Chapter Twelve The Barricades
Richard arrived at Portman Square with the confidence of a general expecting a glowing report from the field.
The tea at Matlock House had gone splendidly, as far as he could tell.
Miss Bingley had been safely ensconced among civilised women who would not mock her for the colour of her gown.
She had been drinking tea. Eating lemon cakes. Engaging in pleasant conversation.
He had checked on her—purely for strategic reasons—and found her perfectly intact. No tears. No hysteria. No signs of social devastation.
Victory.
Now he simply needed to review the next phase of their campaign.
There was Lady Starmer's musicale on Thursday, which would provide excellent opportunities for Miss Bingley to be seen without actually having to sing.
And Lord Ashford's card party on Saturday, where her sharp tongue could be deployed to impress rather than alienate.
And during those outings, he intended to court her.
For real. Unbeknownst to her, of course.
Because he had discovered to his utter terror, that she was the one.
Richard knocked on the door of the Bingley townhouse, already composing his opening remarks. He would be diplomatic. Encouraging. Possibly even complimentary, though he would have to be careful not to overdo it and alarm her.
The door opened. Instead of the butler, Schmidt stood in the doorway like a very hostile piece of architecture. Her arms were crossed. Her gaze could have curdled milk. Her entire posture radiated threat and fury.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam." Her voice was flat. Cold. The verbal equivalent of a door slamming in one's face.
Richard blinked. "Good afternoon, Miss Schmidt. I have come to call on Miss Bingley. Is she receiving?"
"No."
"Ah. Is she indisposed? I can return later—"
"No."
Richard frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"Miss Bingley is receiving callers. She is not indisposed. She is simply not receiving you." Schmidt's eyes—which had been warm and grateful at the teashop—now held all the warmth of a Siberian winter. "Good day, Colonel."
She began to close the door. Richard's hand shot out, stopping it. "Wait. What do you mean she is not receiving me? We have an arrangement. I am assisting her—"
"Miss Bingley no longer requires your assistance."
"That is absurd. Of course she requires my assistance."
"Miss Bingley is no longer interested in your strategy, sir."
"Did she say that?"
"She did not need to say it. I have eyes, Colonel. And I know when my mistress has been hurt."
The words hit him like a musket ball to the chest. "Hurt? By whom? What happened at tea? What did my relatives say? Was it Robert? I will throttle him—"
"You happened, Colonel." Schmidt's jaw set into a stubborn line that would have impressed a battalion commander. "Now remove your hand from the door before I summon Mr Bingley to remove you."
"Bingley could not prise ivy from the stonework without calling for the footmen."
Schmidt did not blink. "Then I shall remove you myself. And I am stronger than I look."
Richard believed her. The woman had carried enough hatboxes to qualify as a pack mule. She could probably hoist him over her shoulder like a sack of meal if sufficiently provoked."
"Please," he said, and the word came out more desperate than intended. "Just tell me what happened. Let me speak to her. Five minutes. That is all I ask."
The granite of Schmidt's countenance cracked. Just slightly. Enough to give him hope. Then it hardened again. "No, Colonel. Miss Bingley was very clear. You are not welcome here."
"But—"
"Good day."
The door closed. Not slammed. That would have been beneath Schmidt's dignity. But closed with the finality of a coffin lid.
Richard stood on the steps, staring at the wood, his mind racing. What in blazes had happened? Miss Bingley had been fine yesterday. She had told him she did not need rescuing. She had ordered him to move because he was blocking the light. She had been sharp and prickly and entirely herself.
And now she refused to see him.
He knocked again. Louder. No response.
"Schmidt! Open this door!"
Silence.
"I know you are standing on the other side! I can hear you breathing!"
More silence.
Richard considered his options. He could force entry, but that seemed tactically unsound and would likely result in his breaking a bone. He could wait on the steps until Miss Bingley emerged, but she was stubborn enough to remain inside for a month out of sheer spite.
Or he could dig into the source of the problem: Tea.
Elizabeth and Jane had been there. They had witnessed whatever catastrophe had occurred.
They would know what had gone wrong. And they would tell him.
Even if he had to resort to threats or begging.
He turned on his heel and stalked towards his horse.
Black Thunder, tethered to a post, looked at him deeply unimpressed by recent events.
"Do not start," Richard muttered, mounting. "I am aware I have made an error. I simply need to determine which error specifically, has resulted in my complete banishment from Portman Square."
