13. Lady Sophia’s Deputy
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LADY SOPHIA’S DEPUTY
Darcy’s strategy was straightforward, and he was convinced of its virtue.
He would not pursue Elizabeth Bennet again—no second proposal, no lingering glances, not even the faintest hint that the man who had proposed with all the charm of someone apologizing for a plague still harbored any intentions towards her.
Instead, he would be useful and competent, fixing what his arrogance had broken—restoring Bingley to Jane, shepherding Elizabeth’s Season, and keeping her fortune from being compromised.
By being faithful with his duties, without expectation of return, he hoped that one day Elizabeth Bennet would look at Fitzwilliam Darcy and see not the man who had wounded her but the man who had spent every subsequent day attempting to deserve her good opinion without presuming to ask for it.
A flawless plan, if one overlooked the fact that it reeked of a man terrified of hearing ‘no’ again.
Darcy lurked at the window of Number 34, spying shamelessly as the door of Number 33 burst open and the ladies spilled out into the late-April morning, intent on an expedition.
Elizabeth, resplendent in her new pelisse and bonnet, strolled arm-in-arm with Allegra, both laughing at some secret only they found amusing.
Jane trailed them, listening to Mary, who waved her hands about, likely sermonizing on the perils of frivolity.
Georgiana emerged from the music room, saw the departing group through the window, and turned to Darcy with transparent longing.
“Go,” he said.
She was out the door before the word finished, joining the group with the breathless delight of a girl who had learned that she was allowed to want things and that to wish for happiness was not invariably to court disappointment.
He lingered at the window, watching until the last bonnet disappeared around the corner, as if staring hard enough might conjure them back.
He was alone, a state he usually prized, and his mind drifted to the small, wiry creature currently left behind in the house next door. Nettle would be pacing, her leather ball likely resting against a door that would not open for several hours.
Unable to interest himself in correspondence or the empty room, Darcy’s footsteps carried him through the adjoining garden between Number 34 and Number 33.
The gravel path, still damp from last night’s rain, led him beneath a bower of early roses and along the clipped hedges that separated the two properties.
Lady Sophia’s housekeeper greeted him with the briskness of someone who had long since stopped expecting explanations from gentlemen. With a nod, she ushered him into the drawing room, where Lady Sophia waited—her posture promising a conversation far less soothing than the garden he’d just escaped.
“Fitzwilliam, good morning, my dear. Is there some urgent crisis requiring Miss Elizabeth’s attention?” Lady Sophia remarked, her eyebrow arched sharply. “A miscounting of the clothing allowance, perhaps?”
“The dog required exercise,” Darcy replied, his voice a fraction too stiff.
“Ah, a mission of mercy for a terrier. How very selfless.” Her eyes twinkled with a mirage of innocence.
“You have missed the expedition. Allegra has whisked them all toward the Pantheon Bazaar—apparently, the Miss Bennets have discovered that London contains a truly alarming number of ribbons. I suspect they shall be gone for hours.”
She watched him, clearly enjoying the way he stood like a man waiting for a sentence to be passed.
“Allegra is very good with them,” she continued.
“She has a gift for drawing people out. Even Miss Mary has begun to soften under her influence. Your sister, too, delights in her animated conversation. And she is so easy with Elizabeth—their friendship is the most natural thing I have observed this Season.”
A pause followed, measured to the width of a needle.
“My goddaughter would do well with a man who truly esteemed such qualities—the warmth of her manner, the grace with which she moves through company, and that singular talent for making every acquaintance feel themselves quite at ease.”
Darcy said nothing. Both Allegra and Elizabeth were goddaughters, along with half a dozen young ladies whom Lady Sophia had taken an interest in across England.
“Fitzwilliam. Do sit down. You are looming.”
He sat, but relaxing was out of the question. With Lady Sophia, comfort was always a temporary illusion—she was bound to spring something on him, or worse, demand honesty.
“Allegra is four-and-twenty, Fitzwilliam,” she said, her voice dropping the mocking edge.
“In this town, that is considered a dangerous proximity to the shelf, though why we treat vibrant young women like wilting produce is a mystery I have never cared to solve. She has the granddaughter of a duke for a pedigree and a spirit that would brighten even the draftiest corners of a house in, say, Derbyshire.”
He felt the weight of the Derbyshire mention, suppressing a nod as he sensed danger. “Miss Courtenay is a credit to your guidance. Any man would be fortunate to secure her hand.”
“Any man, but not this man?” She set her cup down with a soft clink. “You are avoiding my eyes, which usually means you are busy being noble and miserable. Allegra possesses a warmth that would compensate for… a certain reserve in your temperament. She makes everyone feel welcome. Even you.”
“Allegra deserves a man who loves her,” Darcy replied, his voice low. “Not a man who finds her merely… agreeable.”
Lady Sophia leaned back, eyes on the empty street. “Elizabeth is not Allegra. She does not hand out welcomes; she decides if you are worth the trouble. That mind of hers could run a kingdom, and her temper—well, I imagine you have lost sleep over it.”
Darcy swallowed hard, resisting the urge to touch his cravat. “I wasn’t aware you tracked my sleepless nights. As you are aware, the role of a trustee requires vigilance, especially for a woman so newly wealthy.”
“Yes, and I require a deputy.” She sighed, rubbing her back to emphasize her frailty. “I am far too old to navigate the crush of Bond Street or the humidity of a musicale. I need someone younger and more robust.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Elizabeth will require a chaperone in all but name,” she said, her eyes twinkling.
