21. The Gentleman Protests
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE GENTLEMAN PROTESTS
The retreat to a gentleman’s club, White’s, was also a necessary haven from his aunt, Lady Matlock, who had earlier that morning stormed the Bastille of his townhome.
She had arrived in a cloud of outraged silk to demand her son’s placement on the supper set, which this year included a scandalous new addition to the London boards—the waltz.
Almack’s had not approved the waltz, and Darcy could see why.
Instead of the usual parade of partners and polite distance, the waltz glued a gentleman and lady together, his hand scandalously free on her waist, spinning them into their own little world.
The idea of some fortune-hunter pressing close to Elizabeth—no, he would sooner let a wolf into the drawing room.
The thought of another man standing behind her chair at supper, all possessive, was enough to make him want to overturn the punch bowl.
Not that Elizabeth’s admirers had much chance to make themselves known to her.
Darcy had kept her schedule packed: estate ledgers, lending libraries, Nettle’s muddy paws, sisterly chatter, Cheapside’s chaos, museums, parks, art shows—he had escorted her through every last one, the picture of dutiful supervision.
If she had noticed, she had not objected.
She was curious, enthusiastic, and seemed to enjoy every outing, every new sight and sound.
He collapsed into a leather chair by the window, coffee in hand, and let out a sigh that nearly fogged the glass. The Times sat ignored at his elbow. Three gentlemen snored gently in the corners, which made the library the most civilized spot in London.
He broke the seal.
My dear Darcy,
I trust the alteration in your spirits which I observed in February has since found some amendment.
You bore the appearance, when we last parted in Kent, of a man who had received intelligence of a decidedly unwelcome nature, and I confess I have wondered since whether the intelligence proved as durable as your countenance that evening suggested.
I do not enquire directly, as you have not volunteered the particulars, and a Fitzwilliam does not press where a Darcy has closed the door.
But I observe, even from this distance, that your letters have improved.
The March ones read as though composed by a man in the grip of some lingering fever.
The more recent correspondence suggests recovery, or at the very least a sustained convalescence with tolerable prospects.
I hope to be in London for the latter portion of the Season.
The regiment is to be redistributed in June, and my colonel has intimated that my services might be better employed in persuading Lord Castlereagh’s secretaries that cavalry horses require actual feed rather than Treasury memoranda, which would place me in Whitehall by mid-month.
If so, I shall call. You may warn Georgiana that her favorite cousin intends to eat her chocolate and monopolize her pianoforte.
Yours, etc.
R. Fitzwilliam
P.S.—I am told the Season is particularly animated this year.
Lady Matlock’s letters are full of some young lady who has taken a house on Grosvenor Street and set the ton on its ear.
Mother does not give the name, which suggests she is either protecting the lady’s reputation or reserving her for Coke.
As these motives are not mutually exclusive, I offer no speculation.
Darcy folded the letter, feeling glad at the thought of Richard’s return.
The Colonel always saw more than was convenient.
He had watched Darcy stumble back from the parsonage, soaked and pale, and had the decency to offer brandy instead of questions.
He had walked with Elizabeth, too—enough to make Darcy wonder if they had struck up a secret alliance.
But Richard, ever honest, had confessed his affection and his lack of prospects, and Elizabeth had accepted it with that maddening, graceful composure of hers.
Except now Elizabeth had a fortune, and Richard would have to wrestle his own brother for the privilege of her hand.
Lady Matlock’s cryptic postscript meant she had written to Richard about Elizabeth without daring to use her name.
Clearly, Elizabeth was now important enough to be both discussed and disguised.
Lord Coke had the cotillion tomorrow. He was honest, self-aware, and—worst of all—someone Elizabeth might actually like.
That made him more dangerous than every fortune-hunter in London.
And then a thought occurred, unbidden and disruptive. Miss Courtenay had complained that Darcy had assigned all of the dance slots without truly asking Elizabeth which gentlemen she preferred.
What if she wanted Lord Coke? She had looked perfectly content when he claimed the cotillion.
He grabbed his coffee, determined to read the paper and think about anything except the ball—or the woman who had teased him mercilessly with her wit. Last man. Last woman. She had him so tangled up in knots that he was unsure whether she had softened her disgust or only joked about it.
He opened the paper. He did not get past the headline.