Black Thunder snorted. It sounded judgmental.
Richard urged him into a trot, his mind cataloguing every moment of yesterday's tea.
He had arrived. Checked on Miss Bingley.
Been told she did not need rescuing. Left.
Simple. Straightforward. No obvious catastrophe.
So why was Schmidt looking at him as though he had personally set fire to her mistress's favourite bonnet?
By the time he reached Darcy House, Richard had worked himself into a state of confusion so profound it bordered on existential crisis. He dismounted, flung the reins at a stable boy who looked mildly alarmed to be catching them, and stormed up the steps as if his boots were on fire.
Mostyn opened the door and regarded him coolly.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mr and Mrs Darcy are in the drawing room. With Lady Keathley."
"Excellent. Announce me before I announce myself."
"Of course, sir."
Richard strode into the drawing room to find all three of them arranged like a tribunal.
Elizabeth sat in the centre, her hands folded in her lap, looking serene.
Jane was beside her, radiating gentle concern.
Darcy stood by the fireplace, looking as though he would gladly trade places with the poker.
"Richard!" Elizabeth's smile was bright enough to blind. "What a delightful surprise. Do sit. We were just discussing you."
"Were you?" Richard stayed planted. "And what, precisely, were you discussing? My impeccable taste in waistcoats?"
"Your impending doom," Elizabeth said cheerfully. "Would you like tea?"
"I would like an explanation. Miss Bingley barred me from Portman Square. Her maid looked at me like I had personally offended the entire British constitution. And you three are sitting here looking far too pleased with yourselves for people who supposedly had nothing to do with it."
Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances so meaningful that they could launch a thousand ships or sink one very unlucky colonel.
"Oh dear," Jane murmured.
"This is worse than we thought," Elizabeth agreed.
"What is worse? What did you do?"
"We did nothing." Elizabeth's eyes went wide with the innocence of a cat who has just pushed a priceless vase off a mantel. "We merely… facilitated a revelation."
"What revelation?"
Another exchange of glances. Darcy cleared his throat gravely.
"Richard. Sit down."
"I do not want to sit down. I want answers."
"You will want to be sitting for this," Darcy said grimly. "Trust me."
Richard sat. Slowly, lowering himself onto a chair, mindful that it might explode.
Elizabeth leaned forward, her amusement fading into something disturbingly close to pity.
"Richard. What, exactly, did you tell Miss Bingley about your reasons for helping her?"
"I told her I was assisting her in finding a suitable husband. I was a bit vague."
"And did you mention your father's charming little deadline?"
"No. Why would I? That is my private disaster, not hers."
"Ah." Elizabeth sat back. "Therein lies your error."
"What error? Speak plainly, woman."
Jane's voice was soft, gentle, and delivered the blow like a velvet-wrapped mallet. "Richard. Miss Bingley now knows about Easter. She knows you have three weeks to marry or be shipped to the West Indies."
Richard's stomach plummeted to the cellar.
"How—"
"We told her," Elizabeth revealed, as though confessing to lending a book. "We thought it would clarify your motives. We wanted her to see that, despite this ghastly deadline, you spend every waking hour orbiting her like a particularly devoted moon."
"My motives are to help her!"
"Are they?" Elizabeth tilted her head, steel behind the innocence.
The room went silent. You could hear a pin drop from the next county. Richard stared at her.
"You think—she thinks—" His voice strangled itself. "She thinks I am courting her for her dowry?"
"Are you not?" Darcy asked quietly.
"No! Not at all!"
"Then what?" Elizabeth's gaze was unrelenting. "Be honest, Richard. For once."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Because—" He stopped. "Because I do not want only her dowry. I want her. Feathers and all."
"Why?"
"Because I bloody love her!" he shouted, loud enough to rattle the porcelain on the tea tray.
Elizabeth smiled. Soft. Knowing. Infuriatingly triumphant.
"There it is." She looked so pleased, as though she had personally orchestrated the entire debacle just to hear those four words.
"Elizabeth." Richard dragged both palms down his face, "Miss Bingley now believes I have been playing a long, sordid game to secure her fortune. I need to speak to her."
"She will not see you."
"Then I will force my way in—"
"Richard." Darcy's voice cut through like a bayonet. "Forcing entry into a lady's home after she has explicitly barred you is not strategy. It is a misdemeanour with extra paperwork."
"Then what do you suggest I do?"