Chapter 30
WHERE DARCY DOES NOT LIKE LADY HARROW AND DECIDES TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.
Darcy consigned Pharaoh and Houri to Bingley’s groom, then offered his arm to Elizabeth and they began walking in the direction of the house.
They had not advanced more than ten feet when she subtly redirected him towards the back garden instead.
Darcy pursed his lips. She likely had much to say about his mood, which had not improved since quitting Lady Harrow’s presence.
He indulged her, but when they reached the garden, barren except for a bunch of brittle stalks and denuded ornamental bushes, Darcy released her, held up his hand, and said, “Elizabeth, I abhor that woman for a plethora of distasteful reasons I cannot possibly divulge. I beg of you, be satisfied with that much and do not ask me to enumerate her offences. We have yet to break our fast and I have not the stomach for it—nor do I desire to cause you undue distress.”
“Very well,” she said equitably. “You may keep your secrets. I shall simply imagine the worst and content myself with that instead.”
Darcy scoffed. “You presume you would be able to deduce the truth of the matter. In this case, I assure you would not. In the event you did learn of it, I can guarantee you would by no means be content with your discovery. Lord knows I was properly horrified at the time.”
“So, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, then,” she responded dryly.
“Something to that effect,” he muttered, then stalked off towards the fountain in the centre of the garden.
It was empty and there were several cracks in it.
Clumps of dried grass poked between the stepping-stones leading to the house.
Darcy glared at the unkempt slate path, then at his mud-spattered boots.
Scenes from a drunken night a week after his father had died flashed before his eyes.
He was not yet three-and-twenty. It was by far one of his most repugnant memories.
He had spent the week grieving, and a good portion of that evening imbibing with Fitzwilliam and Arthur, attempting to numb the incomprehensible pain of loss.
He had no idea how he had navigated the staircases, but with his cousins’ assistance he managed to arrive at his bedchamber unscathed.
Once there, he stripped down to his shirtsleeves and breeches, only to discover he was by no means alone.
Darcy had been shocked to the point of inaction by the audacity of the woman in his bed; her nudity and coquettish smile had sobered him like nothing else.
It was Fitzwilliam who had come to his rescue, knowing that Darcy would never accept her blatant invitation—not even while in his cups—and was more likely to give offence than she was to give a damn about making a scene when Darcy refused her.
Paying her the most indulgent compliments, his cousin handed her robe to her with a roguish smile and charmed her from Darcy’s bed and into the viscount’s, ensuring her ire was not raised and her vanity gratified.
The gratification of her desire would follow.
After that night, Darcy had assumed Lady Harrow would never dare attempt such an assignation with him again, but the insufferable woman seemed to view his rejection as a perverse sort of challenge.
In the future, whenever he stayed at Levens Hall, his uncle’s country seat in the north, he locked his bedchamber doors, regardless of whether he was within.
He was brought back to the present by the soothing touch of Elizabeth’s hand upon his arm.
“What in the world is troubling you to such a degree? Your sordid history with Lady Harrow aside, what has upset you so? Is it her treatment of me? I can assure you I am not ruffled by her insinuations any more than I am by her ill manners. Has my own impertinence towards her displeased you? I know she is a peer of the realm, but I could not help it! I never could respect myself if I had allowed her to cow me in such an infuriating manner. I dearly hope your aunt will not be too displeased with me for failing to hold my tongue. It would be most inconvenient if Lady Carlisle were to decide she cannot abide me after all.”
Darcy stared at her, utterly incredulous. “I cannot imagine why you would possibly care what my aunt thinks at this point.”
Elizabeth appeared taken aback. “Of course, I care what she thinks. She is Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mother and your relation.
While she is certainly not as warm as my own dear aunt, Lady Carlisle is engaging enough, and I had begun to like her.
She is important to you. There is no sense in denying it. ”
He shook his head and, fixing her with a pointed look, said angrily, “Lady Harrow knew the price of your dowry, Elizabeth. How? There could be but one way and one source only, and that is my aunt. She has clearly been speaking of it—speaking of you—and that is an act of disloyalty I cannot abide.”
