Fitzwilliam shook his head. “No, but he will himself be connected to her once he is her brother.”
“Saye will undoubtedly delight in a nearer connexion to Bingley,” Darcy replied sarcastically. Saye’s dislike of Bingley’s puppyish enthusiasm was well-known to both of them. “How do your mother and father like it? Have you told them of your scheme?”
They had arrived in the vestibule, and Darcy mentioned the possibility of looking in at their club. As such a scheme was agreeable to his cousin, they both departed.
“Naturally my family had their own plans and wishes for who would be my wife,” Fitzwilliam acknowledged. “Ladies whose families would bring some political advantage or who had a sizeable fortune to bring to the marriage. But I told them straightaway that none of the ladies they liked would suit me. Fortunately, they still have Saye’s marriage to preoccupy them.”
“Saye’s marriage?”
“Should he ever happen upon a woman who can tolerate him for longer than a dance.”
The club was relatively empty, given the early hour. Darcy would not have expected Saye to be present—his eldest cousin often said that nothing of importance ever happened before two in the afternoon—but there he was, seated at a prominent table.
“The Great Master of Pemberley,” Saye intoned theatrically as they approached him. “Locked in a battle of the heart against the second son of the Earl of Matlock. Will it be tall, handsome, and scandalously wealthy who prevails, or fat-witted but amiable?”
Fitzwilliam chuckled and gave his brother a little shove before sitting.
“What is that scent you are wearing?” Saye enquired of Darcy as he took a seat opposite him.
“Do you dislike it?”
Saye was busily wafting the air between them towards his nose. Wrinkling his brow, he said, “Oakmoss, to be sure…the faintest touch of amber, perhaps a cinnamon top note? Who blends this for you?”
“It is derived from Houbigant’s creations.”
“Is it new?”
Darcy sighed heavily. “What does it matter?”
“I think you ought to be differently scented when you next meet your lady. You do not wish the smell of rejection to be yet lingering.”
“A valid point, though I should prefer that you not bandy it about so loudly here in the middle of our club,” Darcy replied glumly. “That said, it does remind me of a request I have for you.”
“Of course.”
Saye was on intimate terms with a notorious smuggler called Gertie Birdsell. For exorbitant prices, Gertie ensured that Saye had as much champagne, brandy, tobacco, lace, and fine-milled French soap as he desired. The entire family was aghast that Saye did business with such a criminal, but that only made Saye like Gertie more.
Darcy positively loathed being involved in any such doings, but it had occurred to him that gifts for some of the ladies of Meryton—those who had hosted him, fed him in their homes—might raise the public opinion of him. And if that opinion happened to work its way back to Elizabeth…even better. Without looking at his cousin, Darcy described what he wished for and in what quantities.
“Easy enough,” Saye replied. “Twenty pounds should do it, but give me an extra ten just in case.”
“Thirty pounds!” Darcy exclaimed. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Fine French goods do not come cheaply, and one must account for the risk to life and limb poor Gertie must face daily. You know he is Prinny’s cousin?”
“No, he is not,” Darcy replied flatly. Gertie’s lineage grew more exalted every time Saye spoke of it.
“He absolutely is, and I can prove it unequivocally.”
“I am not certain such libertine connexions can be to his credit, in truth, but I do not really care. I shall send Fields over later with the sum. Just arrange it for me,” Darcy replied sharply.
“What on earth do you need so much soap for?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“Gifts.”
“Greasing up the mothers, are you?” Saye nodded approvingly. “Well done, my boy. I am going to bet you a hundred pounds that you will win Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” He extended his hand towards his cousin to shake on it.
“You want me to bet against myself?”
