12. Wrong to Interfere
CHAPTER TWELVE
WRONG TO INTERFERE
“Lady Sophia’s instructions,” Mrs. Alford said, as if that were the only law of the house.
He entered to find Lady Sophia armed with a volume of Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women .
“Fordyce, Lady Sophia?” He arched an eyebrow, kissing her hand.
“Miss Mary abandoned it, and I wished to understand why.” She turned a page with a flick of her wrist. “The man writes as though young women were livestock requiring management. Your mother would have used it to level a wobbly table leg.”
“My mother had strong opinions on Fordyce.” His gaze drifted around the room, as if expecting… what?—Elizabeth to be hiding behind the velvet curtains?
“Yes, it was one of her finest qualities.” Lady Sophia set the book aside.
“The accounts are in order, Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth reviewed them already. She has settled the vendors, corrected the wine merchant’s insolence, and informs me that the three Bennet sisters in London cost rather less than your budget suggested.
She no longer requires an accountant to balance her ledger. ”
The words slammed the door in his face. Elizabeth had handled everything. Her maddening competence—so admirable, so inconvenient—had made him entirely superfluous.
“I see,” he said, his throat tightening. “Then I am not certain why I am here.”
“Are you not?” Lady Sophia’s pale eyes captured his. “Sit down. She will join us presently.”
The settee sagged beneath him, too low, too yielding. With no desk to shield him, his hands hovered uselessly on his knees. He waited, his heartbeat tripping, for the door to open.
Elizabeth swept in. She wore a pale-blue morning dress entirely put together except for the ink smudges on not only her second finger, but also her third. She had clearly been burning the midnight candle to prove her competency.
“The accounts are settled, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes were bright as she noted his idle hands.
“I hope Lady Sophia has informed you that the coal is confirmed and the wine merchant properly chastened. You are quite relieved of your duties as a tutor. Surely a man of your… pressing importance has more significant business than playing schoolmaster to a country acquaintance?”
“I have no business more significant than the welfare of this house,” Darcy replied, his manner a fraction stiffer than he intended.
“How selfless,” Elizabeth countered. “Though I suspect the Master of Pemberley finds a column of figures far less taxing than the ‘degrading’ company of those who cannot tell a credit from a debit.”
“Since the accounts require no further attention,” Lady Sophia interrupted, “I have a different use for you, Fitzwilliam.” She produced a silver salver stacked high with calling cards.
“Elizabeth’s social calendar needs a firm hand.
Invitations to be weighed, calls to be returned, suitors to be…
judged. My eyes are weary, and Fitzwilliam has a famously discerning eye for… flaws.”
“You wish me to act as arbiter of Miss Elizabeth’s social schedule?”
“You are acquainted with the ton .” Lady Sophia blinked, the picture of innocence, as if he had entirely misunderstood his role. “Miss Elizabeth may wish to consult you on the character of these gentlemen. A trustee’s duty, I should think, extends to guarding a charge against the… unsuitable.”
“Naturally,” he said, his voice clipped, not registering Elizabeth’s eyes widening in alarm. “I am at Miss Bennet’s disposal.”
Sentenced to such an exquisite form of purgatory, Darcy took the salver, the silver cold against his palm.
He was now the gatekeeper for every man in London who dared hope to court the woman sitting across from him.
Had he been left to his own devices, he would have consigned the entire stack to the fire without a second thought.
He lifted the first card. “Lady Prideaux and her son, Sir Weston. Miss Elizabeth? Your response?”
“The horse enthusiast,” she said, taking a measured sip of tea. “He spent twenty minutes on Tuesday describing the fetlocks of his new hunter. I believe his conversational range is limited to anything that requires four legs and a saddle.”
“His character is unobjectionable,” Darcy noted, his thumb brushing the edge of the card. “And his fortune is adequate.”
“Adequate is a very grey word, Mr. Darcy. I find I have a sudden distaste for the color grey. I prefer a man whose mind can travel beyond the stable door.”
Darcy nodded, noting that he himself could converse about all manner of topics, not limited to horses and fetlocks. He kept himself from smiling. Did Elizabeth consider him grey or only adequate?
“You review gentlemen the way other men review livestock,” Lady Sophia remarked, turning a page of Fordyce with visible satisfaction. “The Reverend would approve of such a cold-blooded assessment.”
Darcy lifted the next card. “Sir Philip Crane. He has a considerable fortune. Sugar plantations in the West Indies.”
