Chapter 49
Richard tilted his chin upward, giving his batman easier access to his cravat, and counted as he took a deep breath. The ceremony was not his, but he was as nervous as a groom at the prospect of seeing Miss Rothschild after weeks of absence. Four weeks and four days to be precise.
Every day, he schemed excuses to call. And every day, he reminded himself that the timing was wrong, that he would be an imposition to her, that he did not deserve the attention of such a fine lady … no matter how badly his heart protested.
Had she hoped he would call? Had he disappointed her? Or had she forgotten him already? He had tried to forget her—a pointless enterprise which he had failed fabulously.
A knock sounded at his door, and Richard heard the heavy footfall of his father enter the room. Twisting his neck as much as he dared without undermining the exertions of his batman, Richard saw Father set a wooden box down on the nearest table with a loud thud.
Mother followed behind, glanced at Father flexing and rubbing his hands together, and made her way over to Richard’s side. “You look very handsome.” She brushed her fingers over Richard’s cheeks and smoothed an imaginary stray hair.
Richard was accustomed to her motherly attentions, but her comment brought a heated blush to his entire person. He had taken a little extra care, knowing he would stand beside Darcy and Nick as their witness that morning. Knowing that Miss Rothschild would see him.
Father tapped the top of the box. “Whatever is inside is remarkably heavy.”
Richard nodded at the box. “What is that?”
“In Nick’s words, it is ‘just a triflin’ gift.’ He apologized that he could not stay to give it to you himself.”
“At this hour? On his wedding day?” Alex would string him by his thumbs from the yardarm if he was late to their wedding.
Father rubbed his whiskers. “Makes a man wonder what could be so important to Nick that he could not entrust it to a servant to deliver. He would not hand it to the butler.”
Richard stood helpless, motionless while the batman put the finishing touches on his cravat. He had asked for him to take special care and could not rightly growl at him to hurry now that he was curious to see what the box contained.
Finally, the folds perfected, the batman declared Richard ready and discreetly departed.
The box was weathered but sound, rectangular, about the size of a saddlebag. A sturdy clasp held the lid shut, but there was no lock.
Slowly, Richard lifted the lid to the tune of groaning hinges.
He gasped, steadying himself against the table, his head spinning.
Father burst into laughter.
Mother mumbled between her fingers, “Dear heavens.”
Nick hastened away from Matlock House. He couldn’t risk Richard chasing after him, and he certainly wouldn’t risk being late for his wedding. Alex would skin him alive.
Darcy House was in view, and he slowed his pace enough to catch his breath and dry the sweat slicked over his skin.
Hopkins would be displeased, but one bath was enough for any man on any given day.
At least he had not yet donned his tailored weeds or the new boots Darcy had insisted on purchasing for him.
Hopkins had spent at least an hour polishing them into a mirror-like sheen.
If Nick hurried, he could change and run down to the garden just in time.
No need to alert Alex that anything was amiss.
Connell stopped him three houses away from Darcy House. Nick had been too preoccupied to see him standing on the pavement.
“Nick! Have you seen Wickham around by any chance?”
Of all the things Connell could’ve said, inquiring about Wickham was the last Nick would’ve considered. “I’m pleased to say I haven’t … though I expect we’ll have to endure his company at the wedding feast.” It was a pity one could not choose one’s family as easily as one chose his friends.
Connell scratched his chin. “No matter. Certainly nothing to concern yourself with. I meant to attend your wedding—thank you for including me among your guests … Lord knows, you did not have to—but one of my informants has a promising lead I can waste no time pursuing. I gave Darcy my regards and apologies, and now I give them to you.”
Nick grinned. “Another family to put right?”
Connell nodded. “You could say that, although this family would be better off if my search resulted in naught.”
If Nick had more time, he would have asked what he meant.
“It is not a story I wish to burden you with on this special day,” Connell added. “Suffice it to say that I am so accustomed to people recoiling at my presence, it is nice to be made to feel welcome.”
“Now, that, I can understand.”
“I believe you do. I pray your transition from pirate to privateer goes as smoothly as mine from thief-taker to enquiry agent.”
They were not so different when it came down to it, him and Connell. “Same work with a kinder name.”
