Chapter 14
Fitzwilliam’s rooms lay spare and ordered. Books aligned. Boots cleaned and set heel to wall. A single candle burned low, its wick trimmed to a narrow tongue.
Villiers entered without ceremony and closed the door behind him.
“You are becoming a legend,” Villiers said. He set his hat down, easy, and leant a shoulder to the door. “I heard it again this morning. You run the riverbank before first bell. You lift twice your weight. They say you held a pace no one could answer, and a man came apart trying.”
Fitzwilliam looked up from the page. He held the book open with one finger. He did not smile.
Villiers chuckled. “That one came from the rowing men. They do not know how else to explain losing.”
Fitzwilliam turned the page.
“And the rest?” Villiers went on. “You do not drink. You do not wager. You do not bleed. You sit in hall and no one sits beside you unless you nod.”
Fitzwilliam’s finger paused. He closed the volume and set it square. “It is noise.”
“It is admiration,” Villiers said. “Or fear. Or both.” He shrugged. “It suits you.”
“It does not,” Fitzwilliam said.
Villiers chuckled. “You have not contradicted it.”
Fitzwilliam rose and crossed to the window. The court lay dim. Stone held the cold. He rested his hand on the sill and looked out.
Villiers straightened from the door. “There is more.”
Fitzwilliam did not turn.
“I saw Barty yesterday.”
That drew him. Fitzwilliam faced him.
“By Trinity. At the scrivener.” Villiers spoke plainly now. “He paid with drafts. Several.”
“For Darcy?”
“No,” Villiers said. “I asked. He did not know me. He spoke freely.” He placed a piece of paper down. “For cards. For wine. For debts carried forward.”
Fitzwilliam said nothing.
“There are men here,” Villiers went on, “who hunt by patience. They sit and watch and laugh and wait for the generous hand.” He paused. “Darcy’s name sits well in their mouths.”
Fitzwilliam turned back to the window.
“I am telling you,” Villiers said, “that it is not one man.”
Fitzwilliam nodded once.
“They speak in a public house off the lane,” Villiers said. “Low ceiling. Smoke. Dice. They think it safe.”
“Which?”
“The Eagle.”
Fitzwilliam stood. Villiers took his coat from the chair, assisted him into it.
Fitzwilliam opened the door. Villiers followed, closing it.
He headed for The Eagle, Villiers behind him.
The house crouched between stone and shadow. Light leaked at the seams. A voice rose and fell within, thick with drink.
Fitzwilliam stood at the edge and let the sound settle. He stepped inside and took the darkest space by the wall.
The room bent around a table. Coins rang. Laughter cut sharp and quick. Names passed hand to hand. He spied Wickham by his hair, voice, and manner.
“…cannot tell one tally from another,” a voice said. “Too kind by half.”
“A friendly match,” Wickham said. His tone carried. “Only to teach him the game.”
A hand slapped the board. “He will pay.”
Wickham smiled into his cup. “He always does.”
Fitzwilliam listened. He measured the pace, the ease, the weight of it. His cousin’s goodness used as currency. He heard enough.
He stepped once. Light caught him.
Wickham’s breath broke. His hand flew to his face and pressed hard into one eye. Water sprang at once. He dragged his knuckle across it.
The table stilled.
“Not—” Wickham said. He laughed, too fast. “Not worth it.” He waved the talk aside. “Folly. I meant it for a jest.”
A man leaned back. “You said—”
Wickham cut him off. “I say no.” He clapped the man’s shoulder. “Come. Another place.”
Chairs scraped. Coins gathered. The knot loosened and broke.
Fitzwilliam did not move. He let the room swell again around him. He turned and left as the sound rose behind him.
Villiers waited where the lane bent. He straightened when Fitzwilliam came.
“Enough?” he asked.
Fitzwilliam nodded.
They walked back in silence. Stone gave way to court. Lamps guttered.
Villiers angled his head back toward the lane. “Wickham keeps his distance.”
Fitzwilliam stopped. Looked at Villiers. Tightened his jaw.
“Indeed.”
* * *
Matlock House, May 1803
Fitzwilliam took the chair opposite his father. Matlock remained standing a moment, then sat. “You had no difficulty on the road?”
He shook his head.
“You look well.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
Matlock reached for the bell, then paused. “Port?”
Fitzwilliam shook his head.
Matlock poured for himself. “You will take tea later.”
He nodded.
A silence settled—habitual, not strained.
