Chapter Two The Frog and the Lemon
The private dining parlour at Grillon's Hotel possessed an air of aggressive festivity that Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam found physically painful.
The room, draped in heavy crimson damask and illuminated by a hundred beeswax candles, smelled of roasted pheasant, hothouse peaches, and the distinct, metallic tang of expensive champagne being uncorked with reckless abandon.
It was a sensory assault, a riot of colour and noise that swirled around the two couples holding court at the head table like a tide of silk and gold lace.
Richard leaned against the marble mantelpiece, swirling the champagne in his glass, seeking refuge in the shadow of a large fern.
From this vantage point, he observed the bedlam of happiness with the weary eye of a veteran soldier surveying a battlefield where peace had broken out unexpectedly and without his permission.
His cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, sat beside the new Mrs Darcy, Elizabeth, looking as though a heavy object had struck him over the head and he had enjoyed the experience immensely.
Darcy, a man usually as communicative as a stone wall and twice as hard, currently looked incapable of coherent speech.
He was content merely to watch his wife laugh at a jest from her uncle, Mr Gardiner.
His eyes followed her every movement with a devotion that bordered on the idolatrous.
It was unsettling to witness such a thawing of the glacial Darcy reserve.
It was akin to watching a statue decide to perform a jig.
On the other side of the table, the situation proved even more dire.
Viscount Keathley, Robert to those who had suffered through his nursery tantrums and Eton follies, held court with the theatricality of an actor playing a king.
He fed a sugared almond to his new Viscountess, Jane, with a flourish that threatened to overturn the silver gravy boat.
Jane, serene and radiant enough to blind a man, merely smiled, accepting the tribute as if she had tamed a lion and turned the beast into a purring house cat.
"It is disgusting," Richard murmured to the fire, the heat of the flames scorching his calves through his boots. "Utterly revolting."
"What is revolting, Richard?"
Richard started, nearly spilling his drink. He looked down to find Georgiana Darcy standing at his elbow. She wore a gown of pale blue muslin that made her look like a spring sky, and her face, usually so shy, held a brightness he had not seen in years.
"Happiness, Georgie," Richard replied, recovering his composure with a wink. "It is a plague. Look at your brother. He has lost all dignity. I expect him to start reciting poetry at any moment. And Robert is worse. He looks like a spaniel who has finally caught the pheasant."
Georgiana giggled behind her fan, a sound like silver bells.
"I think they look wonderful. Fitzwilliam has not smiled this much since…
well, I do not recall him ever smiling this much.
And Elizabeth is so kind. She makes him laugh.
Did you see them during the soup course?
She whispered a matter in his ear, and he nearly choked on his spoon. "
"She makes him human," Richard's voice was firm but gentle. "Which is a terrifying prospect for the rest of us who relied on his granite nature to balance the family temperament. Now we have no one to frown at us when we are foolish."
He glanced past Georgiana's shoulder to the corner of the room.
Charles Bingley stood near the window, nursing a glass of punch.
The man looked lost, his smile fixed and brittle as he nodded at a conversation between two minor barons he was not truly part of.
Bingley was the ghost at the feast, tolerated for the sake of past acquaintance, but the circle had closed, and he remained on the outside.
"Mr Bingley looks lonely," Georgiana whispered, following Richard's gaze. "Do you think we should speak to him?"
"Leave him be," Richard advised, his voice dropping.
"He is mourning the loss of a dream, Georgie.
And likely contemplating the bill for his own foolishness.
To approach him now would be a kindness he might find cruel.
He is a man who bet on the wrong horse and must now watch the winner circle the track. "
"You sound very cynical today, cousin."
"I am a second son, my dear." He drained his glass. "Cynicism is my inheritance. Along with this uniform, a remarkable ability to accumulate debt, and a distinct lack of sugared almonds."
Richard intended to slip away to the card room to lose a few guineas he did not possess, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, pinning him in place.
"Escaping, brother?"
Richard turned. Robert stood there, beaming, his cravat now more suggestion than structure, a testament to the vigour of his celebration. Darcy stood just behind him, looking more composed but eyeing Richard with a suspicion that usually preceded a lecture on propriety.
"Merely seeking fresh air," Richard lied, adjusting his epaulette. "The fumes of wedded bliss are thick in here. A man could choke on the felicity. I fear if I stay longer, I shall start weeping at the beauty of the napkins."
