Chapter Three The Council of War
Darcy's dressing room in Grosvenor Square was usually a place of calm, smelling faintly of sandalwood and absolute order.
It was the one place in London where he could be assured that no one would ask him about his feelings, his estate, or why he was currently clutching a copy of Cecilia as if it were the Holy Grail.
Fletcher, his valet—a man of indeterminate age and infinite patience—was currently attempting to pry the book from Darcy's hand so he could assist his master into a fresh shirt.
"Sir," Fletcher said, his voice neutral, "while I appreciate your newfound dedication to literature, it will be difficult to tie your cravat if you do not relinquish the volume."
"It is a very engaging book, Fletcher," Darcy muttered, finally placing it on the vanity table. He stared at his reflection. He looked haunted. He looked like a man who had seen a ghost on Piccadilly—a ghost with dark eyes and a pelisse that had done strange things to his equilibrium.
"If you say so, Sir. The blue waistcoat tonight?"
"Black. I am in mourning."
"For whom, Sir?"
"My sanity. It died this afternoon outside a bookshop."
Fletcher didn't blink. "Very good, Sir. The black waistcoat."
Darcy sighed, rubbing his chest. The physical ache was back. He had spent the last two hours pacing his library, trying to convince himself that the encounter had been a hallucination. But it hadn't been. Elizabeth Bennet was in London. She was staying with her aunt and uncle. In Cheapside.
And she hated him. The look she had given him—cold, hard, and utterly dismissive— had struck deeper than a facer from Gentleman Jackson himself.
Just as Fletcher began the intricate work of the cravat, the door to the dressing room banged open. Darcys did not bang doors. Their servants did not bang doors. There was only one category of person who banged doors in Darcy House.
"I have retrieved him!" Robert announced, striding into the room gingerly. He was still in his day clothes, looking infuriatingly fresh. Behind him trailed Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy's other cousin, who looked confused but cheerful, shaking snow from his red military coat.
"Retrieved whom?" Darcy asked, flinching as Fletcher's hand slipped. "Richard? Why are you here? I did not expect to see you until dinner."
"Robert sent a messenger to the barracks," Richard explained, plopping to a chair and stretching out his long legs.
"Said it was a medical emergency. Said you were suffering from a fatal case of.
.. what was it? 'Fine Eyes'?" He grinned.
"I assumed he was speaking in code about the Ramsgate business.
I thought you were brooding about Wickham again.
Are you? Because I can bring out the brandy. "
"It is not Wickham," Robert crowed, pouring a drink from the decanter on the sideboard without asking. "Better, Richard. Much better. Our dear, stoic, stone-faced cousin has fallen in love."
Richard froze. He looked at Darcy, then at Robert, then back at Darcy. "You're joking. Darcy? In love? With a human woman?"
"I am not in love," Darcy protested, pushing Fletcher's hands away. "I am... intrigued. Mildly."
"He was hugging a romance novel in Hatchards," Robert informed the Colonel. "And then we ran into her. And her sister. Richard, you should have seen the sister. A goddess. A blonde angel sent to earth to test my resolve."
Richard sat up, his interest piqued. "Wait. You met them? Today?"
"Outside the bookshop," Robert confirmed. "The Goddess tripped—literally fell for me—and the She-Dragon stood there glaring at Darcy like he was a stain on the pavement. It was magnificent."
"She-Dragon?" Richard laughed. "Darcy, who is this woman who glares at you? Usually, they are trying to marry you."
"She is Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Darcy said through gritted teeth. "From Hertfordshire. And she does not wish to marry me. She finds me insufferable. At best."
Richard threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Insufferable! Oh, this is rich. And you like her? You actually like a woman who hates you?"
"I admire her intellect," Darcy lied.
"He admires her eyes," Robert corrected. "And her impertinence. She practically flayed him alive on the pavement, and he looked like he wanted to thank her for it."
Darcy groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Can we please go to dinner? I would prefer to be tortured by my uncle than by you two."
The carriage ride to Matlock House was a study in claustrophobia. Darcy sat next to his sister, pressed against the window, and trying to merge with the squabs. His cousins took up the rest of the space, radiating boisterous energy.
"So," Richard said, rubbing his hands together. "Details. I need details. Who are they? Who is the father? Is there a fortune?"
"The father is a gentleman," Darcy said quickly. "Mr Bennet. Of Longbourn. The estate is entailed."
"So, no money," Richard summarized. "That's fine. You have enough for both of you. And connections?"
