Chapter Seventeen The Muting of the Viscount #2
Darcy winced, half regretting having revealed the history of the disastrous missive to his sister, but he let out a bark of laughter and threw an arm around her shoulders. “You are ruthless, Georgiana. Do not give him ideas, or he will write the modern Iliad.”
The valets were equally merciless in their clinical assessments.
“The viscount rejected his intricately tied waterfall cravat this morning, Mr Dawson,” Boodles whispered one afternoon. “He requested the mathematical knot. A sure sign of distress, which means he needs structure to hold himself together.”
“Indeed, Mr Boodles,” Dawson replied evenly. “Though I fear a cravat cannot salvage a man who forgets the English language when a lady asks him about the weather. He requires an intervention.”
An intervention was precisely what occurred.
It was a rainy evening. Georgiana had retired early, and the cousins were gathered in the library of Darcy House.
The air was thick with tension. Robert was pacing, moving with the restless energy of a caged lion who had just been informed he was a disappointment to the animal kingdom—a feeling Darcy remembered all too well.
Darcy, Richard, and Anne were arranged around the room, forming a tribunal.
“Sit down, Robert,” Darcy commanded.
Robert ignored him, raking a hand through his hair until it resembled a bird’s nest. “I cannot sit! I feel as though my veins are filled with gunpowder.”
“Sit,” Darcy repeated, his voice dropping into the authoritative register of the master of Pemberley.
Robert slumped into an armchair, dropping his head into his hands, utterly defeated.
Darcy walked over to his desk and picked up a paper-knife. He tapped the cool metal against the palm of his hand, turning to face his cousin.
“Let us review Scenario Four, Robert,” Darcy said, rejoicing in the perfect reversal of the coaching session Robert had subjected him to at Rosings Park. The tables had not merely turned; they had been flipped over and set on fire.
Richard let out a snort of laughter from the sofa, grabbing a throw pillow to muffle the sound. Anne leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, delighted.
Robert looked up through his fingers, his eyes narrowed in misery. “Do not do this, Fitzwilliam.”
“I am merely offering pedagogical support,” Darcy continued, pacing in front of the armchair, wielding the paper-knife like a fencing-master’s foil.
“You are walking down a path. The sun is shining. The birds are singing a cheerful melody. Miss Jane Bennet turns to you and says, ‘Lord Keathley, the weather is fine today, is it not?’ What is your response?”
Robert swallowed hard. “I tell her she is an angel.”
“No, Robert.” Darcy’s voice was dripping with faux-patience. “You stare at her in silence. You look as though you are attempting to calculate the square root of a turnip. You go rigid, you sweat through your broadcloth coat, and you bump into a tree.”
“That tree should not have been placed there,” Robert mumbled.
“Smile, Robert. On three. One. Two. Three,” Darcy commanded, pointing the paper-knife at him.
Robert forced the corners of his mouth upward, attempting to project warmth and amiability.
“Desist! Desist! Stop it at once!” Richard said, laughing hard and holding his stomach. “You look like a gargoyle experiencing a muscle spasm. If you smile at her in such a way, she will call for the apothecary.”
“It is disturbing,” Anne chimed in. “If you look at her like that, she will assume you are digesting bad mutton.”
“And let us talk about the eyes.” Darcy leaned down to scrutinise his cousin. “A glare implies you wish to tax her property. A gaze implies you wish to kiss her hand. Do you remember these lessons, Cousin? Or did your intellect evaporate the moment you saw her?”
Robert dropped the grimace. He leaned back in the armchair, staring at the vaulted ceiling of the library.
“I remember the lessons, Fitzwilliam, but they are useless.”
The mockery died in Darcy’s throat. He recognised that tone, because he had used it himself multiple times.
“Why are they useless?” Darcy asked, placing the paper-knife on the desk.
“Because she is too good,” Robert confessed, the truth tearing out of him. “Jane Bennet is... she is pure grace. She is completely devoid of malice, of cynicism, of the calculating ambition that infects every other woman I have ever met in London. She is the light, Fitzwilliam.”
Robert ran a hand over his face, a shuddering breath escaping him.