With a frown, Connell looked over his shoulder, past Nick, then over his other shoulder. “You ought not to be out unaccompanied. While there are few who would dare touch you after the riot, until you get amnesty from the Admiralty, there will be others like me seeking you and Miss Lafitte out.”
Well did Nick know it. Six weeks had passed since the Fancy was maimed.
Six weeks he’d been on land, at risk every day of being captured were it not for the influence of his family.
Four weeks since he had walked out of Newgate with Alex, grateful for their lives and another chance at redemption. “We’ll sail outta port once we’re wed.”
“That is for the best.”
Nick’s only regret was that he couldn’t yet accept Darcy’s insistent invitations for him to see Pemberley—his rightful home, as his brother often repeated.
But Nick was relieved he had a solid excuse to delay the visit.
He’d been too long on land, and until he felt comfortable in his new law-abiding life with Alex, he couldn’t think about Pemberley without sadness overwhelming him.
All those years lost. He couldn’t stand before his parents’ portraits as he was now, with little to make them proud.
It was a nonsensical thought, but he wanted to be a man they’d wish to claim as a son.
A man who could gaze upon them honestly, with dignity.
Connell’s hand clamped down on his shoulder.
“I know you are done with taking ships, but allow me a word of advice: if you were to take an enemy warship, your chance of invoking the favor of the Admiralty would increase dramatically. They would be more inclined to overlook your former … activities … to grant you a legitimate Letter of Marque along with the protections that come with a naval auxiliary vessel—things that are beyond the influence of even Lord Matlock to arrange.”
The idea stirred Nick’s blood in a way that terrified him. Was he still a pirate at heart? Or was it the prospect of freedom—freedom on his terms, honestly earned—that appealed to him?
The news about his relation to the Darcys and Matlocks had appeared in all of the papers, but thanks to his flashy swordsmanship at the prison gates, they made him out to be a hero.
The papers had romanticized his life, casting his former activities in a favorable light.
Connell’s account of Nick’s actions inside the prison had helped. As had his brother’s staunch support.
Nick was grateful for Darcy and Georgiana’s sake. Darcy was an honorable man through and through, and Nick would rather disappear from his life than allow him to feel shame every time his name was mentioned.
“Will you consider the matter?” Connell asked.
Nick nodded. Even after his little gift to the colonel, he had the bond money—one thousand five hundred pounds—the surety of good behavior the Admiralty required of privateer applicants.
“I will,” he promised, extending his hand to the man who had once been a great enemy and was now an ally. A friend.
They parted ways, and Nick ran inside Darcy House, darting up the stairs and into his bedchamber where Darcy and Hopkins paced. “Where have you been?” they demanded in unison.
Shrugging out of his coat, Nick started undoing buttons as quickly as his calloused fingers allowed.
Darcy grimaced at the sight of his hair but dutifully reached for a comb.
The valet’s hands deftly stripped and buttoned and smoothed.
They worked quietly, quickly, united in their effort to make Nick presentable in record time.
Elizabeth watched the double doors leading into the ballroom where the feast was spread over long tables.
Jean-Christophe’s cake, a towering creation he had painstakingly made, sat in the middle.
Beautifully arranged flowers, the last of the summer blooms and the first of autumn, led a path out to the gazebo where the clergyman stood waiting.
Their guests stirred, eyeing the tables of food from the garden.
Mrs. Annesley conversed with Mary and Kitty by a stand of lilies. She would return to Longbourn with them for a few months. After hiding for so long at Pemberley, Mrs. Annesley was eager to live her life free of the fear of Mrs. Finchley (may her soul rot in the grave).
“He’s not here. Thunder n’ surf, is it too much for a woman to ask that her groom bother to make an appearance on his wedding day?” Alexandra seethed.
Georgiana looked near tears, distressed that anyone—even Nick’s intended—should say anything against her dear brother. “Nick would never abandon you. He is incapable of such deceit.”
Emily spoke calmly. “Calm yourself, Alexandra. There is time. The Matlocks only arrived a few minutes ago.” Her gaze sought them out, settling on Colonel Fitzwilliam.
She smiled, looking as happy as she had the day she received a letter from the Hales thanking her for helping them find their long-lost child.