"Nonsense," Robert declared, signalling a passing waiter to refill their glasses with a snap of fingers that sounded like a pistol shot. "You are sulking. I know the look. It is the same face you made when I won that pony from you at Eton. The spotted one. What was its name?"
"Bucephalus," Richard muttered. "And you cheated. You distracted me with a pie."
"I only interpreted the rules creatively," Robert grinned. He leaned in, the scent of brandy clinging to him like a second skin. "But we are not here to discuss ponies. We are here to discuss your predatory habits."
"Predatory?" Richard raised an eyebrow. "I am the most harmless creature in this room. I am merely a spectator at the menagerie, observing the mating rituals of the wealthy."
"Do not play coy," Darcy added, stepping closer. His voice was dry as parchment, but his eyes danced with a rare amusement. "We saw you outside the church. You were looming, Richard. It was a spectacle."
"Looming over a certain red-haired lady in green," Robert clarified, his grin widening to wolfish proportions. "You looked like a hawk circling a vibrant pigeon. Or perhaps a bear contemplating a beehive."
Richard sighed, realising escape was impossible. "I was not looming. I was conversing."
"And then," Darcy continued, crossing his arms over his chest, "you proceeded to carry her parcels. A stack of them high enough to rival the Tower of Babel. I believe I saw a hatbox tucked under your arm like a shako. It was a fetching look for an officer of the Crown."
"I was assisting her maid." Richard's spine stiffened. "The poor woman, Schmidt I believe, looked ready to expire under the weight of Miss Bingley's vanity. I performed a gentlemanly act. I was charitable. A soldier does not leave a civilian to be crushed by millinery. It is in the regulations."
"Charitable?" Robert threw back his head and laughed, a sound that drew the attention of half the room, including the Bishop, who looked scandalised.
"Since when do you perform charity for the Bingleys?
You called her brother a 'pliable wet rag' only last week.
And you have referred to Miss Bingley as 'The Banshee of Bond Street' and 'The Lemon' on more than one occasion. "
"The maid is not a Bingley," Richard retorted.
"She is a victim of circumstance. Much like myself at this moment.
And Miss Bingley…" He paused, the image of her pinched, furious face rising in his mind.
"Miss Bingley was alone. Standing in the cold while her brother forgot her existence to fawn over your nuptials, Robert. Even a banshee deserves an escort."
"So you took pity on her?" Darcy asked, his eyebrow rising. "That is dangerous, Richard. Pity is often the first step towards a very specific kind of misery. And Miss Bingley is not known for her gratitude."
"I did not take pity. I took her parcels. There is a distinction. I deposited her at her carriage, accepted a very rude tip which she intended as an insult, and departed. That is the sum of the encounter."
"She tipped you?" Robert choked on his wine. "She gave you a coin? Oh, that is rich. That is magnificent. Please tell me it was a penny."
"A shilling." Richard patted his pocket, where the silver disc sat heavy against his thigh. "I intend to frame it. It is likely the only extra money I shall earn this year."
Before Robert could extract further mockery from the shilling incident, the crowd parted like the Red Sea before Moses.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh swept in front of them, her cane tapping a rhythm of disapproval against the floorboards.
She wore a turban of such magnitude that it seemed to have its own weather system, complete with ostrich feathers that bobbed aggressively with every step.
"There you are," she announced, halting before the trio of men. "Hiding in the corner. Typical."
"Aunt Catherine," Darcy bowed, settling his face into a mask of polite endurance.
"Do not bow, Fitzwilliam. It wastes time," she snapped.
She turned her formidable gaze upon Richard.
"And you, Richard. Why are you not dancing?
There are three eligible daughters of a baronet in the other room.
They have no chins, and their father breeds sheep, but they have five thousand pounds apiece. You cannot afford to be choosy."
"I am resting my legs, Aunt." Richard offered her his most charming, vacuous smile. "The march from the church was arduous."
"Nonsense. You are lazy. Just like your father.
" She gestured with her cane at the head table.
"And look at that. The Bennet girl, Lady Keathley, I suppose I must call her now, is sitting with her posture entirely too relaxed.
I shall have to speak to her. If she is to be a Viscountess, she must not slouch. "