“Then you are a bigger fool than I imagined. Mrs Bean is on the verge of bankruptcy. She owes money everywhere. She must have made the drawings and sold them to the newspapers.”
“I highly doubt that. Mrs Bean is a sought-after seamstress amongst the highest circle of society. Even the peerage frequent her establishment. In fact, it was Lady Matlock who made the appointment.”
“Bah!” the judge exclaimed. “Of course the aristocracy favour her. Why else would she be in trouble? Most have empty coffers and wait months to pay their bills, if they ever do. Mrs Bean should have stayed with the tradesmen’s wives and daughters because they are honourable enough to pay what they owe.”
“Hardly. You cannot disparage the nobility whilst lauding ruthless merchants.”
“It is the other way round, son. The aristocracy all know they cannot be touched by the law, whilst merchants would soon run out of business if word spread that they did not pay their bills. It is the way our society is founded, and there is nothing to be done about it but accept it. We are of the same blood, yet you were born to unimaginable riches, while I was born to toil.”
“As a second son of the aforementioned riches, you could know but little of toil. Your allowance from Pemberley should be sufficient to sustain you.”
The judge rose from his seat. That he was jealous was nothing new.
“Since you are being so totally unreasonable, I shall leave you to stew in your own misery,” the judge spat, marching towards the door.
Darcy leapt to his feet, rounded his desk, and in determined strides blocked the judge from leaving the study. “Sit down,” he snapped in a commanding tone.
His uncle complied.
“I cannot, and will not, allow your reprehensible behaviour to go without punishment. You have darkened my door for the last time, and you will retire to Derbyshire.”
“And if I do not? I am my own man,” the judge retorted petulantly.
“If you do not, or I find that you are responsible for more than you have admitted to, I shall retract my patronage of your children.”
“Not much of a threat, considering your downfall from grace…”
“We both know that I shall succeed in restoring my name. And even if I do not, they will need the connection to Matlock and de Bourgh. Neither the earl nor Lady Catherine will find your idea of a jest humorous.” He crossed his arms. “Since you are being unreasonable, I shall add one last threat. If you do not comply, you and your children will not be welcome in any of my homes and will not receive a farthing more in allowance from Pemberley’s coffers.”
The judge’s large Adam’s apple bobbed twice before he nodded.
But Darcy wanted to hear him say it. “Do we understand each other?”
“Yes. Perfectly clear. Am I allowed to leave?”
“Yes. Get out of my house before I change my mind.”
Darcy sighed and rubbed his stiff neck. What a disaster! If not Judge Darcy, who the hell could have been the instigator of the rumours, drawings, and what not? He was inclined to believe his uncle, who he could not imagine would strive to ruin the Darcy name, despite coveting Pemberley and its wealth. His children would suffer by association, and the judge had great plans for his son and daughter.
Could his scheme be even more nefarious? The judge had always resented being the younger son and had often voiced this opinion. If Darcy divorced Elizabeth and did not remarry, Augustus might eventually inherit Pemberley, or the judge might harbour the delusion he would marry Clarissa—a circumstance that would never happen.No. It is too farfetched, too many unknowns to be a plausible plot.An uncomfortable suspicion rose at the edges of his mind, with the memory of a certain lady disparaging both him and Elizabeth at Lady Matlock’s ball. No! It could not be Lady Amelia, could it?
“Mr Darcy!”
Darcy heard a female voice calling repeatedly. It was one he did not recognise, but that was not so strange as her caterwauling. It was a darned inopportune moment for a crisis in his household. After the disturbing conversation with his uncle, he needed Elizabeth’s comforting embrace to wash the ungodly images from his mind.
“Mr Darcy!”
A sense of foreboding descended upon him when it was Elizabeth’s draggle-tailed lady’s maid who came running into his sanctuary.
“Comport yourself, woman!” he snapped.
“It’s the mistress, sir.”
Martha, was it? A Yorkshire lass his wife had taken to upon introduction. She was winded, breathing like an ox in heat.
“An accident… Boat…”
Darcy rose to his feet. “What are you talking about?”
