“You review gentlemen the way other men review livestock,” Lady Sophia remarked, turning a page of Fordyce with visible satisfaction. “The Reverend would approve of such a cold-blooded assessment.”
Darcy lifted the next card. “Sir Philip Crane. He has a considerable fortune. Sugar plantations in the West Indies.”
Elizabeth’s nose crinkled as if she had caught a whiff of something spoiled. “And how many souls were bartered to sweeten his tea, Mr. Darcy? I cannot admire a man whose estate is built upon the misery of others. Reject him. I should rather marry a curate with one coat and a clear conscience.”
“I concur without hesitation, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said, his voice a register of quiet gravity. “I admire your convictions. His wealth is tainted by its barbarity.”
“A wise choice,” Lady Sophia murmured. “That society should tolerate a man whose fortune rests on the backs of the enslaved is reprehensible. Proceed.”
Darcy reached for the next card. “Lord Leycester. Not a man I would recommend.”
“Why not? He has a very elegant crest.” Elizabeth’s eyes darted. “And a charming smile.”
“He has nothing else to occupy his face or his mind,” Darcy countered. “His debts exceed his income by several thousand pounds. He has been engaged twice, both dissolved upon… investigation. I believe he is looking for a wife to pay for his waistcoats.”
Lady Sophia looked up from the Fordyce, her expression one of mock-gravity. “He does have a title, Fitzwilliam. A Viscountcy of the older creation. In certain circles, a crumbling estate and a trail of disgruntled creditors are considered quite romantic—provided the coronet on the carriage is sufficiently polished.”
Elizabeth laughed, a bright, silver sound. “A title is a very fine thing, Lady Sophia, but I find it loses its luster when one must sell the family silver to pay for the celebratory breakfast. I have no desire to be a ‘Viscountess’ if my primary duty is to hide the Ming vases whenever a bailiff rings the bell.”
“Indeed, he is a ‘fashionable’ pauper with a coat of arms,” Darcy agreed. “A daughter of a gentleman need not supply his silk waistcoats as she does not require a minor peerage to lift her chin.”
“And yet, what if she covets one to decorate her crown?” Elizabeth countered, her eyes flashing with that familiar, provocative light. “Perhaps, with my newfound wealth, I would prefer to be known as Lady Elizabeth. It has a very grand, very formidable ring to it, do you not think, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy’s fingers tightened on the calling card, tempted to crush it. “If you covet a title, Miss Bennet, I should advise you to seek one that carries the weight of history rather than the fresh ink of a Regent’s patent. Half the baronies created since the turn of the century have been bought with the proceeds of sugar or beer. A title whose lineage does not date back to the Conquest is merely a modern convenience—regrettable, hollow, and entirely beneath the dignity of a woman who values substance over show.”
Lady Sophia looked up from her volume of sermons, a single, elegant eyebrow raised askance. “My word, Fitzwilliam. You speak as though anyone created after the Plantagenets is a mere squatter in the House of Lords. Do try not to be more of a Pemberley monarch than your father was; it is exhausting before noon.”
Elizabeth merely smiled over her teacup, as if she had won a round over his vaunted composure.
“And the next?” Lady Sophia asked, her eyes shining with malicious amusement as she turned a page. “Or are we to spend the entire morning emptying the salver into the wastebasket?”
Darcy reached for the next card, his fingers restoring order to the stack with dexterity. “The Honorable Herbert Langley. He is… unobjectionable.”
Lady Sophia let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-exasperation, and entirely dismissive. She didn’t even bother to look up from her text.
“Unobjectionable, Fitzwilliam? You describe the man as if he were a lukewarm bowl of porridge. Must you be so dampening? One might as well marry a footstool; at least the footstool has the courtesy not to offer ‘unobjectionable’ conversation during dinner.”
Darcy remained sullenly silent, his jaw locking so rigidly that the muscle beneath his ear throbbed. He stared at the card as if he could burn Langley’s name from the pasteboard by sheer force of will.
Lady Sophia turned a page with a dry snap. “Herbert Langley is the sort of man who has never committed a sin more interesting than forgetting his gloves, and whose greatest ambition is to have a particularly well-organized library. He is safe, he is solvent, and he is—heaven help us—tedious. If Elizabeth marries him, she will be asleep by the first anniversary and buried by the second, purely from a lack of anything to keep her heart beating.”
Elizabeth bit back a smile, her eyes dancing. “A footstool, Lady Sophia? That is a harsh comparison for a man with a comfortable fortune and a clean conscience.”
“A clean conscience is easily maintained when one has the disposition of a damp hedge,” Sophia countered.
Darcy, however, did not join in the mockery. He studied the card, then Elizabeth. His responsibility for her Season—and his own unyielding sense of honor—demanded an honest assessment, no matter the internal cost.
“Langley is… rare,” he said. “He was with me at Cambridge. His principles are sound, his manners easy, and his fortune is not only comfortable but unencumbered by debt or dispute. I believe he would treat a wife with the respect her intellect demands.”
“That is high praise, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth watched him carefully. “Especially from a man who finds so few of his fellows… tolerable.”
“It is accurate,” Darcy replied, meeting her eyes. “I do not diminish a man’s worth without cause. I should be a poor trustee indeed if I allowed Lady Sophia’s taste for drama to obscure a gentleman of real merit.”
“How remarkably honorable you are, Mr. Darcy.”
He restrained himself from tugging his cravat, not detecting her usual sarcasm. “I am merely your trustee, Miss Elizabeth. My duty is to consider your best interests.”
“Very well, then Mr. Langley’s card remains upon the salver.” She held his gaze. “I shall look forward to meeting a man of such ‘real merit’ when he calls.”
