Chapter Eleven The Viscount’s Vocation
Chapter Eleven: The Viscount's Vocation
Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, opened one eye.
The ceiling of his bedchamber was a soothing expanse of cream plaster, unmarred by soot, coal dust, or the threat of French assassins. It was a civilized ceiling. It was a ceiling that understood the value of silence and fashion.
"Peters," he croaked.
His valet materialised from the dressing room shadows. Peters was a man of indeterminable age and infinite discretion, who had once removed a stain of unknown origin from a peacock blue silk waistcoat without asking a single question.
"My Lord?"
"I am alive," Robert observed, testing his limbs. "Which is a surprise. I feel as though I have been trampled by a regiment of Dragoons."
"You have been exerting yourself, my Lord. Saving the Darcy family honour is tiring work."
Peters approached with a silver tray bearing a restorative draft—a concoction of raw egg, parsley, and brandy.
Robert sat up, the silk sheets sliding off his chest. He accepted the glass and drank. He shuddered.
"It was a masterpiece, Peters." He handed the glass back. "The whole affair. The Duel. The Heist. I directed it with the precision of a general and the flair of a tragedian. And what is my reward?"
"A hangover, my Lord?"
"Boredom," Robert sighed, flopping back onto the pillows. "Crushing, grey boredom. The crisis is over. The curtain has fallen. Now I must return to a life of tailoring appointments and listening to Mother discuss the merits of this season's debutants."
"A tragedy indeed, sir."
"I need a new project," Robert mused, staring at the canopy. "Darcy is fixed. I have turned him from a trembling boy into a man capable of lying to a crime lord. It is my legacy. I am a sculptor of men, Peters."
"If you say so, my Lord. Shall I lay out the burgundy coat? Or the charcoal?"
"The charcoal," Robert decided. "I am in mourning for the end of the drama. And let us create an intricate knot in my cravat. The students are returning to school. I must see them off. It is the final act."
He swung his legs out of bed. He caught sight of himself in the cheval mirror. He looked pale. He looked weary.
But he also looked, he decided with a smirk, devastatingly handsome.
Darcy House was a hive of activity. Trunks were being hauled down the stairs. Footmen scurried with the desperate energy of men who knew the Master was watching.
Robert stood in the hallway, leaning on his cane, watching the proceedings with a critical eye.
"That trunk is too heavy for you," he informed a struggling footman. "Lift with the knees, man. Or drop it. It only contains Wickham's vanity."
Captain Fitzwilliam entered. He was back in full regimentals, sword at his hip, helmet under his arm, irritatingly energetic.
"Brother," Richard nodded. "Came to ensure they leave?"
"Came to ensure Wickham does not steal the silver on his way out," Robert corrected. "He has a mercenary glint in his eye. It unsettles the spoons."
"I came to see them off, as I am leaving as well." Richard adjusted his gloves. "The regiment marches on Tuesday. Back to rations and rain."
"You love it. You are a flagellant. You court discomfort as a mistress."
Richard laughed, clapping a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder. "And you? Back to the clubs? Going to terrorise another waiter?"
"I might," Robert dusted his shoulder. "Or I might write a memoir. The Education of a Prig. It will be a bestseller."
The door opened. Fitzwilliam Darcy emerged, followed by George Wickham.
The change was subtle, but Robert saw it. Darcy walked differently. The stiffness remained—he would always be a man whose spine resembled a structural support beam—but the anxiety was gone. His eyes were clear. He held his gloves with authority.
Wickham, by contrast, resembled a man who had survived a shipwreck and was still suspicious of dry land. He wore his brown suit, and clutched a travel bag as if it contained the Crown Jewels.
"Cousins." Darcy stopped, struggling for words. The Prig was not given to speeches.
"Do not thank me," Robert held up a hand. "It ruins my reputation as a heartless aesthete. Just tell me the box remains safe."
"It is in the strongbox," Darcy confirmed. "Father has the key."
"And the lesson?" Robert turned his gaze to Wickham.
George flinched. "Learned! Engraved on my soul, Robert! I swear it. No cards. No dice. I shall study until my eyes bleed."
"Excellent," Robert smiled. "Because next time, you shall face the Spy alone."
George turned a shade of pale green. "Understood."
Mr Darcy appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning on the railing.
"Carriage is ready, boys!" he boomed. "Off to Cambridge! Make us proud! And George—try to pretend you are not marching to the gallows. Education is a privilege!"
"Yes, sir!" George squeaked.
They moved to the door. The fresh morning air rushed in, smelling of horses and freedom.
Richard shook hands with Darcy. "Keep your head down, cousin. And keep your purse strings tight."
"Safe travels, Richard." Darcy clasped his cousin's hand.
Then he turned to the Viscount. He saw the boredom, the vanity, the ridiculous cane. But he also saw the man who had flipped a table in a gaming hell to save him.
"Robert." Darcy shook his head, and sighed. "You are absurd."
"You adore me," Robert stated. "The world needs colour, Darcy. You provide the structure. I provide the texture."
Darcy smiled. It was a small, dry thing, but it was real.
"Farewell, cousin."
The carriage rolled away, carrying the son and the godson back to the cloisters of academia.
Robert stood on the pavement, watching it disappear around the corner of Grosvenor Square. Richard mounted his horse, gave a salute, and trotted off towards the barracks.
Robert was left alone.
He stood there for a moment, listening to the London traffic. A coal wagon rumbled past. A street seller shouted about fresh oysters.
It was all so terribly mundane.
He turned to go back inside, intending to bully Mostyn into finding him a better brandy, when he spotted something on the ground.
It lay in the gutter, near where George Wickham had stood moments before. Robert walked over. He poked it with his cane. It was a playing card. The Knave of Hearts.
Robert frowned. He bent down, pinching the corner of the card between his gloved fingers. It was clean. Crisp. New. It must have fallen from Wickham's pocket.
"The little weasel," he whispered.
A laugh bubbled up in his chest. It started low and built until he was chuckling openly in the street, ignoring the stares of passersby.
Wickham had not learned. Not really. The shock would fade. The itch would return. The Scoundrel was not a coat one could take off. It was the skin beneath.
Robert looked at the card. He thought of Darcy's relief. He thought of the "perfect" lesson. He could chase the carriage. He could wave the card in Darcy's face and scream that it was all for nothing, that the tragedy would repeat, that the man was flawed beyond repair.
He hesitated. Then, he flicked his wrist. The card spun through the air, landing back in the mud.
"Not today," he decided.
Let the Prig have his victory. Let him have his peace. There would be time enough for reality later.
He straightened his cuffs and adjusted his new hat. He tapped his cane on the stones. He walked away, leaving the Knave of Hearts to rot in the gutter, perfectly content to wait for the next act.