Chapter Five The Second Son’s Lament
Chapter Five: The Second Son's Lament
The carriage ride back to the Darcy House was silent. Mostly. There were sighs coming from Georgiana's region. She was clutching her fan and looking fascinated out of the window at the darkness of late London night. Richard gave her a side glance.
"Are you cold, Georgie?"
"No, Richard."
He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. He tried again. "Are you comfortable?"
"I am perfectly fine," came her clipped voice.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. Yes, Richard, I am certain. I am merely…"
He turned to look at her directly. Her profile was rigid, still pretending to look outside at nothing.
"Merely what?" he urged.
She sighed, resigned. "If you must know, I am confused. By you and… by my own feelings."
Richard gestured, as if saying "elaborate, please, we do not have all night".
"Well… at first I felt pity for Miss Bingley. The way her dress signalled her out, like a garish beacon… the way all eyes were turned on her, judging, and the not-so-quiet whispers. It was mortifying. I thought that if she saw us and spoke to us, that I would be tarnished by association."
"Your thoughts are sensible, Georgie. But why are you confused?"
"Because it is not right. To be judged by appearances. And then, after the incident with Mr Hurst, the way she refused to cower, or leave, or hide… I think it was the bravest thing I ever saw in my life."
Richard's heart swelled with pride. How far had his little cousin come, from the frightened, betrayed little girl in Ramsgate, to this sensible young woman.
"You are right, Georgiana, on both accounts. But you mentioned me as well. Do you think I did not handle Hurst fairly?"
"No, that is not it. The second bravest act was yours, Richard. Handling the occurrence with such swiftness and with the least possible fuss, it was a mercy for Miss Bingley. I thank you for that."
Richard stared at her, befuddled. "That was not bravery, Georgiana. It was merely human decency."
"Nevertheless, both you and Miss Bingley are the bravest people of my acquaintance. Thank you, cousin."
They had reached the house, and Richard stepped out to help her from the carriage. Mostyn was there to help his mistress with her outer garments, and Mrs Annesley waited at the back to lead her upstairs.
She turned back and smiled at him, then lifted herself onto her toes and pecked at his cheek, one swift, sweet kiss. She rushed upstairs after her companion.
"I wager you never had such a sweet good night, Mostyn."
"Never, Colonel," the butler smiled as widely as his personality permitted, and closed the door.
Richard turned on his heel, feeling lighter, allowing flashes of orange to permeate the sides of his vision.
He walked with intent, his boots striking the pavement in a rhythm that implied forward motion could solve matters best left unexamined. London obliged by offering darkness, lamplight, and a gratifying lack of witnesses.
The kiss on his cheek lingered. Not the act itself, but the aftermath of it. A warmth, inconvenient and spreading, as if affection were contagious. Richard disliked contagion.
He turned a corner sharply, nearly colliding with a pair of young bucks who scattered apologies. Men unused to consequence. Despicable. Richard inclined his head stiffly and continued on, his shoulders squared, his face arranged into something martial.
Orange followed him.
Not boldly or centre-stage. It hovered at the edges of his vision like a warning flag glimpsed through fog. A hem. A sleeve. The particular angle of a chin lifted in defiance rather than flirtation. He quickened his pace.
His father's voice surfaced behind it, as if the Earl were hidden inside Richard's skull for sport. Easter. West Indies. Tailor's bills. Dowry. Wife.
"This is absurd," he informed the empty street.
The empty street declined to argue, which was unhelpful.
He reached St James's Street with the sensation of having arrived at a last refuge.
White's stood ahead, discreet and confident, the sort of building that did not need to advertise its purpose.
It existed for men who required reinforcement, distraction, or validation, and Richard required all three.
Inside, warmth and noise enveloped him at once. The murmur of voices, the snap of cards, the low thud of boots against carpet. A fire that had been fed properly for generations burned.
A servant relieved him of his coat and another offered him brandy. Richard accepted the glass and drained half of it without pausing to taste.
Better.
He scanned the room with the practised eye of an officer assessing a field. Familiar faces, familiar vices. No Darcy. No Keathley. No one to notice if he sat too long or drank too quickly.
Excellent.
Across the room, by the far hearth, Colonel Edmund Lindon stood in a cluster of younger officers.
His blond curls were slightly disordered, and his blue eyes bright with the anxious politeness of a man who had been trained to behave impeccably and then shoved into the army as a second-best vocation.
