Chapter Seventeen The Pursuit of a Penniless Rogue
Caroline Bingley had spent the better part of the morning staring at the wallpaper in her drawing room.
The pattern—a repeating motif of Grecian urns in a shade of blue that was neither soothing nor invigorating, but somehow managed to be accusatory—seemed to mock her with every loop and swirl.
She had chosen it herself, two seasons ago, in a fit of determination to prove that her taste was impeccable, even if her origins were not.
Now, it felt like a prison of her own design.
The Matlocks' visit had left her unmoored.
The Earl's gruff apology, the Countess's piercing insights—they had peeled back layers she had spent years fortifying.
And Charles… dear, oblivious Charles, who had finally seen her.
It was all too much. Too raw. She had retreated to her chamber after they left, pleading a headache, but the ache was lower, somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
Schmidt bustled in with a tray of tea things, her face a mask of carefully neutral concern.
The maid had been hovering like a persistent bee since the Matlocks' departure, offering unsolicited cups of chamomile and even, once, a hot brick for her feet.
Caroline suspected Schmidt had overheard the entire conversation—servants always did—but the woman had the good sense not to mention it directly.
"Tea, Miss?" Schmidt set the tray down with a clink. "And a biscuit. You have not eaten since breakfast."
"I am not hungry." Caroline's voice was sharper than intended. She softened it with an effort. "Thank you, Schmidt. That will be all."
Schmidt did not move. Instead, she straightened a napkin on the tray, her movements deliberate.
"If I may say, Miss, the Colonel… he seemed a genuine sort. The way he caught those hatboxes that first day, like they were made of glass. And carrying them all the way to the carriage without a word of complaint. A schemer would have dropped one on purpose, just to make a point, if you ask me."
Caroline's head snapped up. Schmidt's eyes were fixed on the teapot, but her tone was pointed.
"And at the theatre, Miss. Handling Mr Hurst like he was a sack of potatoes.
No hesitation. No waiting for thanks. But especially the way he looked at me when I refused him entrance…
he was devastated, if you ask me. That's not the mark of a man after money.
That's the mark of an idiot who doesn't know how to say what's in his heart. "
"An idiot," Caroline repeated, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips despite herself.
Schmidt nodded sagely. "Genuine idiot in love, if you ask me. Which you didn't. But there it is."
She bobbed a curtsey and retreated, leaving Caroline alone with the accusatory urns and a cooling cup of tea.
She sipped it anyway. It was strong, just how she liked it. Schmidt always knew.
The maid's words lingered, worming their way into the cracks the Matlocks had made.
Richard—Colonel Fitzwilliam—had never laughed at her.
Not once. He had called her a 'lemon', but it was fair enough.
He had mocked her feathers, challenged her wit, protected her from drunks and dandies alike.
And that laugh of his, barked and genuine, like he could not help himself.
If it was all a scheme, it was the most convoluted one in history.
A knock at the door interrupted her reverie. The butler entered, bearing a card on a silver salver.
"Lord Grimsby to see you, Miss Bingley."
Caroline suppressed a groan. Lord Grimsby—the rich man with the big nose, as she had uncharitably dubbed him in her mind.
He was a widower of middling title, an estate in Stafford, and a face dominated by a proboscis that could have served as a weather vane.
He had been circling her at events for weeks when the Colonel was not nearby, his intentions as subtle as a brick.
"Show him in," she said, straightening her posture. Better to face the conflict head-on.
Lord Grimsby entered with a bow that strained his waistcoat. His nose preceded him by a good inch.
"Miss Bingley. A pleasure, as always. I trust I find you well?"
"Tolerably," she replied, gesturing to a chair. "To what do I owe this visit, my lord?"
He sat, his knees creaking. "I shall come straight to the point. You are a woman of sense and breeding, Miss Bingley. Your fortune is admirable, your taste impeccable. I find myself in need of a companion—a wife, if you will. I propose we court. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Caroline stared at him. The words were blunt, transactional. No poetry. No passion. Just arithmetic: her dowry plus his title equalling security.
A week ago, she might have considered it. Stability. Status. No more chasing elusive affections from men like Darcy.
But now…
She thought of Richard's craggy face, his frayed cuffs, his wolfish grin. The way he had shielded her on Bond Street, not for show, but because it was right. The way he had declared his love in her carriage, ragged and desperate, like a man drowning.
