Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Darcy woke early despite the late night at the Epsom assembly, and his first thoughts were of Elizabeth.
He ran his hands over his face with a groan.
It would be a long week if he spent all his time wondering if her feelings for him could ever change—and fearing how he would hide his disappointment when they never did.
Relief came when his valet, Warren, told him Mr Travers had asked if he wanted to join him for a ride. “He intends to see the week’s horses moving through their morning exercises.”
“Does he suppose he is going to make his fortune by them?” Darcy muttered.
“I could not say. Shall I set out your riding clothes, sir? Or do you want to find any of the ladies before breakfast?”
Although he had no interest in Mr Travers or in thoroughbreds, he was interested in a distraction. The only lady he wanted to see might not want to see him.
He swiftly dressed for riding and was about to take the stairs in the entrance hall when Sir John Whitney came down another corridor.
After greeting him, Sir John halted him, forcing them to stand by the Roman vases on a table next to the balustrade.
There were far too many ornaments cluttering this house.
“Before you go,” Sir John said in a low voice. “You have a prior acquaintance with Miss Bennet, do you not?”
The tone, the question, and the questioner all sent a rush of jealousy coursing through him. His reaction was unjustified and unfair to both Sir John and Elizabeth. Darcy forced himself to say with calm composure, “I do.”
“Do you know her well?”
It would be rude to ignore him, and ruder still to tell Sir John that Elizabeth was magnificent and deserved a better man than a senseless coxcomb.
He blew out a breath and said, “Her elder sister will likely marry my friend, and we have twice spent a month or so as neighbours.” Once Bingley married Jane Bennet, he and Elizabeth would see one another often—winters in town, perhaps, or Elizabeth might even live with the Bingleys until she married herself.
With a bitter snap to his voice, he added, “Why do you ask?”
Sir John gave him a knowing look. “Why does a man ever ask about a woman?”
The answer surprised him. From what he observed of Sir John in town, he had shown no interest in marriage last season, or any season he could remember.
Dalliances and flirtations were what one thought of when they thought of the baronet Sir John Whitney.
“Miss Bennet’s father has an estate worth two thousand a year, and he has five daughters.
He is not imagined to be very rich. I doubt he could give you what you expect. ”
It was true, but it also satisfied a spiteful part of him to keep Sir John away from her—the part of him still in love with the woman in question. Although, he doubted Elizabeth would be attracted to a rattle like Sir John.
Sir John tilted his head in confusion and then gave a little laugh. “You mistake me. I was wondering what sort of girl she was. How far that liveliness might actually go.” His voice lilted with hidden meaning.
The jealousy that flared before was a flickering candle compared to the blaze now burning in his chest. He had not mistaken Sir John’s reputation after all if the man was asking about what behaviours Elizabeth might indulge in without an engagement.
Might she kiss him, or would she indulge in everything up to or even including an act sanctioned only in marriage?
The idea of him seducing Elizabeth deprived his manners of their usual composure.
“Miss Bennet is a gentleman’s daughter, Sir John,” he said brusquely, “and far too principled to succumb to your hollow temptations. Nor is she unprotected.”
Sir John’s eyes widened. “Settle down, Darcy. That is quite a leap to accusing me of forcing a lady. She needs no protection from me. I only wanted to take her measure.”
He thought of Julia’s forward, sultry behaviour toward him last night. “Perhaps Miss Metcalfe and you will be of a similar mind.”
“Oh, no.” Sir John laughed. “I saw how Miss Metcalfe looked at you, like a hound when it sees a fox, my friend. She would be a willing participant, I imagine, but she wants a permanent union out of it, mark my words.”
Darcy muttered a quiet curse. He had questioned if Julia might have such intentions toward him, but if Sir John observed it, then it must be true.
“I am not interested in Miss Metcalfe,” he said firmly.
He could admit to that, but not that Elizabeth held his heart in her hands, even if she did not know it. Or want it.
Sir John shrugged as if it were all tiresome. “Well, I will consider both options at Woodcote, but I suspect I will have to make do with the female company down for the races.”