“If I speak,” he continued, his voice thick with fear, “if I open my mouth and deploy my usual banter... I will say something frivolous. I will say something cynical or mocking, because it is my default state. And if I do that, she will see right through me and she will realise that I am a hollow fraud, an idiotic peer who plays the fool to avoid feeling anything real.”
Everyone was silent. Even Richard was no longer smiling.
“But if I do not speak,” Robert whispered, staring at his boots. “If I stand there like a mute idiot... she will think I am a dullard, that I have no mind at all. I am paralysed, Darcy. I am scared of frightening her away, and I am scared of proving that I am unworthy of her.”
Darcy knew exactly what it felt like to be dismantled by a woman’s goodness. He knew the terror of realising one’s own character was flawed in the face of her light.
He walked over and placed a firm hand on Robert’s shoulder.
“You are not a fraud, Robert,” Darcy said, his voice ringing with certainty. “You are the most loyal, perceptive man I know. You threw me a rope when I was drowning and you saved me from myself. Jane Bennet will see that. You just have to be brave enough to let her look.”
“He is right,” Anne added from her chair. “You play the fool by choice, Robert. Choose to be the man who plays Mozart. She will love that man.”
Robert let out a long, shaky exhale. He looked at Darcy, the panic in his eyes slowly receding.
“I need to know.” Robert sat forward, his hands clasping his knees. “I need to know that her heart is free. I cannot charge into battle if the ghost of Charles Bingley is still occupying the fortress.”
“Miss Bennet assured Miss Elizabeth that she holds no lingering attachments,” Darcy reminded him. “She absolved me of my interference and stated plainly that she sees Bingley for the weak-willed weather-vane he is.”
“Words are one thing,” Robert argued, his mind finally re-engaging. “But the heart is a treacherous organ. I need to see it. I need to witness the closure with my own eyes. If she flinches when she sees him, I will step back and give her time. But if she is truly free...”
Robert’s eyes hardened with resolve. “If she is free, I will marry her. I will lay my viscountcy at her feet.”
“And how do you propose to test this?” Richard asked, leaning forward on the sofa.
Robert stood up, smoothing his waistcoat and adjusting his cuffs, the paralysis gone.
“I sent Boodles to Astley’s Amphitheatre to secure a private box directly opposite Bingley’s for tomorrow evening.”
Darcy blinked. “You intend to ambush Charles Bingley at a circus?”
“I intend to orchestrate a serendipitous encounter,” Robert corrected. “We shall invite the Gardiners and the Bennet sisters. We are going to watch trick-riding horses, Fitzwilliam. And we are going to watch Bingley.”
Robert began to pace again, but this time, it was the stride of a conqueror mapping out a campaign.
“I will give Jane Bennet her closure,” he declared, his voice ringing with authority.
“She wished to look him in the eye and confirm her assessment of his lightness. I will provide the venue. When Bingley inevitably bounds over to our box and begins raving about the fetlocks of his dappled grey mare... I will watch her face.”
He stopped pacing and turned to face his three cousins.
“If she weeps, I shall offer her my handkerchief,” he promised. “But if she laughs... I will ask her to be my viscountess before the interval is over. Or at least allow me to court her.”
Darcy stared at his cousin, a grin spreading across his face. It was brilliant, it was theatrical, it was entirely Robert.
“It is a daring stratagem, Cousin,” Darcy noted, moving to the drinks cabinet.
“It is a solid plan, Brother.” Richard vaulted off the sofa. “I shall wear my dress uniform. If Bingley becomes tedious, I can threaten him with a sabre.”
“I shall wear my most intimidating diamonds,” Anne agreed, standing up and smoothing her skirts. “To ensure the Gardiners know we consider them worthy of our finest jewels.”
Darcy poured four glasses of brandy and handed them out.
“To Astley’s Amphitheatre, then,” Darcy proposed, raising his glass. “May the horses be swift, may Bingley be oblivious, and may you finally find your voice, Robert.”
“To Miss Jane Bennet.” Robert clinked his glass against Darcy’s, his eyes burning. “And to the total surrender of my bachelorhood.”