Chapter Fourteen
The dining room still carried the faint scents of roasted turkey and Christmas pudding, but after they had cleared the table, Jane shooed the men away.
Darcy and his cousins followed Charles into the den. He took in the scene: the dark leather chairs opposite a sofa with a coffee table between, the faint scent of cedar as Charles bent to light the fire, the hush that fell once the women’s voices were behind a closed door.
Charles carried in a tray of whisky glasses and set it on the table.
Darcy accepted a glass with a murmur of thanks and sat near the fireplace, awaiting whatever interrogation was about to commence.
His cousins had been suspiciously well-behaved during dinner, a sure sign they were saving their best ammunition for when they were alone.
He wondered again what was bothering Elizabeth. She had been just a bit hot and cold since . . . well, since the headphones. But she’d insisted she liked them. They weren’t as amazing as the scarf, but they were a good present. Weren’t they?
Malcolm dropped into the chair opposite and stretched his long legs. His grin, even before he spoke, warned Darcy that some teasing was inevitable. Richard sprawled in the other chair at an angle. Charles settled beside Darcy on the sofa, oblivious to the gathering storm.
The first taste of the whisky was smooth, welcome. Darcy let it rest on his tongue and waited.
“Right then,” Malcolm began, swirling his glass with theatrical precision, “shall we discuss the weather? The state of the economy? Or shall we cut straight to the obvious topic?”
“The obvious topic being?” Darcy asked.
“Your Elizabeth,” Richard supplied helpfully, “and her new domestic tendencies.”
“Knitting,” Malcolm added with relish. “Planning on making doilies for your office next? Or perhaps she’s halfway through a tea cosy for your desk.”
Darcy raised one eyebrow but said nothing. He had learned long ago that protesting only made it worse.
Charles, however, snorted into his glass. “Most doilies are crocheted.”
The other three turned their heads to look at him.
Charles stared back. “Everyone knows that.”
“No.” Richard shook his head. “Everyone does not know that.”
“It’s basic knowledge,” Charles protested.
Malcolm shook his head. “Charles, mate, the fact that you possess ‘basic knitting knowledge’ is the problem here.”
Charles grinned. “Not knitting. Crocheting.”
Richard let out a laugh. “We really must have you on our trivia team at the pub.”
“It’s not trivia.” Charles grinned. “Just being accurate. My aunt Philippa was a champion crocheter. I spent many childhood hours being lectured on the differences between single, double, and treble crochet stitches.”
“And now you’re passing that wisdom on to us,” Malcolm said. “How generous.”
“Mock if you will.” Charles shrugged, “But precision matters.”
Darcy wondered idly whether his friend was distracting his cousins intentionally. He rather thought he was. Charles had never seen them quite like this before, didn’t know that once the Fitzwilliams had something in their craws, they could not be stopped.
Malcolm groaned theatrically. “Fine, crocheted then. The point stands.” He turned to Darcy. “Next thing we know, Elizabeth will be cross-stitching cushions with inspirational quotes for your flat.”
“What would they say?” Richard asked, grinning at Darcy. “‘Brooding Makes Perfect’? ‘Home is Where the Scowl Is’?”
Darcy considered this seriously. “More likely ‘The Butler Did It,’ or ‘Don’t Believe the Alibi.’” He paused. “And I don’t scowl.”
All three men looked at him, then burst into laughter. But not at his joke.
“Right,” Malcolm wiped his eyes. “And I don’t charm my way through committee meetings.”
“Mal has a point,” Richard added. “You do have a rather impressive scowl. It’s practically a family heirloom at this point.”
“Your grandfather would be proud,” Malcolm agreed. “The Darcy glower, passed down through generations.”
“I prefer to think of it as thoughtful contemplation,” Darcy said.
“You can think of it as interpretive dance if you like,” Richard replied. “Still looks like a scowl to the rest of us.”
Charles raised his glass. “To Darcy’s scowl—may it continue to intimidate junior associates and impress distinguished clients.”
Despite himself, Darcy felt his mouth twitch. “You’re all ridiculous.”
“But we’re right,” Malcolm leaned back in his chair. “Though I have to admit, Elizabeth seems to have softened some of your sharper edges. You were almost jovial during dinner.”
“Almost,” Richard said. “It was deeply unsettling. I kept waiting for the real Darcy to emerge and correct someone’s grammar.”
“I don’t correct people’s grammar,” Darcy protested.
“You do it with your face,” Charles . “That little tightening around the eyes when someone says ‘between you and I.’”
“Or when they confuse ‘who’ and ‘whom,’” Malcolm added.
“That particular mistake is egregious.” Darcy caught himself. “Which proves nothing.”
