Chapter Two The Frog and the Lemon #2
Robert stiffened, his protective instincts flaring. "Jane does not slouch, Aunt. She floats. And I would prefer you leave her spine alone. It is perfect as it is."
"Hmph," Lady Catherine grunted, unimpressed by his title or his glare.
"You are besotted. It clouds your judgement.
At least Darcy has chosen a woman with some spirit, even if she is obstinate.
I saw her laughing with the Countess earlier.
Your mother seems to have taken a liking to her.
Though why Eleanor is wearing that shade of purple is beyond me. It makes her look bruised."
"Mother looks regal," Richard defended, though he knew it was a losing battle.
"She is enjoying the brandy!" Lady Catherine's voice dripped disdain.
"Your parents are a bad influence, Richard.
They encourage this frivolity." She narrowed her eyes at him, leaning closer until he could smell her lavender water.
"I saw you outside the church. With that Bingley girl. The sour one."
Richard suppressed a groan. Was the entire peerage watching him through a telescope? "I was merely—"
"She carries herself impeccably," Lady Catherine interrupted. "I will grant her that. She walks as if she is wearing a backboard. And she dresses well, if a trifle expensively. Her father was in trade, was he not?"
"I believe so," Darcy supplied.
"Trade," Lady Catherine mused, not with her usual disdain, but with a calculating glint in her eye. "Money is money, I suppose. And you, Richard, are in need of it. Do not look at me like that. It is the truth. You cannot eat your uniform."
She tapped his shin with her cane, hard enough to bruise. "Think on it. She would be terrified of me, and I could mould her. A pliable niece is better than a clever one. Look at Elizabeth. She argues. It is exhausting. But a girl like that, desperate for approval, she might be useful."
With that pronouncement, she swept away to terrorise a waiter about the temperature of the jellies, leaving Richard rubbing his shin discreetly and the cousins exchanging looks of horror.
"She wants to mould her," Robert whispered, horrified. "God help us all."
Richard's hope that his aunt's departure would signal a return to peace was short-lived. A shadow fell over the group, larger and far more ominous than Lady Catherine's turban.
The Earl of Matlock, Richard's father, stood before them. He held a glass of dark liquid in one hand and a half-eaten pigeon pie in the other. He looked as he always did, formidable, slightly bored, and possessing eyebrows that could issue orders without a word being spoken.
"Father," Richard straightened, instinct taking over. "I did not see you approach."
"I was discussing rum with Mr Gardiner," the Earl grunted.
"The man knows his spirits. Unlike you lot, who drink this French swill.
" He gestured to the champagne with disdain.
"He promised me a cask of '98. Good man.
Useful. Understands that a man cannot run an estate on poetry and polite conversation. "
The Earl took a bite of his pie, chewing thoughtfully while his gaze drilled into his younger son. The casual air vanished, replaced by the steel of a commanding officer addressing a subordinate who had failed inspection.
"I received a letter today, Richard."
Richard's stomach dropped. "A letter, sir?"
"From a Mr Schultz. A tailor on Jermyn Street.
" The Earl swallowed the pie. "He claims you owe him for three dress coats, four pairs of breeches, and a cloak lined with sable.
He writes with a great deal of passion. He threatens to stop making your trousers.
He even enclosed a sample of the fabric you ordered, asking if I thought it worth the risk of bankruptcy. "
Richard winced. "I… there was a misunderstanding with the regimental paymaster, sir. I intended to settle the account next month."
"With what?" The Earl stepped closer, isolating Richard from the others. "I checked your allowance. You spent the last of it on a horse that, I am told, runs slower than a cow and has a temper worse than your mother's."
"He has potential," Richard argued weakly.
"He has three legs and a wheeze," the Earl sounded tired. "You are one and thirty, Richard. You are a Colonel. Yet you live like a pauper with the tastes of a Prince. It ends today."
"I am aware of my circumstances, Father."
"Then fix them," the Earl stated, his voice low and dangerous.
