Chapter Nineteen The Dragon of Grosvenor Square #2
Lady Catherine offered no reply. She turned on her heel, her bombazine skirts swishing fiercely as she marched out of the room. Mostyn escorted her down the stairs, kicking the door shut behind them.
They waited for the rumble of the carriage pulling away from Grosvenor Square, and then, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam threw his hands into the air and let out a deafening cry of victory.
“Huzzah!” he cheered, grabbing Anne by the waist and spinning her around in a circle. “Annie, you were magnificent! I have never been more frightened of you in my life!”
Robert collapsed into the nearest armchair, laughing so hard he had to wipe a tear from his cheek. “A stevedore! You told her you had the constitution of a stevedore! I shall commission an artist to engrave it upon a plaque for your new mantelpiece!”
Anne, laughing and dizzy as Richard set her on her feet, smoothed her emerald skirts. “I feel as though I have dropped a boulder from my shoulders. I am free. I am actually free.”
“Right,” Robert announced, clapping his hands together and standing up. He turned to Darcy with an expectant grin. “What next, Cousin?”
“Now, I have an important question to ask a certain lady,” Darcy replied, a laugh bubbling up from his chest, so bright and unburdened he actually snorted. It was an undignified sound, and he did not care in the slightest.
“Darcy, are you well?” Richard asked, incredulous.
“I am perfectly well.” Darcy laughed, waving him off. “But I have spent the last six months behaving like a fool. I handed her a disaster of a letter after delivering the worst proposal in human history. Ferrets have more romantic tact than I displayed in Hunsford.”
He turned to survey his relatives affectionately.
“Miss Elizabeth deserves the most romantic, flawlessly executed proposal, and we are not leaving this room until we have planned it.”
A slow, reverent expression of awe spread across the viscount’s face.
“You want to hold a council,” Robert whispered, “for romance?”
“Yes, Robert! Sit down, all of you. Boodles! Dawson! Mostyn! Fetch the tea. And the brandy. We have work to do.”
Georgiana, having deemed the coast clear, slipped back inside and took a seat beside Anne, her face bright with excitement.
“Very well. Let us think. We need a setting. We need a mood. How does the most brooding, unyielding, unimaginative man in England propose?” Robert rubbed his chin in deep contemplation.
“Approach her from the side,” Richard suggested, slamming a fist into his palm. “Cut off her escape route. Back her into a corner of the drawing room so she cannot slip away, and then deploy your primary question.”
“Richard,” Georgiana sighed, shaking her head. “A proposal is not a fox hunt. You cannot ambush the poor woman.”
“I agree with Georgiana,” Anne said, steepling her fingers and adopting an intense, gothic expression.
“It needs atmosphere. You should wait for a thunderstorm. Stand on a windswept moor, let the rain soak your shirt, and threaten to throw yourself from a cliff if she does not accept you. It is very fashionable right now in all the circulating libraries.”
“I am not throwing myself off a cliff,” Darcy said, even though the thought held some merit. “And there aren’t any moors in London.”
“You could hire a choir,” Robert suggested. “Hide them behind the curtains in Cheapside. When you pop the question, they burst into a chorus of Handel! It would be like no other!”
“It would give her aunt a heart attack,” Darcy pointed out reasonably. “Mrs Gardiner is already concerned about the symmetry of her cushions, I am told. A hidden choir might finish her off.”
“Poetry,” Georgiana offered sweetly. “You must recite a poem, Fitzwilliam. Something by Lord Byron.”
“Byron is a scoundrel, Georgiana. I am not quoting him to my future wife,” Darcy countered.
“Well, what do you suggest, oh Master of Romance?” Robert demanded, crossing his arms on his chest. “You reject the ambush, the cliff, the choir, and the poetry. What is your grand stratagem?”
Darcy leaned back in his chair, listening to the banter of his family. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, picturing Elizabeth. He pictured her eyes, her sharp wit, and the way she had laughed when the bumblebee had landed on his nose in the grove.
An idea began to form in his mind. It was simple. It was elegant. It required no cliffs, no hidden musicians, and absolutely no ink.
He opened his eyes, a slow, triumphant smile breaking across his face.
“I have it,” he announced softly.
“What is it?” Anne leaned forward eagerly. “Is it the cliff?”
“Tell us!” Richard demanded.
“Very well.” Darcy stood up and smoothed his waistcoat. The anxiety, the panic, the fear—it was all gone. He felt invincible. “I am going to tell you exactly what my plan entails, because you are all going to be implicated.”
Robert’s expression lit up with unholy glee. “Implicated? Fitzwilliam, you speak to my very soul. Tell us. Who are we kidnapping?”
“We are not kidnapping anyone.” Darcy sighed. “But I cannot execute this alone. It requires precision and timing.”
“A coordinated infiltration.” Richard nodded approvingly, sitting up straighter. “I like it. What are my assignments?”
Darcy gathered them around him. “I am going to host a dinner at Vauxhall Gardens, and I will need your assistance.”
Robert’s face lit up with glee. “Vauxhall? Music, lanterns, and overpriced wine. Very theatrical, Fitzwilliam. What is our role in this production?”
“I need a moment of privacy with Miss Elizabeth,” he explained. “Properly chaperoned by proximity, naturally, but out of earshot. I will invite the Gardiners and the Bennet sisters. When we arrive, I need you all to scatter her family. Draw them to the main pavilion or the cascades.”
“Consider it done.” Richard nodded approvingly, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “I shall ask Mr Gardiner about the Thames shipping routes. That should occupy him for at least an hour.”
“I shall keep Miss Bennet captivated,” Robert promised, pressing a hand to his heart with solemn gravity. “She shall not notice a thing.”
“Anne and Georgiana.” Darcy turned to the ladies. “You will engage Mrs Gardiner. Inquire about her favourite musicians or the latest fashions. Keep her attention fixed upon you.”
“We shall manage her beautifully,” Anne said, a mischievous spark in her pale features. “But what of you, Fitzwilliam? Where will you go?”
“Once the path is clear, I shall guide Miss Elizabeth towards the quieter walks. And there I will ask my question.”
“Dawson! Boodles!” Robert shouted, leaping out of his armchair. “Bring the good brandy! The smuggled French stuff! The master of Pemberley is hosting a party tomorrow night!”
The wreckage of Lady Catherine’s ambitions was far behind them, replaced by the thrilling promise of the future. Darcy did not need a windswept moor, a hidden choir, or a tragic monologue. He had his cousins, a plan, and a heart captivated by a woman with an unmatched wit.