Sir Geoffrey Hale’s voice cut through the adjacent coffee room like a sudden foul draft.
“She is the most direct creature I have encountered this Season, Leycester. None of this simpering behind the fan. She addresses you face-on with those extraordinary eyes, and you cannot determine whether she is amused by you or dissecting you, and either possibility is—well.” Sir Geoffrey’s laugh was warm, confident, appreciative in a manner that set Darcy’s teeth on edge. “Rather intoxicating.”
“So I am told.” The second voice belonged to Lord Leycester, Viscount Rainford’s son—a lazy, handsome youth with the slightly reddened eyes of a man who spent his nights at hazard.
“My mother returned from calling on the lady Tuesday last and has spoken of little else. The figure, the fortune, the conversation, the talent, her love for books and novels. Mother says the conversation on Burney alone would justify the fortune, which is the most enthusiasm she has displayed since the Devonshire ball when Lady Jersey wore that turban.”
“Aye, but her conversation is more than just books,” Sir Geoffrey again, closer now.
Darcy could hear boot heels on the polished floor, two men moving from the coffee room toward the library.
“She does not defer or retreat into pleasantries. You make a remark, and she returns it with interest, improved and sharpened, and the process is—Leycester, I tell you, it is like fencing with someone who has been trained when you have only been practicing.”
“Have you obtained a dance with her?” the young Lord Leycester asked. “I hear you visited her aunt and uncle. Quite accepted into the fold.”
“Yes, and the children were so very delightful. Her uncle, however, defers the dance card to a deputy of Lady Sophia’s, can you imagine that?”
“Do tell! Who is this man? I have not secured even a country dance.”
“I applied for the supper dance, including the waltz,” Sir Geoffrey’s voice was full of bravado. “I say, Lady Sophia is getting addled at her age—assigning the decisions to a Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy—a commoner from Derbyshire.”
“Indeed!” Lord Leycester exclaimed. “A commoner, you say?”
The two men walked closer, and Sir Geoffrey spotted Darcy first.
“Darcy! The very man.” He feigned surprise and executed a bow that felt mocking. “We were just discussing your charming charge. You know Lord Leycester?”
“Lord Leycester.” Darcy inclined his head without rising, because at White’s, a man in his own chair was under no obligation to rise, and remaining seated conveyed a message about the degree to which the interruption was welcome.
“Mr. Darcy.” Leycester’s bow was shallower and easier. “I was just telling Sir Geoffrey that my mother has been singing Miss Bennet’s praises. The directness, she said. The wit. She compared her to Lady Hester Stanhope, which, from my mother, is approximately equivalent to canonization.”
“Miss Bennet’s qualities are well established,” Darcy said. “I am gratified that the ton is discovering them.”
“Discovering them and queuing for them.” Sir Geoffrey dropped into the chair opposite.
Leycester took the settee. The three sleeping gentlemen remained, mercifully, asleep.
“The ball tomorrow is the most anticipated event of the month, and not because of Lady Harewood’s punch, which is notorious.
Miss Bennet’s card is apparently the prize of the evening. ”
“Miss Bennet’s card was organized in consultation with Lady Sophia,” Darcy emphasized his godmother’s name drily. “Every dance is allocated.”
“All of them?” Leycester’s brows rose. “Already? Before the Season has properly begun? That is either extraordinary popularity or extraordinary management, and I suspect it is both.”
“Lady Sophia has complete confidence in my decisions regarding her goddaughter’s welfare. Should you wish to question her, she is at your disposal.”
He knew, of course, that Lady Sophia brought ducal weight to the table, trumping Lady Matlock’s earldom and Lord Geoffrey’s mere baronet status.
“Ah, the lady has found the one man in London who would not be tempted by Miss Bennet to manage her social calendar,” Sir Geoffrey said, grinning. “Rather like appointing a monk to guard the reliquary. His vows protect the treasure.”
“I had not realized Mr. Darcy had taken vows,” Leycester said, with a smile that suggested he found the metaphor delightful. “Religious or merely temperamental?”
“Hereditary, I believe. The Darcy standard is ducal—is that not the reputation? Old Mr. Darcy built Pemberley into a duchy in everything but title, and the heir is expected to marry accordingly. A country gentleman’s daughter from Hertfordshire would not, I think, meet the specifications, however intriguing her conversation. ”