Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“The dark blue,” Darcy said.
Franks produced the correct coat and said nothing.
Darcy was not in a condition that would benefit from conversation this morning, and Franks knew it. Today he required the unhurried order of buttons and brushing and the cravat arranged without drama, and this Franks provided.
“Gloves,” Darcy said.
Franks produced the gloves.
Darcy had not slept particularly well. He had lain awake long enough to think through the previous day in its entirety, which was perhaps the problem, as it had been a day of considerable variety.
The sitting room door at half past six. Elizabeth’s dressing gown, which had not succeeded in concealing her light and very pleasing form.
The charged air between them, Georgiana’s unfortunate interruption.
Then the study, Elizabeth’s finger on the document, her playful, intelligent seriousness, and Fitz looking between them and entertaining doubts about the continuation of his mother’s sovereignty over London’s gossiping elite.
Elizabeth had forgiven him. That was the thing he returned to in the small hours.
He had come to her room to confess his weeks of silence and she had not responded with the vitriol that was her due.
She had been furious, he had no doubt of that.
He had heard it in her tightly restrained words, seen it in her small, fisted hands and the fire in her eyes.
He was not certain what had produced her pardon, except that she seemed incapable of doing anything by halves, including forgiving people she was still angry with.
He had no delusions that she would be so forbearing again, but he felt a great relief that she had granted him this reprieve.
Her only retaliation had been teasing him about reading her novel, which had been embarrassing, but no more than he deserved.
She had very efficiently extracted a confession and then seemed to consider the matter resolved.
Then she had come to his study and promptly demonstrated why it had been foolish to exclude her in the first place.
Franks gave a final pass to the shoulders of the dark blue coat and stepped back. “Sir.” He did not immediately move away. This was unusual.
Darcy looked at him.
“I wonder,” Franks said, with measured deliberation, “whether I might be of some use. In the current matter.”
Darcy was still for a moment. “What do you know of the current matter?”
“I was at Ramsgate, sir.” He paused. “And there is talk below stairs, of a particular kind, that I have been aware of for some weeks. You left this house in a rush and then returned with your sister, no companion, and a new wife. Word has not left this house, Mr. Darcy, but there has been some talk inside it.”
“You said nothing about this.”
“It was not my place, sir. Not without being asked.” Franks met his eye, and Darcy knew his valet well enough to know when he had a great deal to say and was exercising restraint.
Darcy looked at him for a moment. “I did not ask,” he said quietly, “because it is not among your duties. I had no wish to place you in a difficult position on my account.”
“I am sensible of that, sir.” Franks inclined his head.
“However, I have some acquaintance among men in similar positions in other households. It is not gossip,” he added quickly.
“It is information. Lord Ashworth’s man, for instance, is aware that a new girl in that house has been rather free with her conversation and your name was mentioned.
He finds it a professional embarrassment and mentioned it to me, thinking it might be of use.
” A pause. “These things move through the kitchens and the maids’ halls, sir, but they do eventually reach our ears. ”
Darcy said nothing.
“If there are conversations that need to begin moving through certain channels,” Franks continued, “I am in a position to be useful, should you wish it.” He straightened the already-straight lapel of the dark blue coat.
“As you say, it is not, strictly speaking, my duty. It is, however,” Franks said, with the smallest elevation of his chin, “in my interest. I have been connected to the Darcy name for fifteen years, sir. That name is, in some small way, also mine to defend.” He paused, and his eyes took on a humorous gleam.
“Besides which, a man in my position must think of his prospects. Should I ever find myself seeking a new situation, a master whose household was spoken of with respect would reflect rather better on me than the alternative.” He considered this.
“As would, perhaps, a master who talked somewhat more. But one cannot have everything.”
Darcy put on his gloves. “Speak to Ashworth’s man. If the men you know can assist in setting . . .” He hesitated, thinking of the proper term. “Defensive information in motion through their own households. Yes, you may consider yourself authorised.”
“Very good, sir.”
Darcy stood for a moment and considered.