“I know you had intended to spend the summer at Pemberley. Darcy will have to do without you.”
Fitzwilliam waited.
“Cambridge is concluded,” Matlock said.
Fitzwilliam lifted a brow.
“You must have occupation,” Matlock continued. “Commensurate with your talents.”
Fitzwilliam rose.
“I am sending you to the continent.”
Fitzwilliam stared at his father. Matlock gestured. Fitzwilliam sat.
“You will make a Grand Tour.”
Fitzwilliam gestured as his father had. Matlock’s lips curved a moment. “You will make your own arrangements—”
The Nollekens bust of Marcus Aurelius watched from the cabinet.
“You will proceed through the principal capitals. You will remain long enough to—”
A broken quill rested on the edge of the desk.
“—to observe courts and governments. Your allowance will be remitted quarterly.” Matlock did not pause. “It will be—”
A bird had paid his respects on the window. Twice.
“—regular accounts to Hurst—”
“Hurst?” Fitzwilliam said.
Matlock stopped. “Yes,” he said. “Were you listening?”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
Matlock pulled the bell cord. The door opened. Hurst entered. He inclined his head to the earl. “My lord.” He nodded to Fitzwilliam.
Matlock gestured. Hurst did not sit at once. He held the folio a moment, weighing it, then took the chair opposite Fitzwilliam.
“These are not introductions,” Hurst said. He paused. “They are acknowledgements.”
He opened the folio. Removed a banded packet. “One for each city—Paris, Vienna, Berlin.”
Fitzwilliam accepted them. French and German would require attention.
“You may find yourself received—or not,” Hurst went on, “If not, we must know to what degree.”
“And?”
Hurst closed the folio. “Spare no detail. Especially the trivial ones.” A pause. “Whitehall prefers the unguarded truth. They assume civility obscures more than it reveals.”
Fitzwilliam rose, crossed the room, and stood before a framed map.
“How much time do you require?” asked Matlock.
Fitzwilliam tilted his head. Dover. Calais. Paris. Vienna. Berlin. Italy?
“Eighteen months.”
“Your languages are kept?”
“They are.”
“What about logistics?” Hurst asked.
“Cart. Matched pair,” Fitzwilliam replied. He turned to the earl. “Two new mounts.”
“That will take time,” Hurst replied.
Fitzwilliam nodded. Hurst looked to the earl, who inclined his head.
“Go to Ashdale. Prepare yourself. Take what you require.”
Fitzwilliam nodded, turned, and crossed to the door.
“Richard.”
Fitzwilliam faced his father.
“I leave it to you to inform your mother. She knows the arrangements are possible.,” Matlock said. “She does not yet know you have agreed.”
Fitzwilliam rose. “I shall tell her.”
He bowed.
* * *
The Black Eagle, May 1803
The sign read Zum Schwarzen Adler, the eagle crudely reworked where an older mark had been scraped away.
The doorway sat lower than the street. Men dipped their heads as they entered.
Inside, the air carried juniper beneath the smoke.
Bread lay on every table. Meat steamed from a pot.
The sound of speech settled into consonants and closed vowels. Voices kept to themselves.
The counter shone; the floor dulled sound. Chairs scraped before being set right. A fiddler worked a tune, harsh and chaotic. When a glass broke, the tune stopped. No one laughed. Another glass was set down in its place.
Fitzwilliam entered and did not look about. He took the space beside the stove, rested his hand on the rail and waited. Markov stood near the back, half-turned from the room. He wore plain wool and no sword. The light took him poorly. It suited him.
Markov approached and sat. He did not greet him. He spoke first, briefly, of the room—nothing that invited answer—and then continued in English.
“You leave soon,” he said.
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
Markov reached inside his coat and produced a folded packet. Wax sealed it—not red, but black. The impression lay clean: a plain circle, broken by a single vertical cut.
A chair scraped. Someone laughed.
“Keller served in Silesia.”
The laughing stopped.
Markov leant closer. His voice altered—not in volume, but in weight.
“What he allows is not practised in a gentleman’s house.”
A glass struck the counter. Liquid ran. No one cursed.
Fitzwilliam did not move.
Markov looked around the room, then lowered his voice.
“The man who opens the door is not a servant.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
Markov lifted a hand, then replaced it. He squared his shoulders and stepped away. He did not look back.
Fitzwilliam remained until the room resumed its noise. He folded the letter once more and set it inside his coat.
He ducked his head and went up into the street.