Richard grinned. “Of course not.”
Malcolm leaned forward and grew more serious. “Look, all joking aside—we like Elizabeth. She’s sharp, she gives as good as she gets, and she seems to enjoy your company, which is rather a Christmas miracle.”
“Thank you for that overwhelming endorsement,” Darcy said.
“But . . .” Malcolm’s voice trailed off.
“What Malcolm means,” Richard interjected, “is that you don’t need to rush into anything. It’s only been three months. Scarf or no scarf, you’re not under any obligation here.”
“No pressure to declare undying devotion just yet,” Malcolm agreed. “You can take your time, see how things develop. No need to panic about matching jumpers and joint bank accounts.”
Darcy turned his glass in his hands, considering. “I wasn’t aware I appeared to be panicking.”
“Perhaps they mistook the look.” Charles gestured at Darcy's face. “The one you get when you’re trying to solve a complex case. All furrowed brows and intense concentration.”
“Perhaps because relationships aren’t meant to be solved like financial problems?” Richard suggested.
Darcy took a sip of his drink. “Aren’t they? Gather evidence, analyse the facts, reach a logical conclusion?”
“Dear God,” Malcolm muttered. “We’re going to have to stage an intervention.”
Charles cleared his throat. “Honestly, I think there’s something to be said for instinct. Sometimes you just know. When it’s right, it’s right. All the careful deliberation in the world won’t change that fact.”
The other three stared at him.
“What?” Charles looked around. “It’s true.”
Malcolm snorted. “Charles, weren’t you the one who dated that yoga instructor for six months because you thought her chakras were ‘aligned with your energy’?”
“That was different—”
“And the art student who convinced you to get a tattoo?”
“It’s very tasteful,” Charles protested.
“And we mustn’t forget the life coach who had you chanting daily affirmations,” Richard added.
Charles flushed. “I was exploring different perspectives.”
“You were being led around by your—” Malcolm began.
“And then Jane walked into your life,” Darcy interrupted, “and all that exploration came to a rather abrupt halt.”
Charles’s expression softened. “Well, yes. But that rather proves my point, doesn’t it? When you know, you know.”
Malcolm and Richard exchanged glances.
“I’m afraid,” Malcolm said, “that we’re going to have to revoke your bachelor privileges, Charles. You’ve been compromised.”
“Thoroughly compromised,” Richard agreed. “Jane’s got you besotted. Your advice on matters of the heart can no longer be considered objective.”
“That’s not fair,” Charles protested. “If anything, I’m speaking from experience—”
“Exactly.” Malcolm nodded. “You’ve been captured. You’re speaking for the enemy now.”
“The enemy being committed relationships?” Charles asked, amused.
“The enemy being the end of freedom as we know it,” Richard clarified.
Darcy watched this exchange with growing amusement. “And I suppose you two consider yourselves impartial advisors on the subject?”
“Absolutely,” Malcolm said.
“We’re completely objective,” Richard agreed. “Unbiased observers of the romantic battlefield.”
“Because you’re such experts on successful relationships.” Darcy lifted his eyebrows.
“We’re experts on protecting our independence,” Malcolm corrected.
“How’s that working out for you?” Charles asked. He took a slow sip of whisky. “Still spending your Friday nights at the same wine bar, chatting up the same rotating cast of attorneys and political wonks?”
Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. “There’s nothing wrong with consistency.”
“And you, Richard?” Darcy asked. “Still pursuing your policy of never dating anyone longer than six weeks?”
“It’s a sound strategy.” Richard shrugged. “Prevents complications.”
“And perpetuates loneliness,” Charles added.
“I’m not lonely. I have hobbies.”
“Golf doesn’t count as a girlfriend,” Bingley pointed out.
“He has you there, Rich,” Malcolm said with a laugh.
“Says the man whose longest relationship was with his personal trainer,” Richard shot back.
“That was a casual thing by mutual agreement—”
“That lasted eight months and ended when she moved in with the aromatherapist,” Darcy said.
Malcolm glared at him. “Whose side are you on?”
“The side of truth,” Darcy replied. “You’re in no position to advise a man who might not want to be a bachelor anymore.”
“Might not want to—” Richard sat up. “Are we talking about serious intentions here?”
Darcy felt heat rise up his neck. He wasn’t going to admit anything to these idiots. “We’re talking hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” Malcolm echoed.
“About a man who might hypothetically not want to remain single,” Charles added, grinning.
“This hypothetical man,” Richard said, “would he be considering hypothetical future commitments?”
“He might not be ruling them out,” Darcy was much further gone than that, but his cousins didn’t need to know it.
“Well.” Malcolm leaned forward. “That’s rather different, isn’t it?”