Chapter Ten
There were only the two of them at dinner. Had it not been for the disaster of the day preceding the meal, Darcy would have been elated. Instead, he was deeply weary.
Elizabeth’s aunt remained in her chambers, and Richard had left hours ago to seek out Mrs. Younge after Darcy had given him her last known direction. Richard had praised the strength of Darcy’s memory before pointedly informing him that he was not wanted on this errand.
Darcy thought it was not so astonishing that he recalled where the woman had said she lived. Mrs. Younge had, after all, tried to take his sister from him. He was not pleased to be left behind and was only mollified when Richard explained that he wished to take Mrs. Younge by surprise.
“She would recognize you in an instant, Darce,” he argued. “She has never met me. Let us not give her a reason to flee.”
Mrs. Younge. She had appeared so steady, so responsible.
Her references were impeccable—he had checked them personally and discussed them with his cousin.
He suspected that Wickham had worked on her only after she had taken the position, a rather impressive feat considering the risk to her livelihood.
The cad’s timing would have been perfect, of course—after Mrs. Younge was hired, but before she had formed any sort of bond with Georgiana.
He had been so relieved to have disrupted Wickham’s plans in Ramsgate that he had not given the man’s plan itself adequate consideration before today.
He was not only seducing young women, those who had little experience with men such as him.
Instead, Wickham had manipulated a maid into stealing from Darcy House, convinced a footman in the home of a duke to pilfer correspondence and persuaded a widow—who had a great deal to lose by throwing in her lot with his—to follow his designs.
Darcy had put Wickham’s failure to fool Georgiana down to the reprobate’s fading charms, but Wickham was better at his schemes, not worse.
He had not given his sister enough credit.
“A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said playfully as the soup arrived. Darcy breathed in the aroma. Chestnuts, onion, thyme, butter, fresh bread… he
realized he was ravenous. “I am thinking about eating, Elizabeth.” I am. Now.
Her expression was dubious. “Are you.” It was not a question.
A footman lifted the lid off a small tureen, steam curling up into the air, before he served them both. Darcy swallowed a spoonful of the soup, and nearly moaned.
“Have you Mrs. Thistlewaite concealed in the kitchens?” he asked, only half in jest. “This is marvelous.” Suddenly, being left behind by Richard seemed a stroke of luck.
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, but the cook used her instructions. She was delighted when I asked for several receipts before we returned to Longbourn. Her chocolate cream, unfortunately, is never shared. She said she needed to keep something to herself so I would be sure to return.” She sipped her soup. “A wonderful woman, Mrs. Thistlewaite.”
She fell silent after that, dipping her spoon delicately into her soup and lifting it to her mouth.
Darcy noted that her movements were cautiously measured.
He could feel himself about to ask her whether she felt well enough to be downstairs, but he closed his lips tight.
Do not tell her how she feels, Darcy, he reminded himself.
She is aware. Instead, he concentrated on his meal.
Perhaps she came down for Mrs. Thistlewaite’s soup, he thought, his spirits lifting.
I believe it might restore even a consumptive to full health.
He took the final spoonful and savored the taste on his tongue.
Eventually he reached for the fish, serving Elizabeth first, then himself.
He took several bites, and then, his hunger not so sharp, he stopped with his fork suspended in mid-air.
Elizabeth was eating. She was not conversing, though she normally took the lead.
She was not looking at him. Her eyes were entirely on her food. She was intentionally ignoring him.
“Will it always be like this?” he asked, both irritated and amused.
“I do not know what you mean,” Elizabeth replied smoothly. “I am simply eating my meal.”
“You are waiting me out, Elizabeth,” he told her bluntly.
She did not smile, but he was sure she was hiding one. “Am I?”
He responded with a good-natured grunt. “You are.”
“Then perhaps you should simply tell me what was occupying your mind, Fitzwilliam.” She put down her fork and sat primly, hands in her lap. “I know you were not thinking only of the food. You are not your cousin.”
He put another piece of fish in his mouth and chewed it thoroughly.