"I will not have the family name plastered on bills across London.
You need an establishment. You need a wife with a dowry.
A proper wife. A woman of breeding who can pay your tailor and host a dinner party without embarrassing me.
Not some flighty girl from the country, and not some merchant's daughter who uses the wrong fork.
A lady. Although… I would not care if she came from trade, as long as she is well educated and has a hefty purse. Find one."
"I am looking, sir."
"Look harder," the Earl snapped. "Because if this debt is not cleared by Easter, I am purchasing you a commission in the West Indies. You can rot in the sugar cane and fight mosquitoes until you learn the value of a guinea."
"The West Indies?" Richard paled. "Sir, surely—"
"Easter, Richard," the Earl interrupted. "Fix it. Or pack your trunks."
He turned on his heel and marched away, heading to the buffet table with the determination of a shark scenting blood.
Richard exhaled slowly. He turned back to the fire, draining his glass in one long swallow. The West Indies. The black vomit. Heat. Exile. It was a death sentence for his social life, and likely for his liver.
Robert and Darcy, who had politely stepped back during the parental dressing down, returned. Robert looked sympathetic, but his eyes held a calculating light.
"The West Indies," Robert mused. "The climate is terrible for the complexion. But excellent for rum. Though I imagine the uniforms are dreadfully heavy."
"Do not start," Richard warned, gripping the mantelpiece until his knuckles turned white.
"I am a dead man. I cannot find a titled heiress by Easter.
They are all either married, in the nursery, or look like horses.
My father demands breeding and money. It is an impossible combination for a second son. "
"There is one option," Robert said softly. He swirled his wine. "One woman currently in London. Unmarried. Desperate for a connection to the peerage. And in possession of twenty thousand pounds."
Richard looked at him. "Who?"
"You know who," Robert grinned. "The Banshee. The Lemon."
"Caroline Bingley?" Richard recoiled as if Robert had offered him a viper. "You cannot be serious. My father just said he wants a woman of breeding. She is trade. He will hate her."
"She is a woman of good breeding and she is rich trade.
Hefty purse, brother. That is what he said," Robert countered.
"And once the money is in the bank, he will learn to love her.
Or at least, he will love her money. Twenty thousand pounds, Richard.
It buys a lot of forgiveness. And a lot of breeches.
It solves the West Indies problem instantly. "
"She is unbearable," Richard hissed. "She is a monument to affectation. She treats the world as her mirror and finds it lacking. I will not be the man to polish her reflection."
"She is a very rich, handsome lemon," Robert insisted. "And you are a very poor, desperate soldier."
"I would rather," Richard announced, his voice rising, cutting through the chatter of the nearby guests, "eat a live frog than court Caroline Bingley."
A sudden hush fell over the immediate vicinity. Mrs Gardiner paused her walk, her foot hovering mid-air.
Robert blinked. "A living frog? That seems excessive. A cooked one, perchance, with a garlic sauce… the French eat them, I am told."
"Alive," Richard insisted, trembling with the force of his conviction.
"Kicking. Slimy. Green. I would dredge it from the pond and swallow it whole before I bowed my head to that woman and asked for her hand.
I would sooner marry a washerwoman. I would sooner take vows of celibacy and live in a cave in Yorkshire. "
"Yorkshire is lovely this time of year," Darcy noted helpfully. "Plenty of caves near Pemberley."
"You jest." Richard pointed a finger at Robert's idiotic grinning face. "But I am in earnest. The woman is poison in silk. She offered me a coin, Robert. A shilling. She thought to mark me as a servant. I will not give her the satisfaction of owning me."
He turned his back on the room, staring into the flames. "I will find another way. I will sell the horse. I will gamble better. But I will not eat the lemon."
Robert raised his glass to Richard's back. "Frog or lemon? What do you think? We should wager," he whispered to Darcy.
Darcy clinked his glass against the Viscount's. "Definitely," he agreed. "This should be entertaining to watch."