Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Prince Regent disliked surprises. They suggested disorder—an imbalance in a system that relied upon anticipation and control.
And yet, as he stood at the tall windows of his private sitting room at Carlton House, he acknowledged that the matter of Elizabeth de Bourgh had already slipped beyond the realm of neat management.
She had not been meant to complicate things.
She had been introduced into the Season with purpose, placed with care, guided by a woman whose loyalty was beyond question. She was to be observed, assessed, and—if necessary—directed. A useful presence. A manageable one. Instead, she had become visible. Worse—interesting.
He turned as the door opened, schooling his expression into one of indulgent impatience. Lady Hertford entered with her usual composure, her gown impeccable, her manner calm, her eyes already measuring him. They seated themselves and were silent for a moment before the lady spoke.
“You sent for me, Your Royal Highness?”
“I did,” he replied mildly. “You have news.”
She inclined her head. “Yes.”
He waited.
Lady Hertford did not rush. She never did. She crossed the room with unhurried grace and took the chair opposite him without being invited, which told him everything he needed to know about the nature of the conversation to come.
“Mr. Darcy has proposed to Miss de Bourgh,” she said.
The words landed cleanly. No embellishment nor apology.
The Prince Regent did not react at once. He reached instead for his snuffbox, tapping it once against his palm as though considering the matter entirely dispassionately.
“Has he?” he said at last. “How…enterprising.”
Lady Hertford’s lips curved faintly. “Not enterprising. Deliberate.”
He glanced at her sharply. “You sound as though you approve.”
“I do not disapprove.”
“That is not the same thing.” He reached for a glass of port and downed it in one gulp.
“No,” she agreed smoothly. “But it is closer than I expected to be.”
The Prince Regent leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You encouraged him?”
“I did not,” Lady Hertford replied without hesitation. “Nor did I discourage him.”
“Ah.” He smiled thinly. “So you permitted the illusion of choice.”
“I permitted observation,” she corrected. “And the result has proven…instructive.”
He exhaled through his nose. “You were meant to steer her elsewhere.”
“I attempted to,” Lady Hertford said calmly. “She resisted. And Winslow, bumbling idiot that he is, refused to see her as anything more than a potential for increased consequence. Elizabeth is intelligent and saw through his empty flattery.”
His expression hardened. “She is not in a position to resist.” Miss de Bourgh was supposed to bend to his will. He was in control.
“She is in a position to be noticed when she does,” Lady Hertford replied. “And she has been.”
That, more than anything else, unsettled him.
Elizabeth de Bourgh had been watched from the moment she arrived in Town.
Her movements, her conversations, her associations—none of it had escaped scrutiny.
And yet she had not behaved as expected.
She had neither adhered to his wishes nor rebelled openly.
The girl had not grasped at favor nor recoiled from it.
She had simply…endured. Blast his wife for creating such a paragon.
“She has influence,” Lady Hertford continued carefully. “Not overtly. But perceptibly. Princess Charlotte listens to her.”
The Prince Regent’s jaw tightened.
“That,” he said sharply, “was never part of the arrangement.” He ought to have known it would occur. Charlotte adored her ‘only friend.’
“No,” Lady Hertford agreed. “But it is now a fact. Surely you noted your daughter’s outspoken manner at supper.”
He rose and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. “Charlotte is already difficult. Observant. Questioning. She does not require additional encouragement.” It would be hard enough to marry the girl off without added conflict.
“And yet,” Lady Hertford said, “Elizabeth does not encourage rebellion. If anything, she tempers it.”
He stopped. “You are suggesting that she is a moderating influence.” That was a revolutionary idea. Was Miss de Bourgh’s influence a detriment to Charlotte’s behavior or a positive aspect of the relationship?
“I am suggesting,” Lady Hertford replied, continuing unheeded, “that Elizabeth commands loyalty without demanding it. That is precisely what makes her dangerous if mishandled.”
He turned back toward her slowly. “Dangerous?”
Lady Hertford met his gaze unflinchingly. “To those who insist on obedience without regard.”
Silence stretched between them.
At length, the Prince Regent returned to his chair. “Darcy,” he said slowly. “Let us speak of Darcy.”
“Yes,” Lady Hertford said. “Let us.”
“He is proud,” the prince said. “Stubborn. Inclined to independence.”
“And therefore not easily controlled,” Lady Hertford agreed. “Which is why he has never been a favorite.”
