Chapter 7 1794-1795
The ballroom at Carlton House glittered with artifice.
Crystal chandeliers threw refracted light across polished marble floors, casting prisms over painted smiles and powdered hair.
George Darcy stood near the edge of the crowd, hands clasped behind his back, enduring the raucous laughter of the Prince of Wales as he regaled a cluster of minor dukes with some lewd anecdote involving a French marquise and a footman dressed as a priest.
George’s stomach turned.
The occasion, officially, was a celebration of the Prince’s upcoming marriage to Princess Caroline of Brunswick.
Unofficially, it was a calculated maneuver to woo the landed gentry back into the Prince's good graces and curry support for his latest financial petition to Parliament.
The heir to the throne had managed—yet again—to empty his coffers through a combination of racing debts, mistresses, and elaborate architectural renovations.
George had not wanted to come. He had delayed as long as possible. But as one of the more influential Catholic landowners in Derbyshire—and a man known for quiet charity—he could not refuse outright. Especially not after receiving Mrs. Fitzherbert’s letter the week prior.
He had read it twice. Then burned it. But the words remained etched in his mind.
“They say my marriage to the Prince is not valid. That it was unlawful, unbinding, invisible. That my very presence in his life is now an embarrassment. I beg of you, Mr. Darcy, as a man of conscience—support my petition to the Holy Father to recognize what God already has.”
George had responded with all the care and sympathy he could offer, but he knew the futility of it.
The Royal Marriage Act had been passed nearly twenty years ago.
Even if the Pope himself declared their union valid, no Catholic wife—nor her children—could ever inherit the throne of England.
The Prince had chosen political expedience over honor.
He had discarded Mrs. Fitzherbert like a worn coat and claimed their union had never existed.
It made George sick.
And yet here he stood—expected to nod and toast and give his silent endorsement.
His jaw tightened. He turned away from the crowd and made his way toward the back hallway, murmuring something about needing air.
The corridor beyond the ballroom was dimmer and blissfully quieter.
He passed a footman asleep on his feet and a pair of gentlemen arguing in hushed tones over a wager.
Beyond them lay the door to the gardens—and, somewhere nearby, the “necessary.”
As he turned down the short passage leading to the latter, he stopped abruptly.
A voice—harsh, male—echoed off the stone.
“You will do it, girl. I have had enough of your tears.”
George’s body stiffened.
Another voice—soft, feminine, strangled by weeping. “Please—please, Father—do not—”
George edged closer.
“I have arranged everything,” the man snarled. “You will remain here in the library. I will tell Lord Rawdon that a message awaits. When he enters—alone—you will cry out. Rip your bodice. Say he attacked you. There will be witnesses just outside. He will have no choice.”
“I—I cannot—” she sobbed.
“You will. Or you will feel my full displeasure once we are home.”
George peered around the edge of the hallway.
Bartemius Fitzwilliam stood with his back to the door, gripping a young woman’s arm so tightly the flesh had already begun to darken, along with a mark on her cheek. The girl—tall, slender, no more than eighteen—was trembling violently. Her face was familiar.
Too familiar.
Anne Fitzwilliam, George realized, his stomach dropping. Sarah’s cousin. How similar they look—the same dark hair and fair coloring.
His hands clenched into fists. He watched as Bartemius shoved her into the room, slammed the door, and strode away without looking back.
He had never liked Bartemius Fitzwilliam, in spite of their estates’ proximity to one another.
What angered George the most was how Bartemius treated his wife.
Deborah Harcourt had been a woman with neither fortune nor powerful connections enough to refuse him, and Bartemius had never allowed her to forget it.
He disparaged her family openly, mocking their obscurity and provincial ties, sneering most especially at her sister who had married a modest landowner in Hertfordshire—a Bennet, as though the name itself were an insult fit for laughter in company.
And now, seeing him grip another young woman—another girl of that same bloodline—with calculated violence, George understood with sickening clarity that this was not an aberration.
It was habit. This was how Bartemius Fitzwilliam moved through the world: consuming, discarding, and destroying, all while calling it his right.
When George and Sarah’s son had been born, Sarah had wished to name him after her mother’s family, to honor the woman who had sacrificed so much to see her children grow up well in spite of their abusive father.