His coat was well cut, his boots gleamed, and his cravat immaculate.
Lindon spotted Richard and lifted a hand in an awkward movement. Richard crossed the room and joined him at the hearth. The officers around Lindon drifted away with the instinctive deference men gave a Colonel who had actually seen a battlefield.
"Fitzwilliam," the younger Colonel greeted, offering a bow that was not strictly required but was thoroughly in character. "You look as if you have been dragged through the pit by a drunken bear."
"You should have been there," Richard replied, letting the heat of the fire warm his hands. "You might have learnt useful tactics. Never stand near a man with wine and poor balance."
Lindon's eyes widened. "It reached even my ears. One cannot sneeze in London without it being reported to the King. Is it true Mr Hurst attempted to strike a lady?"
Richard's mouth tightened. "He attempted to strike Miss Bingley."
Lindon blinked. "Miss Bingley? Caroline Bingley?"
Richard kept his face smooth. "There is only one Miss Bingley in London capable of attracting disaster by standing still. Yes."
Lindon's lips pressed together, as if suppressing a smile. "That is unfortunate."
"It was instructive," Richard corrected.
Lindon leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with the gravity of a man about to witness a war secret. "Did she respond? I mean, did she faint, or cry, or do that thing fashionable ladies do where they appear to swoon merely to prove they can?"
Richard pictured Caroline Bingley's spine, straight as a pike, her hands gripping the chair as if she would sooner break the wood than bend. "She sat."
"She sat," Lindon repeated, as though that alone altered the history of the evening.
Richard drank. He disliked the shift in his chest at the memory. He disliked it more because it was not admiration, only the simple truth that stubbornness was recognisable, even when wrapped in arrogance.
Lindon's gaze flicked to Richard's coat cuffs, neat enough, but worn enough to irritate a careful observer. "You handled it well. One hears… a great deal about you."
"Do you?" Richard replied dryly. "And what does one hear? That I drink too much, gamble badly, and intend to ruin the reputation of every widow within ten miles?"
Lindon flushed. "No. Nothing so scandalous. One hears you are decisive. When trouble begins, you end it."
"Trouble has better stamina than I do," Richard replied. "It keeps returning with new faces."
Lindon laughed, then stopped abruptly, as if uncertain whether laughing was allowed. He cleared his throat. "Your cousin and brother are away."
"They are." Richard's mouth twisted. "They are currently engaged in the sacred task of being insufferably content."
Lindon's eyes brightened. "I know. I was at the wedding."
"Right. I thought I saw you. Then again, Christ and his mother were there, too."
Lindon looked wistful, as if imagining what it must be like to marry a woman who did not regard you as either a bank or a burden. "It must be very gratifying."
"It must be exhausting," Richard replied, and felt more like himself at once.
Lindon's face turned sly, a rare quality in him, like a kitten attempting menace. "Then why do you look haunted, Fitzwilliam? You are single. You can sleep. You can do precisely as you like. You can eat a chop in peace without a wife reminding you of your posture."
Richard's fingers tightened around his glass. "I am not haunted."
Lindon's gaze held his with awkward sincerity. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Richard's mind supplied orange again, uninvited, brazen as a drunk in the pit.
He lifted his glass and took another drink, hoping brandy might drown a colour. "If I have seen a ghost, it is likely wearing feathers taller than its sense."
Lindon's brows rose. "Ah."
Richard shot him a glare. "Do not."
Lindon's hands lifted in surrender. "I said nothing."
"You thought it."
Lindon's mouth twitched. "London thinks it for me."
Richard stared into the fire. "London can think what it likes. London also thinks Keathley has a conscience. It will be disappointed on both counts."
Lindon's smile widened, and at last he looked comfortable, warmed by the familiar sport of male companionship that did not require brilliance, only timing. "If you require distraction, Fitzwilliam, I have a proposal."
Richard eyed him. "God save me."
"Cards," Lindon said, and looked unreasonably pleased with the simplicity. "Not for money. I do not need money. For pride. It is a safer vice."
Richard laughed. "No one in this room plays for pride."
Lindon's cheeks coloured. "I do. It is a new habit. My grandmother insists I develop some."
Richard set his glass down and clapped Lindon on the shoulder with a force that made the younger man sway. "Very well. Let us see if your pride survives my manners."