Chapter Twelve The Barricades #2
The three of them exchanged glances again—long, significant, conspiratorial glances that made Richard want to hurl the nearest vase through the nearest window.
"The only option," Elizabeth said, "is to sit down and devise a proper siege."
"And you have very little time," Jane added softly. "Before Easter arrives and you are shipped off to warmer pastures."
Richard stood. His mind raced faster than a carriage on the Brighton road. A little more than a fortnight to convince the most stubborn, suspicious, hairpin-wielding woman in London that he loved her—not in spite of her sharp tongue and her fortune, but because of who she was beneath them.
"I need a plan," he muttered.
"You need a miracle," Darcy corrected.
"Same thing." Richard headed for the door. "Where is she likely to be tonight?"
"We do not know," Elizabeth admitted. "She fled yesterday before we could—"
"Check the scandal sheets," Darcy interrupted. "If Miss Bingley is furious, she will make a statement. Likely one that involves feathers, fire, or both."
Richard nodded once and left, his pulse hammering. He had faced the French. He had survived sieges, ambushes, and one particularly vindictive Portuguese donkey. Surely, he could convince one furious woman that he loved her. Surely.
White's at eight o'clock on a Wednesday evening was a sanctuary for men who had made poor decisions and wished to compound them with expensive liquor.
Richard sat in a corner booth, nursing his third brandy and contemplating whether a strategic retreat to a monastery might solve his problems. The answer was no—religion would not solve his problems— but the brandy was doing its level best to make the notion feel increasingly reasonable.
Around him, the club hummed with the usual din of masculine idiocy. Cards slapped against tables. Dice clattered. Men laughed too loudly at jokes that were not funny. The air smelled of smoke, leather, and the collective boredom of the upper classes.
He stared into his glass and wondered how, precisely, he had managed to ruin everything.
Not long ago, he had a plan. A strategy. It was simple. Logical. Militarily sound. Now she thought he was a fortune hunter. And he was sitting in White's drinking brandy that tasted like liquid disappointment.
"Fitzwilliam."
He looked up to find Colonel Edmund Lindon standing beside the booth, his blond curls slightly dishevelled and his brow furrowed with cautious concern.
The man wore his dress uniform, and Richard's blurry eyes took a particular interest in his boots which were polished to a shine that could blind the unwary.
"Lindon." He gestured to the empty seat across from him. "Sit. Drink. Contemplate the futility of existence."
Lindon took the chair opposite, signalling a waiter for his own glass. "That bad, is it?"
"Worse."
"I heard you were courting Miss Bingley."
Richard's hand tightened around his glass. "Who told you that?"
"Everyone. The entire ton is gossiping about it. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, the confirmed bachelor, suddenly attending every ball in London with the same woman on his arm." Lindon accepted his brandy with a nod of thanks. "Though I must say, I am surprised. I thought you despised her."
"I do not despise her."
"You called her a lemon. At Robert's wedding breakfast. Very loudly. In front of half the peerage."
Richard winced. "I was drunk."
"You were sober. I was there. You had consumed exactly one glass of champagne."
"Then I was an idiot."
"Now we are talking."
Lindon took a sip of brandy, his eyes sharp despite the casual tone. "So what happened? Why are you here drowning your sorrows instead of courting the lemon?"
"She thinks I am after her money."
Lindon's eyebrows climbed high. "Are you?"
"No! Yes. I do not—" Richard stopped. There was no point in lying. Not to Lindon, who had known him since they were both lieutenants freezing in the Peninsula. "It is complicated."
"You love her, do you not?" Lindon leaned back, shaking his head. "It is not only about the money."
"Yes, Lindon, I love her. There, I said it. And I have not a clue how to make her listen to me. She will not see me. Her maid barred me from the house."
"Then go to her at a ball. A musicale. Somewhere public where she cannot refuse you without causing a scene."
Richard shook his head. "She will not attend. She feels humiliated."
"About that." Lindon hesitated, his easy cheer faltering. "Fitzwilliam. When did you last see Miss Bingley?"
"Yesterday. At Matlock House. Why?"
"Because she was at Faversham's ball tonight."
Richard's head snapped up. "What?"
"Faversham's ball. I saw her myself. Not an hour ago." Lindon took a long drink, as if fortifying himself. "She was with her brother."
Richard's pulse hammered. "What was she wearing?"
Lindon's mouth twitched. "You want to know what she was wearing?"
"It is relevant."
"To what?"
"To determining her state of mind!" Richard leaned forward. "Was it grey? Subdued? Did she look defeated?"
"She looked," Lindon said slowly, "like a sunset that had decided to declare war on good taste."
Richard's blood went cold. "What colour?"
"Orange. Dark orange. The colour of an aggressive pumpkin." His eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement. "And her hair—Fitzwilliam, I do not know how to describe it delicately."
"Try."
"She appeared to have murdered at least three ostriches and arranged their remains atop her head in a manner that defied both gravity and reason."
Richard stood so abruptly the table rattled. "She was wearing orange."
"Very orange. Aggressively orange. The kind of orange that makes one question the fundamental nature of colour itself."
"And feathers."
"So many feathers. I believe several gentlemen mistook her for an exotic bird and attempted to feed her seeds."
Richard's mind raced. Orange. Feathers. The exact opposite of everything he had advised her to wear. She was making a statement. She was telling him—and all of Society—that she no longer required his guidance. That she would dress as she pleased, consequences be damned.
That she was done with him.
"I need to go," Richard muttered, reaching for his coat.
Lindon caught his arm. "I am coming with you."