Chapter Fifteen The Gospel of Mares and Geldings #2
“He is a gentleman of trade.” Richard waved a hand dismissively, then leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “He will require you to prove your worth before he hands over his niece. Have you considered your skills, Fitzwilliam? What exactly can you offer the firm?”
“I manage one of the largest agricultural estates in England,” Darcy growled.
“Yes, but can you gut a fish?” Robert asked, adopting a look of mocking concern. “I hear the warehouses are ruthless. They will probably stick you on a street corner with a cart. ‘Cod! Fresh cod from the master of Pemberley! Two pence a head!’”
Georgiana giggled behind her hand. Anne was delighted by the image.
“I can gut a cousin,” Darcy threatened, narrowing his eyes. “And I wager I could do it without staining my cuffs.”
“I would look dashing in an apron, frankly,” Richard mused dreamily. “I might ask Mr Gardiner for one.”
“You are both insufferable,” Darcy sighed, though he could not suppress a smile. He was too happy to be angry. The prospect of tomorrow—of walking into that house and seeing Elizabeth—was a beacon that outshone even his cousins’ relentless teasing.
“Come, Richard.” Robert pushed himself out of the armchair and dusted off his breeches. “We must leave the domestic bliss to the women. We have a duty to perform.”
“We do?” Richard asked, looking alarmed.
“We must show our faces at White’s. If we do not make an appearance within two hours of arriving in London, the club will assume we have been kidnapped by French spies, or worse, that we have developed a sudden interest in reading books.
” Robert turned to Darcy. “Fetch your hat, Fitzwilliam. We are going to drink overpriced port and stare at men who have not had an original thought since 1798.”
Darcy hesitated. He wanted to stay. He wanted to plan tomorrow’s call, to ensure the carriage was pristine, to decide exactly which flowers to send ahead.
But Robert was right; a failure to appear would invite questions, and Darcy wished to keep his movements regarding Cheapside quiet until the courtship was formalised and public.
“Very well,” he conceded. “But only for an hour. I have a fish cart to polish.”
THE ATMOSPHERE INSIDE White’s was exactly as Darcy remembered it: thick with blue cigar smoke, the rich scent of polished leather, and the murmuring hum of extreme wealth being squandered on bad wagers.
Darcy, Robert, and Richard surrendered their hats to the porter and moved into the main room. Darcy’s eyes swept over the high-backed chairs and the clusters of gentlemen discussing the latest scandal involving Lord Byron.
“There,” Richard murmured, nodding towards a corner near the great bay windows.
Darcy followed his cousin’s gaze.
Sitting in a pair of wingback chairs were Charles Bingley and his brother-in-law, Hurst. Hurst was asleep, a half-eaten piece of cake resting precariously on his stomach, rising and falling with his snores.
Bingley, however, was not asleep, nor was he staring blankly out of the window in a fit of melancholic despair. He was not pale. He was not clutching a miniature portrait of Jane Bennet and weeping into his cravat.
Charles Bingley was leaning forward in his chair, gesturing wildly with a rolled-up sporting gazette, speaking animatedly to a bewildered baronet in the next seat.
Darcy exchanged a glance with Robert. The viscount’s eyes were narrowed, his jaw set in a calculating line.
“Let us go pay our respects,” Robert drawled, his voice dropping into its most dangerously polite register.
They crossed the room.
“Bingley.” Darcy stepped into Bingley’s line of sight.
Bingley’s head snapped up, his face breaking into an ecstatic smile.
“Darcy! Lord Keathley! Colonel!” He leapt to his feet, abandoning the baronet. He pumped Darcy’s hand. “By God, it is good to see you! I thought you were still lingering in Kent, counting trees with your aunt!”
“We returned this morning.” Darcy searched Bingley’s face for any sign of hidden sorrow, any lingering melancholy over his separation from Jane Bennet. There was none. The man looked healthier than a prize-winning turnip. “You seem well, Bingley.”
“Well? I am magnificent!” Bingley crowed, motioning for them to take the empty chairs around the table. Hurst snorted in his sleep, the cake wobbling dangerously. “Gentlemen, you have arrived at a momentous juncture! I have made the most significant decision of my life!”
Darcy’s heart stopped. He is going to say he is returning to Hertfordshire, he thought with delight. He is going to try and win Jane back, and Elizabeth will adore me forever.
“Oh?” Robert asked, his voice dangerously low. “Do tell, Bingley. We are positively breathless with anticipation.”
“I have let the lease on Netherfield lapse!” Bingley announced proudly.
Darcy blinked, the air rushing out of his lungs in a sharp exhale. “You... you let the lease lapse? Entirely?”