At first, George secretly despised the name Fitzwilliam, but when Lord Matlock himself had shown up at their door, enraged at the appellation, George’s stubborn streak refused to acquiesce to the demands that the name be changed.
Now, it gave him a perverse sort of pleasure to know how much it irritated the earl.
As soon as the hateful man was out of sight, George moved forward and opened the library door. The girl—startled, tear-streaked—backed away in fear. “No—please, I cannot—”
“I am not here to hurt you,” he said quickly, removing his hat. “Miss…?”
She blinked “Anne,” she whispered. “Lady Anne Fitzwilliam.”
“Lady Anne, I am George Darcy. My late wife was your cousin.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You—”
“I heard what he said.” His voice was quiet but resolute. “You cannot do this. I will not allow it.”
“I have no choice,” she whispered, desperation etched in every line of her face.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “You do. But we must act quickly.”
She stared at him, confused.
“You will pretend,” he said. “And I will take his place.”
“I—I do not understand—”
But the footfalls were already coming down the hall.
“Trust me—you are much safer with me than him,” he said, and placed his hat on a side table before opening the door and peeking out. Upon spying a young marquis walking their way, he said, “It is a trap, my lord. A compromise. Do not come in.”
The man gawked, then immediately turned on his heel and sped the other way. George waited until he heard footfalls coming once more, only this time it was a large group. It’s now or never, he thought.
He pulled the door closed, then crossed the room to the young lady. “My apologies for the liberty, my dear.”
Before she could respond, he leaned down and kissed her, pulling at his clothing as he did so.
A moment later, the door burst open.
Several lords spilled in, followed by Bartemius, and—bringing up the rear—the Prince Regent himself, looking flushed and excited.
And then they all stopped dead.
Anne stood in the middle of the room, disheveled and panting. George stood nearby, cravat askew, one sleeve torn.
“Mr. Darcy?” the Prince said in astonishment.
Bartemius went pale. “What—what is this?”
Anne began to cry again—real tears, this time, and not from fear.
“I—he—he—”
George stepped forward. “I will take responsibility,” he said evenly. “Lady Anne has been compromised. There is no need to question her further. I shall marry her.”
There was a stunned silence.
The Prince, red-faced and blinking furiously, looked back and forth between them. For a moment, silence stretched—until he let out a bark of laughter that echoed across the marble floor.
“Ha! Well done, Darcy!” he roared, slapping a meaty palm against his thigh. “By God, I always knew you were a man who preferred to do the compromising himself. Saves the girl the effort of pretending, eh?”
He winked broadly, then made a lewd gesture that drew bawdy laughter from the cluster of titled men nearby. One of them—Lord Pemberstone, half-soused and eager to impress—chortled, “Hear, hear! Take notes, gentlemen. Darcy has just saved the poor girl from the trouble of tearing her own gown.”
Another snorted, “At this rate, the only thing she’ll need to rip is his cravat!”
The laughter grew louder, more raucous, until the Prince himself wheezed with amusement and declared, “He may not have my girth, but I daresay our dear George has the appetite! Come, Darcy, give us a wink if the lady's worth the scandal!”
George Darcy did not move.
He stood ramrod straight, his expression carved from stone, as though the mockery was being hurled not at him, but at a statue erected in his image. He felt the young woman beside him trembling and took half a step forward, shielding her from their view.
The laughter faltered. One or two of the more sober lords cleared their throats.
And then the Prince, still grinning, waved his hand. “Oh, come now, Darcy—do not scowl so. The deed is done, the girl is yours, and the rest of us may go on pretending to be virtuous.”
Bartemius began to protest, but the Prince raised a hand. “It is done,” he repeated.
And in that moment, George Darcy knew two things.
First: he had just signed his name to a life-altering lie.
And second: he would never regret it.
Not if it saved that girl from the fate Bartemius had intended.
Not if it meant protecting her, as Sarah would have done.
∞∞∞
1795—Longbourn
The letter, dated the year prior, arrived on a Wednesday.
It was sealed in a rough hand, the paper bearing the smell of salt and unfamiliar spices. The ink was smudged in places, but the signature at the bottom was unmistakable. Frederick Bennet. Sent from Calcutta.
Thomas read it twice before folding it carefully and placing it inside his coat pocket. He did not speak of it to anyone, not even Fanny.