There would be plenty of ladies there plying their trade, down from London all this week, along with thousands of other spectators.
Sir John bowed in parting, and turned down another corridor, missing the disparaging look Darcy threw at him.
Sighing, he went down the stairs and out to the stables where Mr Travers had just mounted his horse.
“There you are,” Mr Travers said in greeting as Darcy’s groom led out his horse. He had signalled his horse and was on his way before Darcy was in his saddle.
“I intend to see the horses stabled in Ewell first, and then make my way back to Epsom,” Mr Travers said once Darcy had caught up to him.
“As you wish.” Horses brought in for the races were entered ahead of time and settled in stables nearby before the races began. “Do you expect many to be training for tomorrow?”
Mr Travers nodded, but remained silent the entire ride.
In another day, all around them would be noise, dust, uproar, and confusion.
To say nothing of prostitutes, housebreakers, pickpockets, and sharpers.
Darcy enjoyed a horse race for its own sake, but the environment was not best suited for his temperament.
His companion, however, was most in his element.
“The King’s Head is a hotel, tavern, and posting inn on East Street,” Mr Travers said when they rode into Ewell. “They have stabling for eleven horses.”
It became clear that Mr Travers was indifferent to his company.
Watching the horses, noting their condition, their strengths, their energy, was all that mattered to him.
If he was not commenting on a horse, he was silent.
Darcy accompanied Mr Travers to four stables in the villages around Epsom, and his pleasure in the ride could only arise from the exercise and the day.
Darcy was not one for idle talk, but some would not go amiss.
“Lord Fitzwilliam races in green silk, does he not? Is your uncle not bringing horses to Epsom?” asked Mr Travers when they were on their way to Woodcote for breakfast. “I did not see his stable manager.”
If Mr Travers could not see thoroughbreds, he must talk of them. “His lordship is not racing Epsom. He did not want the trouble of transporting them and will save them for York, Doncaster, and Newmarket.”
“You must know a thing or two with an uncle with an impressive stable like that. Are you a betting man, Mr Darcy?”
He gave a careless shrug. Mr Travers clearly was, so there was no reason to share what he thought of wagering on a horse race.
Such were the rules of civility: easy polite behaviour even when you disagreed.
Some men bet outrageously to show that they could afford the risk, or thought they could outsmart others with their superior knowledge, or liked a show-off.
Darcy had no interest in arguing with any of them.
“I wager a few guineas for the amusement, that is all.”
Mr Travers nodded as they rode along. “I know a great deal about the 1812 racing season. If you fund my week, I will double your money. You will never see a finer return on your investment.”
Darcy doubted and stared. Was this near stranger asking for a loan to gamble more than he could afford? “Gambling is not the sort of thing I consider an ‘investment.’”
“That is because you are not a knowing one. I follow the horses all season long.”
Only a man who spent too much on horses would say such a thing, but Darcy kept his silence.
Good manners required he keep a civil air.
Besides, maybe Mr Travers did know a great deal about horses and their owners, but it was still too risky for him.
Mr Travers was not talking about a few coins between friends.
“I do not spend as much of my income on entertainment as you feel comfortable doing.”
Mr Travers scowled. “A proper wealthy man shows contempt for money, for he is above such things.”
“Economy is not avarice,” he said, impatience creeping into his tone.
“I only thought we could help one another.” Mr Travers sounded offended. “I do not want you plucked like a novice. Although I suspect young Mr Henry Tessier is the pigeon ripe to be plucked this week.”
He likely was, if his brother’s fears had any basis. Mr Travers had nothing more to say to him during their return ride to Woodcote.
Darcy huffed, shifting his weight in his saddle to pick up his pace.
He may as well hurry back if Mr Travers would not speak at all.
What a week he would have at Woodcote. Julia Metcalfe would shamelessly pursue him.
Lady Metcalfe was entirely unremarkable.
His hostess was placidly stupid, but at least she was so kind one could not help but like her.
Henry was juvenile, Sir John an unabashed flirt, and Mr Travers had no time for anyone who disagreed with him.
And the only person at Woodcote he wanted anything to do with had, rightly, refused to marry him.