He was not fooled for a moment by his cousin’s feigned sanguinity. The colour had drained from Darcy’s face when he realised what he had done, and it had not returned since. Fitzwilliam felt for him—it was an exceedingly unfortunate mishap—though it was all somewhat moot at this point in proceedings. Darcy had, himself, forsworn any possibility of re-establishing the acquaintance before this disaster happened—but even had he not, there would be no chance of doing so now. For, assuming the intelligence Fitzwilliam had received earlier that day from Mulhall was correct, Miss Bennet’s happiness and protection were about to become somebody else’s concern, and whatever Darcy may or may not have done to offend her would soon be irrelevant.
Fitzwilliam was a man trained in battle, however, and he knew that a war was not won by giving up one’s own position simply because one’s ally had been shot down. He tossed the footman a sixpence for his patience and let himself into the drawing room.
“Ladies! I hope I am not interrupting?”
“You hope no such thing,” Lady Tuppence replied with a small but thrilling smirk.
“True.” He joined them where they were sitting on two long couches, arranged perpendicularly to the fireplace, though the fire was mercifully unlit. He sat next to his cousin, facing Lady Tuppence, whose gaze he held as he added, “Quite deliberate.”
“Where are the others?” Georgiana enquired.
“Deep in conversation about soil drainage or something equally tedious. I left them to their brandy and came in search of livelier company.”
Georgiana looked relieved, which was intriguing.
“Why?” he asked. “Were you talking about something you would not like them to hear?”
“Yes,” Lady Tuppence answered. “We were talking about Mr Darcy.”
“Were you indeed?”
Georgiana blushed and began to stammer an explanation, but her ladyship interrupted to say, more intelligibly, “I asked Miss Darcy why her brother said earlier that he did not think Miss Bennet would like to speak to him. She was just telling me that he and Miss Bennet were romantically attached at one point.”
Fitzwilliam looked sharply at Georgiana. How was it that she could be too timid to open her mouth for most of dinner but have brio enough to blab about her brother’s love interests at the slightest provocation? Would the girl never learn? Elopements, illicit rendezvous, inappropriate gossip—the accepted etiquette of affairs of the heart seemed to have entirely passed her by.
“About a year ago, yes,” he replied carefully. “It all went off.”
“I see,” Lady Tuppence said pensively. “In that case, I can see why he thought she would not like to speak to him. No woman who has had her heart broken wishes to have salt rubbed in the wound. It is a little rich, though, that he should claim such great concern for which men she chooses to associate with when it was he who threw her over.”
Fitzwilliam bristled at that but thought it best to say as little as possible on the matter. Darcy would not thank him for prolonging the debate. “That is not an entirely accurate account of what happened, madam, but?—”
“No indeed! My brother did not break Miss Bennet’s heart—she broke his!”
“Georgiana, this is neither the time nor the place,” Fitzwilliam said in a low voice.
“But Lady Tuppence already thinks he is a cad who goes about giving ladies the cut direct. We cannot allow her to think he breaks people’s hearts, too.” Turning to her ladyship, she pleaded, “I beg you would not think ill of him. He is so good. He did not throw Miss Bennet over. He was in love with her.”
Fitzwilliam groaned and rolled his eyes. Darcy would roast them both alive when he heard about this.
“I suppose she might have been talking about a different man, although it does not seem likely, given the timings,” Lady Tuppence acknowledged. “Colonel, do you know whether your mother has ever visited Miss Bennet’s home?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge. Why do you ask?”
“Apparently the aunt of Miss Bennet’s love interest travelled all the way to Hertfordshire to forbid her from ever marrying him.”
Fitzwilliam sat bolt upright. Propriety be damned—if this was true, it mattered far more than Darcy’s pride. “My mother did not go—but my aunt did. Lady Catherine de Bourgh is aunt to both of us.Shewent to Miss Bennet last autumn but was told unequivocally that there was no affection to be opposed, and no alliance would ever be agreed to.”
“Well for heaven’s sake!” Lady Tuppence cried. “Who listens to their aunt for advice on such matters?”
“Everyonelistens to Lady Catherine,” Georgiana said solemnly.
“Well, your brother should not have, because she has lied to him. Miss Bennet refused to promise that she would never accept an offer from Mr Darcy and was devastated when he did not come back.” She reached to pat Georgiana’s knee. “We are all delighted that you and Rutherford have hit it off, my dear, and I daresay it has all worked out for the best—but the only reason you had occasion to meet that day is because Miss Bennet wastoo heartbroken to submit herself to an hour in another man’s company and did not keep the appointment.”
“But this is wonderful!” Georgiana exclaimed. “Brother will be in raptures.”
“It is not quite as wonderful as you might think,” Fitzwilliam said. “Miss Bennet has gone to the British Institution this evening as the particular companion of a different gentleman. I understand it is generally expected that he will propose during the course of the evening—and that she will accept.”
Georgiana gasped. “Oh no!”