They had done what could be done. Franks had his authorisation and his contacts. Elizabeth had written to her aunt. Fitz was tracing Mrs. Younge’s movements. The machinery of their response was in motion.
He went downstairs.
“Sir,” Tracy said by way of greeting. “The Sandersons.”
“What about them?”
“This evening, sir.” Tracy produced a card and presented it with both hands. “Eight o’clock. Wimpole Street.”
Darcy took the card. He had accepted Sanderson’s invitation when an evening of chamber music had seemed an uncomplicated pleasure. That was before Ramsgate, before the marriage, before the peculiar autumn that had followed.
“I thought you might have forgotten, sir,” Tracy said, at a volume intended to convey respectful discretion and achieving, instead, the opposite.
“I see. Thank you, Tracy.”
“The coachman has also been informed, sir. And Cook. In case dinner wants adjusting.” A pause. “The salmon is very fine today.”
“Thank you, Tracy.”
“You will want to speak to Mrs. Darcy,” Tracy added. “She is in the morning room, sir. Shall I inform her?”
“I will tell her myself.”
“Very good, sir,” Tracy said, and stood back, satisfied that he had completed a complex duty well.
Elizabeth was at her writing desk in the morning room, a letter half-finished before her, her pen moving with the quick certainty she brought to everything. She looked up when he stopped in the doorway and lifted her brows, as if to ask if there was any news.
He shook his head. “Franks has offered to make use of certain connexions among other valets.”
“That was very kind of him.” Her pen rested in her hand. “We wait, then.”
“We wait.” He looked at her. He had been looking at her for rather longer than was required to convey two sentences.
He moved his gaze briefly to the window and searched for something to say.
“There is a concert this evening at the Sandersons’ home.
Mr. Sanderson is a friend of mine from university, and I told him some months ago that I should attend.
With everything that has happened, I had forgotten entirely, but Tracy reminded me. Would you like to go?”
“Does Mr. Sanderson’s invitation include me?”
“It will be a feather in his wife’s cap to host the new Mrs. Darcy. We have not accepted many engagements as of yet.”
“Would you like to attend?”
Would he like to attend a concert hosted by an old friend, with his beautiful wife on his arm, at an event where she would be obliged to remain beside him for several hours? The question scarcely required reflection.
“Yes,” he said. Then, because he had resolved that marriage demanded more candour than he had thus far displayed, he added, “I shall not pretend there is no risk of hearing things I would rather you did not have to hear. I cannot promise the evening will be comfortable. But I find . . .”
“You find?”
He took a deep breath. “I find that I would rather navigate whatever comes with you beside me.” He met her eyes. “And I should like to spend an evening with you that is not confined to a quiet library or conducted over intelligence reports.”
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. She looked at her unfinished letter, then at him.
“What time does it begin?” she asked.
The Sanderson house was well-lit and crowded by the time their carriage arrived. Darcy descended first and handed Elizabeth down, and she came to stand beside him with her hand on his arm and her shoulders squared, prepared for whatever the evening intended to offer.
He had been approaching her door from their shared sitting room when she opened it herself to ask whether the amber necklace or the pearl suited her cerulean gown better, and he had said the amber, though in truth he could not entirely account for why, except that the amber was warm while the pearl was cold, and nothing about Elizabeth was cold.
She was wearing the amber, and it made the colour of her eyes even richer.
The entrance hall of the Sandersons’ was already full of people engaged in the pleasant business of being seen before the music began.
The whole house was bright with candles, every sconce filled, the chandelier ablaze, and the company moved through all that light with the comfortable assurance of people who wished to see and be seen.
Elizabeth was beside him making conversation with a woman he could not immediately identify and doing it with evident ease.
Sanderson appeared at his other elbow and was generous enough to describe the programme at some length, and Darcy attended to him with half his attention and kept the other half on Elizabeth.
Just to be certain she was comfortable, of course.
She glanced at him, and he read in her eyes the same awareness he felt.
She too had been watching the room, listening for trouble.
But her expression was composed, and she drew him smoothly into the conversation with the woman, who turned out to be a Mrs. Chelwick, who had a nephew at Harrow and strong opinions about Venetian glass.