“Ladies’ dowries are usually commonly known and therefore discussed, especially among other ladies.”
“Not yours. You are yet unknown to London society.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters, Elizabeth! It matters to me. You were there. You heard my aunt. She spoke of blood being thicker than the bonds of friendship! She assured me, in my own home, that she desired to see me happy and believed you were the woman best suited to the task. She professed an inclination to help you find your footing in society, despite the disapprobation and jealousy of her friend. And then she does this! Her duplicity and disingenuousness will not be tolerated!”
“What can we possibly do about it at this point?”
“I intend to speak to her, of course!”
“And say what exactly?”
“Whatever I deem appropriate. Pray make my excuses to Bingley and your sister.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You expect to speak with her now?”
“I am hardly fit for company in such a state,” he replied irritably, running a hand over his mouth.
Elizabeth sighed. “I suppose not. Please do not say anything to Lady Carlisle you will regret. There may be more to this business than what you think.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “You sound suspiciously like Mrs Bingley, but you will not sway me into believing something I cannot. I will call upon you later.”
“I would like that, but my sister and Mrs Lawrence are looking forward to visiting Bond Street after breakfast. Unless your visit with her ladyship is a short one, I fear I shall not see you until much later. We dine in Gracechurch Street tonight, but you know you are welcome as well. My aunt and uncle are very fond of you and will be pleased to see you.”
Darcy raised her hand to his lips and quickly kissed her fingers.
“Until later then.” He took his leave and strode to the stable, where he re-saddled Pharaoh himself, mounted, and urged him down the drive at a purposeful trot.
As he neared the street, a carriage was arriving at Chadwick House.
Its crest was familiar, as familiar to him as his own name.
Darcy tugged Pharaoh to a stop and watched as Lady Harrow smiled and greeted the occupant within, then climbed into the conveyance.
A moment later the carriage pulled away from the kerb and proceeded down Park Street.
There is my proof, Darcy thought bitterly, surprised at how deeply his aunt’s duplicity wounded him. He spurred his horse in the opposite direction, towards Grosvenor Square. Lady Carlisle would not be at home, but she would eventually return. Darcy was willing to wait.
He arrived at Carlisle House, dismounted, and handed Pharaoh’s reins to one of the grooms in the stable yard. His aunt’s butler eyed him distastefully as he entered the house with his mud-spattered boots but said nothing beyond the usual salutation.
“Is Colonel Fitzwilliam at home, Douglas?” Darcy enquired, handing the man his greatcoat and hat. “I should like a word with him.”
“Yes, sir. He is breaking his fast with her ladyship in the breakfast parlour.”
Darcy stared at him. “With Lady Carlisle? Are you certain?”
“Absolutely certain, sir. If you like, I will take you there directly.”
He answered in the affirmative, then followed Douglas down the hall and into the breakfast parlour, where he did indeed find his aunt sitting at the table across from her son, buttering a piece of bread.
“Mr Darcy, your ladyship,” Douglas announced, then quit the room.
“Darcy,” she said pleasantly, “what a delightful surprise.” Her eyes alighted on his boots and her demeanour changed considerably.
“Your boots are covered in mud! Really, you ought to know better than to come traipsing through the house in such a state. My carpets will have to be washed as well as the floors!”
“I beg your pardon. I have been riding this morning with Miss Bennet.”
“I see.” She gave him a sly smile and reached for her teacup. “I suppose I shall overlook your indiscretion this once, then. How is your clever Miss Bennet? Is she also covered in mud?”
“She is well,” he replied stiffly, “but I require a word, your ladyship. Now, if you please.”
Fitzwilliam discarded his toast and addressed Darcy with some concern. “I hope all is well, Cousin.”
“All is not well but that is a matter that concerns your mother and me.”
His aunt frowned. “You are dissatisfied, that much is clear, but I can think of no reason why your dissatisfaction originates with me. Come, Darcy. You must sit down. I insist.”
“However insincere you choose to be, you will not find me so. It has come to my attention that you have been speaking of Miss Bennet to none other than Lady Harrow. More particularly, of her dowry. What I cannot understand is why.”