Elizabeth’s nose crinkled as if she had caught a whiff of something spoiled. “And how many souls were bartered to sweeten his tea, Mr. Darcy? I cannot admire a man whose estate is built upon the misery of others. Reject him. I should rather marry a curate with one coat and a clear conscience.”
“I concur without hesitation, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice a register of quiet gravity. “I admire your convictions. His wealth is tainted by its barbarity.”
“A wise choice,” Lady Sophia murmured. “That society should tolerate a man whose fortune rests on the backs of the enslaved is reprehensible. Proceed.”
Darcy reached for the next card. “Lord Leycester. Not a man I would recommend.”
“Why not? He has a very elegant crest.” Elizabeth’s eyes darted. “And a charming smile.”
“He has nothing else to occupy his face or his mind,” Darcy countered. “His debts exceed his income by several thousand pounds. He has been engaged twice, both dissolved upon… investigation. I believe he is looking for a wife to pay for his waistcoats.”
Lady Sophia looked up from the Fordyce, her expression one of mock-gravity.
“He does have a title, Fitzwilliam. A Viscountcy of the older creation. In certain circles, a crumbling estate and a trail of disgruntled creditors are considered quite romantic—provided the coronet on the carriage is sufficiently polished.”
Elizabeth laughed, a bright, silver sound.
“A title is a very fine thing, Lady Sophia, but I find it loses its luster when one must sell the family silver to pay for the celebratory breakfast. I have no desire to be a ‘Viscountess’ if my primary duty is to hide the Ming vases whenever a bailiff rings the bell.”
“Indeed, he is a ‘fashionable’ pauper with a coat of arms,” Darcy agreed. “A daughter of a gentleman need not supply his silk waistcoats as she does not require a minor peerage to lift her chin.”
“And yet, what if she covets one to decorate her crown?” Elizabeth countered, her eyes flashing with that familiar, provocative light. “Perhaps, with my newfound wealth, I would prefer to be known as Lady Elizabeth. It has a very grand, very formidable ring to it, do you not think, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the calling card, tempted to crush it.
“If you covet a title, Miss Bennet, I should advise you to seek one that carries the weight of history rather than the fresh ink of a Regent’s patent.
Half the baronies created since the turn of the century have been bought with the proceeds of sugar or beer.
A title whose lineage does not date back to the Conquest is merely a modern convenience—regrettable, hollow, and entirely beneath the dignity of a woman who values substance over show. ”
Lady Sophia looked up from her volume of sermons, a single, elegant eyebrow raised askance.
“My word, Fitzwilliam. You speak as though anyone created after the Plantagenets is a mere squatter in the House of Lords. Do try not to be more of a Pemberley monarch than your father was; it is exhausting before noon.”
Elizabeth merely smiled over her teacup, as if she had won a round over his vaunted composure.
“And the next?” Lady Sophia asked, her eyes shining with malicious amusement as she turned a page. “Or are we to spend the entire morning emptying the salver into the wastebasket?”
Darcy reached for the next card, his fingers restoring order to the stack with dexterity. “The Honorable Herbert Langley. He is… unobjectionable.”
Lady Sophia let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-exasperation, and entirely dismissive. She didn’t even bother to look up from her text.
“Unobjectionable, Fitzwilliam? You describe the man as if he were a lukewarm bowl of porridge. Must you be so dampening? One might as well marry a footstool; at least the footstool has the courtesy not to offer ‘unobjectionable’ conversation during dinner.”
Darcy remained sullenly silent, his jaw locking so rigidly that the muscle beneath his ear throbbed. He stared at the card as if he could burn Langley’s name from the pasteboard by sheer force of will.
Lady Sophia turned a page with a dry snap.
“Herbert Langley is the sort of man who has never committed a sin more interesting than forgetting his gloves, and whose greatest ambition is to have a particularly well-organized library. He is safe, he is solvent, and he is—heaven help us—tedious. If Elizabeth marries him, she will be asleep by the first anniversary and buried by the second, purely from a lack of anything to keep her heart beating.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile, her eyes dancing. “A footstool, Lady Sophia? That is a harsh comparison for a man with a comfortable fortune and a clean conscience.”
“A clean conscience is easily maintained when one has the disposition of a damp hedge,” Sophia countered.
Darcy, however, did not join in the mockery. He studied the card, then Elizabeth. His responsibility for her Season— and his own unyielding sense of honor—demanded an honest assessment, no matter the internal cost.