Darcy hesitated. This was the part that usually made him shudder. "The mother lacks propriety. There are three younger sisters who are wild."
"And?" Robert prompted. "The uncle?"
Darcy closed his eyes. "Mr Gardiner."
"And his profession?" Richard asked.
"He is in trade," Darcy whispered. "He lives in Gracechurch Street. Cheapside."
Silence filled the carriage. For a moment, the only sound was the rattle of wheels on cobblestones.
Then Richard snorted. "Cheapside? Darcy, you are pining for a girl who stays in Cheapside? Do they even have air there, or just coal dust?"
"The air is perfectly breathable," Robert interjected, surprisingly defensive.
"I found it quite invigorating when we discussed it today.
Not that I have ever ventured there, but still.
And frankly, Richard, when you see Miss Bennet—the elder one—you will not care if she lives in a coal scuttle. She transcends geography."
"You are smitten," Richard observed, looking at his brother with amusement. "I haven't seen you this worked up since that Italian soprano."
"This is different," Robert said seriously. "The soprano was a diversion. This Miss Bennet, she has a dignity about her. And she fell into my arms. It is fate."
"And the She-Dragon?" Richard asked Darcy. "Is she fate too?"
"She is a punishment," Darcy muttered. "For every sin of pride I have ever committed. She looked at me today as if I were responsible for every tragedy in history."
"Why?"
"Because," Darcy sighed, "I separated her sister from Bingley, who showed great interest in her while at Netherfield. And she knows it. Or suspects it. And now Bingley is gone, and her sister is heartbroken, and I am the villain of the piece."
"You separated them?" Robert looked impressed. "I didn't know you had it in you. Why?"
"Because I thought the sister indifferent!" Darcy defended himself. "She smiled at everyone. I thought she did not care for him. And the family... the connections... I thought I was saving him."
"And now?"
"Now I have seen her with you," Darcy said, running a hand through his hair.
"I have seen a warmth and a spirit that I claimed she did not possess.
I fear I was blinded by my own arrogance.
I assumed because she was not demonstrative, she did not feel.
But seeing her today... I realize that I likely mistook a deep, quiet reserve for indifference. "
"Or," Robert preened, adjusting his cuffs, "I am simply more inspiring than Bingley."
"It is a disaster," Darcy concluded.
"You can call on them," Richard pointed out. "If they are still in town."
"In Cheapside?" Darcy looked horrified. "It is not done, Richard. One does not simply call on Gracechurch Street."
"One does if one is desperate," Robert said, a glint in his eye. "And we are going to be desperate. But first, we must survive dinner with Mother and Father. And remember—not a word about the trade connections. If Mother hears 'Cheapside' before the soup course, she will have an apoplexy."
"I am saying nothing," Darcy promised. "I intend to be a mute."
"Good luck with that," Richard grinned. "Mother has a stare that pries secrets loose like a dentist pulling teeth."
Matlock House was everything Darcy House was not: ostentatious, loud, and filled with the weight of centuries of political manoeuvring. The dining room was vast, the table set with enough silver to ransom a small country, and the air was thick with expectation.
At the head of the table sat the Earl of Matlock, a man whose eyebrows were his most expressive feature. He loved his sons, but he despaired of them. Robert was too wild. Richard was too poor. He looked at Darcy as the only sensible male in the family, which was a burden Darcy felt keenly.
Opposite him sat the Countess. She was a woman of sharp intelligence and sharper tongue, who saw everything and forgave nothing, though she hid a soft heart under layers of silk and sarcasm. Next to her was Georgiana, whom they had delivered there right after the morning trip to the bookstore.
"So," the Earl rumbled over the soup, glaring at his eldest son. "I hear you were in a bookshop today, Robert. Did you get lost on your way to a gambling hell?"
"I was purchasing your Christmas gift, Father," Robert said smoothly. "A tome on agricultural reform. I know how you love manure distribution theories."
"Hmph," the Earl grunted, though he looked pleased. He turned to Darcy. "And you, Fitzwilliam. You look peaky. Grey. Is it the liver?"
"I am perfectly well, Uncle," Darcy lied, staring at his consommé.
"He needs a wife," his aunt declared from her end of the table. "That is what is wrong with all of you. You are roaming feral. Fitzwilliam, have you written to your aunt Catherine yet?"
Darcy choked on his soup. "I beg your pardon?"
"Catherine wrote to me last week," she continued, sipping her wine. "She claims you are to visit Rosings at Easter. She is under the impression that you and Anne are finally to settle the date."