“Someone to stand at her side when I cannot. Someone to ward off the men who will inevitably swarm about fifteen thousand a year like flies to a honey pot. I want you to be my shadow, Fitzwilliam. Her Season is my responsibility, but I am delegating the ‘hovering’ to you.”
Nettle, abandoned by the departing expedition, trotted into the drawing room with her leather ball clamped in her jaws. She dropped it at Darcy’s feet, eyes full of expectation.
He picked up the ball, and Nettle’s tail began a hopeful wag.
“The dog needs exercise,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“You are avoiding my observations.”
He bounced the ball on his knee, earning Nettle’s undivided devotion.
“I am certain you are aware that an unmarried man cannot play guardian to an unmarried woman. The scandal would be immediate, and Miss Bennet’s reputation would not survive it.
If society saw me as her guardian instead of her trustee, the inference would be?—”
“The inference would be that you had a personal interest.”
“Precisely. And I do not propose to give the ton ammunition against Miss Bennet.”
“How admirably restrained. Then we are in agreement. You are not her guardian. You are simply managing her London Season for me. Your presence at Elizabeth’s side tells the ton that she has Lady Sophia Mottistone’s protection, not Fitzwilliam Darcy’s affection. The distinction is everything.”
“A polite fiction, Lady Sophia, and we both know it. In reality, I will be at her side at every event, receiving gentlemen, managing her engagements, judging her suitors, and keeping her safe in a city she barely knows. That is not a deputy’s job. That is a father’s, or a brother’s, or a?—”
“A husband’s.”
“I was going to say, protector.”
“You were not.” Lady Sophia regarded him with the calm of a woman who had heard the word she expected and intended to let it sit.
“But let us speak practically. The musicale, dinners, operas, card parties, promenades, and private balls. The Season lasts another two months. I mean to have her seen and protected.”
Darcy let the ball drop. Nettle pounced, stubby tail quivering, and sat at attention while he scratched her ears, grateful for the uncomplicated loyalty of a dog.
“I will claim every dance propriety allows,” Darcy informed the dog without looking at Lady Sophia. “Two per event, no more. I will stand beside her during intervals. I will make it clear that any man with questionable intentions should look elsewhere.”
“That sounds less like a deputy and more like a man marking territory,” Sophia said. “You are building a fortress around a woman who has already shown she can climb out of any window.”
“I am only doing my duty, as thoroughly as you expect.” He met her gaze. “Unless you would prefer someone less thorough.”
“Heavens, no. Thoroughness is your best trait.” Lady Sophia’s smile was all mischief. “But tell me, Fitzwilliam, what is the point of Elizabeth’s Season, in your opinion?”
“In my view, Miss Bennet does not require a Season.”
“Every young woman requires a Season.”
“Only young women without fortunes. Elizabeth has fifteen thousand a year, a house in Mayfair, and a mind sharp enough to run Parliament. She does not need a husband. She has never wanted one. She—” He stopped, nearly saying too much.
“She merely tolerates me because the trust requires it, and as she proved by settling the accounts before I arrived, she is working to make even that unnecessary.”
“You are a coward with excellent manners,” Lady Sophia said, her tone suddenly sharp. “The worst kind, because no one can fault you, and so you never have to change. I am not asking for a declaration. I am asking you to consider that your attention may not be as unwelcome as you think.”
“You do not know?—”
“I know a great deal more than you credit, my dear boy.” She rose from her chair.
“You will serve as my deputy for the Season. You will escort Elizabeth to whatever engagements I deem necessary for her. And, pray, do not spend the entire Season in such elegant misery—it fatigues us all, Nettle most of all.”
Nettle’s ears pricked at the mention of her name.
“Take her into the garden,” Lady Sophia said, moving toward the door. “The fresh air might improve your disposition. She has been at your boots these twenty minutes awaiting your attention.”
“Has she indeed?” Darcy replied, the faintest smile touching his lips.
“You have, at last, perceived the dog. A small triumph. Perhaps her patience may instruct you yet.” Lady Sophia paused at the threshold, her eyes gleaming. “Friday. Wear the blue coat.”
She swept out, and Nettle nudged his knee, her tail wagging with the optimism only a dog could muster. Darcy tossed the leather ball in his hand. “Come along, Nettle.”
Playing fetch with the terrier allowed him room to think.
Charm, he reflected, did not work on Elizabeth. Wickham had been charming, easy, warm, and confiding. Elizabeth had enjoyed his company and then released it without a bruise.
She had no regard for position either. Collins had offered her Longbourn’s future, and Lady Catherine’s patronage, and Elizabeth had refused him so quickly that the man had not finished his sentence before she had walked out, or so he’d heard from the Meryton gossip.
Insults, Darcy noted with a dry, punishing self-awareness, had failed most spectacularly of all.
What worked with Elizabeth was Nettle, loyal, watchful, and constant. She followed Elizabeth from room to room, dropped her leather ball at her feet, not because she expected anything in return but because being close to Elizabeth was where the dog wanted to be.
Darcy, too, wished to be there, close to Elizabeth, like a burr.
Lady Sophia had gifted him the mechanism to do precisely that.
The deputy role was not a punishment. The suitor vetting, the social calendar, the escort duties, the musicale—she was handing him a reason to be at Elizabeth’s side every day for months.
She was arranging the proximity, removing the obstacles.
She was, he realized, with a slow dawning that rearranged the furniture of the entire conversation, helping him.
And she was not steering him toward Allegra. She was clearing the road to Elizabeth.
Nettle barked, encouraging him. Darcy hurled the ball the length of the garden and watched her barrel after it with the joyful certainty of a creature who knew exactly what she wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise. Neither did Darcy.