand directly behind these mahogany mangers. We shall defend the royal oats to the death.”
Elizabeth laughed aloud. She turned to Mr Darcy, a witty retort rising to her lips regarding the tactical advantage of throwing hay at the enemy, but the laughter died on her lips.
Mr Darcy was not looking at the magnificent horses nor at his outraged cousin. He was looking directly at her.
The bustling stable faded entirely. The grooms, the stamping hooves, the chattering aristocrats parading through the aisles—all of it dissolved into background noise.
His gaze was intense, focused, and vulnerable. It was the exact expression he had worn in the dusty alcove of the Theatre Royal, right before he had raised his hand to touch her cheek, right before the Colonel had torn the curtain open with two glasses of lemonade in hand.
He had nearly confessed his feelings; the words had been forming on his lips.
Elizabeth understood, with an overwhelming surge of joy, that the proud Master of Pemberley still loved her. Despite her brutal rejection in Kent, the undeniable absurdity of her family, the ridiculous, covert seaside espionage they were conducting—he loved her.
She took a small, deliberate step closer to him.
“Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth lowered her voice. The banter vanished, replaced by a quiet, urgent sincerity. She wanted to bridge the distance between them, to address the unfinished moment in the alcove. “About last night. At the theatre—”
“Lizzy!”
The shrill voice echoed through the cavernous stable dome with the destructive power of a cannonball.
Mr Darcy stepped backward instantly. The softness vanished, the moment shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces.
She closed her eyes and remained perfectly still for three seconds. She mentally calculated the legal penalty for strangling a sibling within a royal stable. She decided it was likely severe.
She opened her eyes and turned to the sound.
Lydia stood near the entrance of the main courtyard. She was twirling her yellow parasol, squealing loudly over a small, yapping terrier belonging to one of the grooms.
“Lizzy! Come here this instant! You must look at this creature!” Lydia pointed her parasol at the dog. “Mr Wickham said it resembles a disgruntled elderly gentleman, and he is correct!”
At the mention of Wickham’s name, both Mr Darcy and Elizabeth stiffened.
Elizabeth walked quickly to the courtyard, Mr Darcy and the Colonel falling into step immediately beside her.
The courtyard was crowded with fashionable visitors, touring the stables as though it were the pinnacle of summer entertainment. Elizabeth surveyed the throng of bright pelisses and tall hats.
She located George Wickham near a display of ornate carriages.
He was leaning against a stone pillar, but he was not looking at Lydia nor the terrier.
He looked frantic.
The effortless charm was gone, his face pale. He searched the crowd with undisguised desperation, his eyes darting from face to face, searching, calculating.
“He has realised the tide is coming in,” the Colonel observed quietly, standing close to Elizabeth’s right shoulder. “And he is standing upon a very small rock.”
“His creditors are drawing the net tight.” Mr Darcy stood at her left shoulder. “He lost a significant sum at the card tables of the Old Ship Inn late last night. Ensign Burton was loudly discussing the debt in the coffee house this morning. Wickham is out of time.”
Elizabeth followed Wickham’s gaze. “He is hunting. He requires a permanent financial solution before the regiment discovers he is ruined.”
“He will not attempt Miss Jenkins again.” Mr Darcy crossed his arms. “Lady Clement is guarding the girl like a dragon guarding gold. I saw the dowager earlier. She looked prepared to turn Wickham into a public warning for other junior officers.”
“Miss Jenkins is safe.” Elizabeth agreed.
Then, she saw Wickham stop.
His posture altered instantly. The anxiety vanished. He stood up straight and smoothed the lapels of his red coat. He fixed his charming, tragic smile firmly into place, pushed away from the stone pillar and began moving through the crowd with intent.
Elizabeth traced his path through the visitors.
Miss Penelope Smythe stood near the centre of the courtyard, admiring a beautiful white mare with romantic fascination. She was separated from her family by a group of visitors. Her chaperone was engaged in a deep, distracting conversation with a bishop.
“Miss Smythe.” Elizabeth identified the target. “She is his secondary scheme. Thirty thousand pounds in the three per cents, and a mind cluttered with gothic novels and romantic nonsense. She is ripe for a tragic tale of woe.”
Mr Darcy uncrossed his arms, taking a step forward. The human barricade was preparing to deploy.
Elizabeth reached out, her hand hovering over his sleeve.
He stopped immediately. He looked down at her hand, and then at her face.
“We cannot physically blockade him in every venue in Brighton, Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth spoke rapidly. “If we stop him here, he will find another private moment when we are not present. He must be stopped permanently.”
Mr Darcy frowned. “What do you propose?”
Elizabeth looked across the courtyard. Her eyes locked upon the formidable figure of Lady Margaret Clement. The dowager was inspecting a pile of hay through her quizzing glass with disapproval.
Elizabeth’s lips formed a dangerous, brilliant smile.
“We shall not intercept Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth took a step back. “We shall ruin him socially.”
She turned to the Colonel.
“Colonel.” Elizabeth commanded the soldier with the authority of a general. “I require you to inform Lady Clement that the niece of her dear friend, Mrs Smythe, is being targeted by a penniless, debt-ridden soldier. I believe the dowager will find the information highly relevant to her interests.”
The Colonel stared at Elizabeth, his eyes widening with the comprehension of the absolute brilliance of the strategy. He grinned widely.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He executed a crisp, military salute. “You possess a tactical mind of the highest order. I shall deploy the dowager at once.”
The Colonel turned and marched purposefully to the hay bales.
Mr Darcy watched his cousin approach Lady Clement, and turned back to Elizabeth.
“And what, pray tell, is my role in this masterful deployment?” he asked dryly.
Elizabeth stepped back beneath the shade of the grand archway and folded her hands primly over her parasol.
“Your role, Mr Darcy, is to stand still, look imposing, and enjoy the farce.”
Elizabeth shifted her gaze to watch with rapt attention the Colonel navigating the crowded stable courtyard. The soldier moved with purpose, slipping between groups of fashionable sightseers until he reached the formidable figure of Lady Margaret Clement.
Beside her, Fitzwilliam Darcy had obeyed her instructions flawlessly. He stood perfectly still, his posture severe and imposing, his eyes tracking the scene with intense interest.
The Colonel bowed to the dowager and leaned close to murmur Elizabeth’s tactical message.
Lady Clement comprehended the situation immediately. Her posture stiffened into something resembling carved granite. Her gaze snapped to Mrs Smythe, who was still oblivious, and then locked firmly onto George Wickham.
Wickham was making a direct, purposeful line for Miss Penelope Smythe.
Lady Clement advanced instantly. She moved with the unstoppable momentum of a warship under full sail.