“I could not possibly say,” he averred, though when Kitty stepped nearer to him and fluttered her eyelashes as Lydia had taught her to, hedidsay, without hesitation, “Yes, he does.”
Kitty burst out laughing. “Oh Lord! Mr Darcy, who never had a good word to say about my sister, is secretly so in love with her that he slandered her love interest to prevent either of them forming an attachment!”
Sergeant Mulhall laughed ruefully and made a gesture with his hands for her to lower her voice. “I beg you would not repeat that. I shall not be thanked for saying anything.”
“Do not worry, Lizzy will not want to hear it anyhow. She hates him. Besides, she has decided to marry someone else.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. She is tired of being plagued to find a husband and thinks accepting Mr Knowles will stop everybody pestering her about it all the time.”
This was something else Lizzy had disclosed in the dark the previous night, directly after she had snuffed out the candles and thrown herself onto the bed in high dudgeon at being made to listen all evening to Mrs Gardiner’s ‘advice’ on suitable matches.
“Who is Mr Knowles?”
“A business acquaintance of my uncle’s. He has been sniffing around Lizzy for an age, so he will be delighted when she accepts his invitation.”
“Invitation? I thought you were talking about a proposal?”
“Oh, the invitation is to the special event here tomorrow evening, but everybody knows he will propose while they are here. ’Tis a candlelit event with musicians—he is bound to ask.”
“It does seem likely.” Sergeant Mulhall returned to searching the paintings, but after a short while said, quietly, “A candlelit event with musicians, eh?”
Kitty gave him a sideways glance. “Yes.”
“That does sound terrifically romantic.”
“I suppose it does.”
“I assume your sister will not come alone. I imagine certain members of her family will want to accompany her on such a prestigious occasion.”
Kitty kept her eyes on the portrait of a spectacularly ill-favoured woman in a stupid feathered headdress in front of her and smiled. “I imagine so.”
“What a happy coincidence,” Sergeant Mulhall said, bending forwards to closely inspect the same picture. “For I have just this very moment decided that I like paintings after all and ought to return tomorrow to inspect them all again by candlelight.”
Kitty leant forwards until her nose was as close to the canvas as his. “I imagine I might see you here, then.”
He turned his head to cast her a quick and very close-up smile. “I imagine you will.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Darcy had worked himself into quite the lather by midday on Thursday. He seemed doomed to be forever tasked with preventing worthless men from hurting innocent women whilst being perpetually denied his own chances of happiness with the fairer sex. He was more than a little fed up with acting the knight gallant and hoped Rutherford would recede without a fuss, for he was in no humour to be gainsaid.
One thing had kept him from despairing as he lay awake for most of the night, railing at the world for dealing his innocent sister another disingenuous suitor: Elizabeth had wanted to save her. So many questions swirled about that revelation as made his head hurt attempting to straighten the matter out, not least whether Fitzwilliam’s intelligence was even correct. But assuming it was, assuming Elizabeth had gone to the British Institution to protect Georgiana from Rutherford’s advances, the question Darcy would most like answered was—had she done it for him?
“Upon my word, have a care!” somebody grumbled as he forged distractedly past them. He muttered an apology and kept moving, eager to get the business done.
He stopped when the couch came into view. The same couch with its blasted pillars at each end, where he had heard Elizabeth agree to meet the very man who, presumably, was the one presently waiting upon it for Georgiana. Darcy’s lip curled. The cur looked as easy as anything, wholly untroubled by the harm he was about to wreak upon a young girl’s reputation and thoroughly ignorant of the pain he had already inflicted on her.
There was something familiar in his countenance which confirmed to Darcy that they probably had met at some point, justifying his niggling recognition of the name. With a nod to himself, he approached the couch and stopped a scant few inches away, forcing the reprobate to crane his neck to look up at him.
“Rutherford, I presume?” he said without preamble.
The man did not react as he expected. Instead of appearing troubled or affronted, he broke into a broad smile. “Darcy?”
“Excuse me?”
“As I live and breathe, it is! Fitzwilliam Darcy!” He stood up abruptly, forcing Darcy to take a hasty step backwards to avoid a blow to the chin, and thrust out his hand. “Well I never! Had I known the connexion, I would have announced myself to you sooner.”
