“What’s that?” Saye asked. “I could not hear you.”
“I said that… Oh. I understand.”
“I am tasked with making the book, and I shall do so on my understanding that you do intend to woo the lady as mistress of Sapskull Hill, and when Darcy gets her—well, so it goes.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “I am surprised you wish to go to Bingley’s wedding. You do realise Bingley’s sister will be there?”
“Miss Bingley is not so bad on the eyes,” Saye said after some thought.
“No, it is only when she speaks that she grows intolerable. Never mind that though, it will be Darcy who endures the first part of her attentions. Even with this mythological Snow Hill?—”
“Salt Hill. Pray do remember the name of your own estate.”
“Salt Hill, yes. Alas, even with Salt Hill, I am not nearly wealthy enough for Miss Bingley.”
“But you are the son of an earl,” Saye reminded him. “There is position to be had. Another reason I must be there—Miss Bingley and her like will be too much enchanted by me and the earldom to look your way.”
“I am still surprised you mean to go.”
“I did a bit of asking around, and what do you suppose I discovered?” Saye leant forwards. “Miss Lillian Goddard’s family has a place not ten miles from these Bennet people.”
“How does that signify?”
“I have decided I want her.”
Fitzwilliam barked out a surprised laugh. “I do not recall any mention of her by Miss Elizabeth, so they might not be acquainted.”
“That is nothing to me. They will all know one another well enough by the time we arrive at the breakfast.”
“Impossible.”
“Think so?”
“I do.”
“Want to put some money on it?”
Fitzwilliam sighed heavily. “Twenty pounds says we shall not see hide nor hair of Miss Goddard in Hertfordshire.”
Saye extended his hand, and the brothers shook. While they did so, another man arrived at the table. Sir Frederick Moore was Saye’s particular friend and generally close by wherever the viscount happened to be. He stood with a tankard of ale in hand. “What is this I hear about a wager concerning Darcy?”
“Nothing to worry yourself—” Fitzwilliam began but was interrupted by his brother.
“You will love this, Fred. Both my brother and Darcy are chasing after a famed country beauty. You want in? I have a book going on it.”
Sir Frederick was not invited to sit but sat regardless, sloshing drink over his hand as he did. “I shall throw in, but who is she?”
“You do not know her and probably will not until she is either Mrs Darcy or Mrs Fitzwilliam,” Saye replied.
For some reason, Sir Frederick found this hilarious—evidently, he was more in his cups than Fitzwilliam had realised when he approached them—and laughed a loud, donkey’s bray of a laugh that made several other men glance towards them. “Nowthatis a bet I am happy to lay,” he bellowed.
He was so loud that several other men came over, wishing to know what scheme was ongoing. By the time an hour hadelapsed, the bets were numerous. Saye gave Fitzwilliam a gleeful punch on the arm as he stood to leave. “We are going to make so much money on this,” he hissed gleefully.
“Hurst! Is it true?”
Having been poised to enter his carriage, Hurst stopped and nearly groaned at the figure he observed trotting to meet him. “What do you want? Where is my money?”
George Wickham approached, a little breathless. “I shall pay, you need not worry for that.”