She waited patiently, and he was caught between wishing to tease her more and wanting her to eat.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I am concerned that Wickham has more talent for manipulation than when he was young. When he failed with Georgiana, I did not consider him as being a continuing threat. It was a serious miscalculation, and you have paid the price for my error.”
“You had no way of knowing that he was more than a fortune hunter,” Elizabeth assured him.
“He can charm people to steal or lie for him. His position as a private secretary seems to have given him the skill to produce a reasonably good forgery.” Her forehead creased.
“However, none of that speaks to violence.”
Darcy shook his head. “I should have known. He came to see me after Father died. He threatened me when I told him there was nothing in the will for him. He had never been violent, as far as I knew, and I dismissed him. Thought I was done with him. Then he showed up in Ramsgate.”
She sat still, quiet, before adding, “If it was money he desired, it is strange he did not simply forge your father’s name to a bank draft years ago. Or yours.”
Darcy set his own fork down and touched the corner of a napkin to his mouth.
“He may have tried, but he seemed content to steal from his employer until last summer. To tell the truth, I do not write many drafts. I keep strict accounts and send a quarterly list to my solicitor, who sees the creditors paid.” He placed the napkin back in his lap.
“When I do write a draft, I always add a numerical code to my signature.
My solicitor and I quite enjoy choosing new ones.
“ He took another mouthful of the flounder.
After he swallowed, he said, “My father dealt with an unscrupulous merchant once, so I suggested the idea to him.”
Elizabeth nodded at the roast chicken. “How old were you then?”
“Oh, seventeen, I suppose, and rather enamored of numbers.”
She smiled. “I should very much like to see that,” she said, as he lifted a piece to her plate and added some of the pickled asparagus. “Thank you.” She picked up her fork.
“Perhaps,” he said dismissively, and saw her narrow her eyes. His own lips began to twitch up, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stop them. “Very well,” he said airily. “I shall show you once we are married. For it is a Darcy secret, love.”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she reproached him. “How many Darcy secrets have you yet to reveal to me?”
Oh, good God, woman, Darcy groaned to himself. He checked the room before touching her hand and saying softly, “A great many, as it happens. But those are best left for after our vows.“ He served himself and tucked into the meat.
Elizabeth’s head turned one way and then the other, her cheeks now suffused with a very becoming shade of pink. Her expression was both piqued and puzzled.
She does not understand, but she will never admit it. He attempted to keep the smug look from his face but failed.
Elizabeth picked up her knife and fork. “That is quite enough from you, Mr. Darcy,” she said curtly.
He chuckled. After such a day, it felt very good to laugh.
Despite Mrs. Russell’s warning, Darcy was not convinced that having the women remain in Kensington was safe.
However, Olivia Russell was ill and Elizabeth, though she had refused to rest, was clearly denying her own discomfort.
A carriage ride over the cobblestones would be a painful journey.
Thus, rather than raising the question of St. James or even holding the conversation he knew they must have, he had instead lovingly persuaded her to retire.
The housekeeper had trailed behind her mistress with some sort of parsley poultice and a vinegar rub.
Elizabeth had jested about being a part of dinner rather than dressing for it, but she had removed upstairs at last.
Taylor and Clark had slept the rest of the afternoon in anticipation of standing guard overnight.
It was their job to protect the Russell women, they had told Darcy flatly, and they would not be leaving the premises unless they were escorting Miss or Mrs. Russell.
They had delivered their message in such a way, Darcy realized, to put him on notice that the ladies would not be unprotected at any time.
Darcy took no offense. He knew it was not strictly proper for him to remain in Elizabeth’s home, even with her aunt in residence, but after the events of the day and his conversation with Mrs. Russell, he simply could not bring himself to leave.
Elizabeth had not inquired about his plans; as the housekeeper was occupied, she had left orders for Mr. Perry to arrange for a room.
Mrs. Russell might raise an eyebrow at him in the morning, but he found he could withstand any scolding quite cheerfully.