“Nor does he seek favor,” the prince added. “That, too, is tiresome.”
“And useful,” she countered.
He shot her a look. “You grow bolder.”
“I grow practical,” Lady Hertford replied. “Your Royal Highness, the men you placed before Elizabeth—Winslow among them—have all failed.”
“They failed because she refused to be impressed.”
“She refused because they treated her as an acquisition,” Lady Hertford said. “Darcy does not.”
The Prince Regent was silent for a moment. “He has not pressed his suit as they have.”
“No.” Lady Hertford remained calm and composed.
“He has not attempted to leverage her position.” This was unusual in a man, particularly one of Darcy’s standing.
“Not once.”
“He has not appealed to me.” That irked him. Darcy ought to have requested an audience, prostrated himself before his prince, and begged to have Elizabeth.
“No, though he petitioned me to request an audience on his behalf.”
That made it slightly better. “But,” the prince said slowly, “he has secured her regard.”
Lady Hertford inclined her head. “Precisely.”
He frowned. “That was never the intention.” Though he had told Elizabeth she would have a say, he had never had any intention of allowing it.
“No,” she agreed. “But it is the outcome.”
He rose again, restless. “If I permit this match, I relinquish leverage.” He would lose control of Miss de Bourgh, and thus lose the greatest bargaining chip he had against his wife.
“You conclude matters,” Lady Hertford corrected. “Cleanly.”
He paused at that.
“Elizabeth’s elevation has already inspired speculation,” she continued. “The longer she remains unattached, the more attention she draws. Rivalries multiply. Ambitions sharpen. At present, she is being contested.”
He grimaced. “I do not care to see her become a prize.” Not unless there was some benefit to him.
“Then remove her from the board,” Lady Hertford suggested.
He turned toward her slowly. “You propose marriage.”
“I suggest it as a resolution.”
He laughed once, sharply. “You are very good at making inevitability sound like choice.”
Lady Hertford smiled faintly. “It is a talent born of necessity.”
The Prince Regent returned to his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze distant now. Darcy. Fitzwilliam Darcy. The man was infuriatingly solid. He had no debts, no scandal, no hunger for advancement. His fortune was vast and unencumbered and his lineage impeccable. His influence quiet but undeniable.
And worse—he did not need the Crown.
Which meant he would not cling to it.
That independence, once a liability, now seemed…stabilizing. Except…He did need the Crown. He needed the Crown to have his Elizabeth.
“And there is another consideration,” Lady Hertford added softly, interrupting his thoughts.
He looked at her. “Yes?”
“Elizabeth’s marriage to Darcy would permanently sever her return to her.”
The prince’s expression darkened.
Her.
The word settled like a bruise.
Princess Caroline of Brunswick. Unwanted wife.
Unmanageable embarrassment. A woman who had turned motherhood into defiance and separation into spectacle.
Elizabeth’s continued presence in Charlotte’s life had already been an irritation.
If she were married—properly married—to a man of Darcy’s standing, she would be removed not merely from Caroline’s household, but from her influence altogether.
No visits, no shared authority, and no sentimental claims.
Elizabeth would become Darcy’s responsibility. And Darcy, in turn, would owe a debt to him. Not obedience—but gratitude. The Prince Regent exhaled slowly.
“You are suggesting,” he said, “that by allowing this match, I lose control only to secure it more completely.”
“Yes,” Lady Hertford replied simply.
“And you believe Darcy will understand the privilege extended to him?”
“I believe,” she said carefully, “that he will remember who permitted him to keep what he values.”
The prince was silent for a long time. At last, he waved a dismissive hand. “Leave me.”
Lady Hertford rose at once. “As you wish.”
She paused at the door. “For what it is worth, Your Royal Highness, Darcy is the least dangerous choice.”
He did not respond. When the door closed, the Prince Regent remained where he was, staring at nothing.
He thought of Miss Elizabeth de Bourgh—composed, intelligent, watchful, and every bit her mother. Then, he thought of Charlotte’s sharp eyes, of her quiet questions. He thought of Caroline’s voice, always demanding, always resentful.
Darcy would stabilize all of it. Not because he was perfect, but because he was sufficient. The Prince Regent smiled thinly. Power, after all, was not always best asserted through insistence. Sometimes, it was best preserved by choosing the path that left no further moves to be made.
“Summon Mr. Darcy,” he said softly to the empty room.
And the game shifted—at last—toward its conclusion.