Lord Grimsby's nose twitched expectantly.
"Thank you, my lord," she said, her voice steady. "But I must decline. My heart is… otherwise engaged."
He blinked, his nose flaring in surprise. "Otherwise—? But surely—"
"Good day, Lord Grimsby."
She rose, ending the audience with a nod.
He left in a huff, muttering about modern women and their follies.
Caroline sank back into her chair, a strange elation bubbling in her chest like champagne that had been shaken a bit too vigorously.
She had rejected security—solid, nose-dominated security—in favour of what?
A penniless rogue who had once called her a lemon, who loomed like a thundercloud, and who had the audacity to make her heart race with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic quip?
Yes. Exactly that.
She did not care about his money—or the glaring lack thereof.
Titles? Estates? They paled in comparison to the spark he ignited in her.
She wanted the arguments, the banter that sharpened her wit like a whetstone on a blade.
The way he made her feel alive, seen, challenged—like she was more than a dowry wrapped in silk.
She wanted to fight with him for the rest of her life, over the choice of furniture (hers was superior, obviously), the absurdity of her feathers (which were magnificent, thank you), and every petty, delightful thing in between.
Life with him would be a perpetual skirmish, and the thought thrilled her more than any placid union ever could.
And she needed to tell him. Now. Before her resolve melted like snow in spring, or before he did something irrevocably foolish like vanishing into the West Indies.
She rang the bell with such force that the cord nearly snapped, her decision crystallising like frost on a windowpane, sharp and unyielding. She asked the servant who answered, to fetch her brother post haste.
Her brother appeared promptly, poking a wary head through the door, not sure what to expect of his sister's moods. "Caroline? You look… determined. Alarmingly so. Is everything all right?"
"I am determined," she replied, her voice brooking no argument. "Go to White's, Charles. Find Colonel Fitzwilliam. Tell him I must speak with him urgently. Discreetly, if possible—but urgently above all."
Charles's eyes widened, his amiable face cycling through surprise, concern, and a touch of brotherly protectiveness that was both endearing and entirely too late. "The Colonel? But after the Matlocks' visit—and that carriage business—I thought… Are you certain? He might not be in the best humour."
"Go, Charles. Please."
She fixed him with her most imperious stare, the one that had once reduced a modiste to tears over a botched hemline.
"This is not a request for debate. It is an order."
He hesitated, fiddling with his cuff, then nodded with a sigh that spoke volumes about his long-suffering role in the Bingley family.
"Very well. If that is what you want. I shall take the phaeton—faster that way.
Should be back before tea, assuming he is there and not off brooding in a corner somewhere. "
"It is what I want," she confirmed, watching him depart with a swirl of his coat-tails.
Caroline paced the drawing room, her skirts swishing like battle flags unfurled for war.
The urns on the wallpaper seemed less accusatory now—more like allies in her resolve, cheering her on with their silent, looping elegance.
She imagined them whispering encouragement: Go on, Miss Bingley. Get the life you deserve.
Hours passed—agonising, clock-ticking hours that stretched like taffy. The tea grew cold on the tray. Schmidt brought more, with a knowing glance that bordered on smug.
"He will come around, Miss. Men like that always do, once they've stopped being fools."
"I am not waiting for him to come around," Caroline muttered, though she appreciated the maid's unsolicited wisdom. "I am dragging him around by the ear if necessary."
Finally, as the afternoon sun dipped into the horizon, the front door burst open with a theatrical bang.
Voices echoed in the hall—multiple voices, male and animated, overlapping in a cacophony that suggested Charles had not returned alone.
There was laughter, a stern murmur, and someone's recounting of a heroic tale involving hounds.
Caroline rose, smoothing her skirts, as Charles entered, flushed and dishevelled in that particular way that suggested good news or catastrophe.
He was followed by a procession that could have stepped straight from a farce at Drury Lane: a parade of well-bred gentlemen looking equal parts excited and harried.
First came Colonel Lindon, looking windswept and amused, his uniform impeccable despite what must have been a hasty journey. His hair was tousled and his smile wide with excitement.
Then Viscount Keathley, grinning like a cat who had not only got the cream but had also convinced the dairymaid to deliver more.