After she quitted the room a second time, Mrs Sinclair tutted and shook her head. “People with more money than sense must be very careful that, when their fortune diminishes, their reason does not dwindle with it.”
With slow deliberation, Matlock picked up his cigar and lit it. Then he picked up his port and drank it. Then he picked up his book and began to read it. He was assured that Mrs Sinclair, with her overabundance of sense, could not mistake his meaning. Indeed, he was much gratified when at length he heard the swish of skirts, the tap of her cane, the click of the closing door and the blessed sound of silence.
Tuesday 2 June 1812, London
“Ho, Dickie! Just the man!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam excused himself from the conversation with his companions and turned to look for his brother in the crowds. It could only be Ashby, for nobody else ever hailed him thus.
Finding him was not difficult. He was sitting as proud as a peacock in his largest, shiniest curricle, wearing a hat of absurd elevation, a coat of the most outlandish azure and a cloth-of-gold cravat. He was very likely visible from France. Even more surprising than his gaudy attire was his choice of companion. Ashby did not often trouble himself to entertain Mrs Sinclair.
“Well met, Brother,” Fitzwilliam called up as he reached the side of the vehicle. “And delightful to see you, Grandmother. ’Tis a fine day for taking the air.”
“There is not much air left to be had in this crush,” she replied, looking about at the throngs of passers-by with a comical expression of bemused contempt. “What on earth are all these people doing here?”
“’Tis the fashionable hour, madam. They are promenading.”
She turned to her other grandson. “Is this why you insisted I come with you? To give you an excuse to parade around like a great coxcomb in that ridiculous hat of yours?”
“No, indeed,” Ashby replied insouciantly. “I insisted you comebecause my father insisted that I insist. You are driving him to distraction, madam.”
“Am I?” she replied more cheerfully. “Oh good.”
“For what is it that you believe me just the man then, Ashby?” Fitzwilliam enquired. “Have you a war that needs fighting?”
“Not I, though my cousin seems to have foregone diplomacy in favour of hostilities. You might need to take up arms in his defence.”
“Which cousin? And who is the enemy?”
“Darcy.”
“And the Gorgon of Kent,” Mrs Sinclair added gleefully.
“Lady Catherine? I find that hard to believe. Darcy has ever been the most tolerant of her ways.”
“’Til now, mayhap,” his brother replied. “Butnow,her ladyshiphas discovered he does not mean to marry Anne, and it seems he did not take kindly to her attempts to scold him into compliance.”
“Darcy has never intended to marry Anne. What has brought the issue to the fore?” Fitzwilliam fancied he could guess. It was not two weeks since Darcy had confessed his heartbreak. It was too great a coincidence to think this was not connected in some way.
“My aunt has heard a report that he means to marry a ghastly little upstart from Hertfordshire,” Ashby answered, veritably resonating with the joy of such delicious gossip.
Fitzwilliam licked his finger and rubbed at a smear on the rim of the carriage door. Elizabeth Bennet had much for which to answer. “You know as well as I that Darcy would never condescend to marry anyone even remotely ghastly. Lady Catherine ought to know better.”
“She has never had much in the way of sense,” his grandmother opined.
“Besides,” said Ashby, “by all accounts, Darcy’s defence of the woman has convinced her the report is true. Father says she is furious.”
“Oh, she is!” Mrs Sinclair agreed. “I never saw her so angry, and I was there the day Sir Lewis gambled away her underclothes in a card game.”
“Well, that is very unfortunate,” Fitzwilliam said, “but I still do not see what you think qualifies me as just the man. Surely you do not expect me to reason with her?”
“Of course not,” Ashby replied. “If she would not listen to Father, I hold no hope she will listen to you or me. The only person to whomshe will pay any heed is Darcy, and after this, I doubt he will be in any humour to speak to her again.”
“All the sense was evidently bestowed upon the Darcy side of the family,” said Mrs Sinclair. “No offence,” she added, reaching to pat Fitzwilliam’s cheek. “You inherited the Sinclair charm to make up for it.”
Ashby scoffed. “It seems you were short-changed on all fronts, little brother. At least I inherited the money.”
Fitzwilliam hoped he had not spent it all on his ludicrous hat. “You might inherit the sharp end of my sword as well if you do not come to the point and tell me why I am just the man.”
