Page 68 of To Win Her Affections

Eyes suddenly wide, Mr. Bennet stared at Elizabeth with astonishment. “As I recall, the dance at Netherfield.” Then he burst into chuckles and added: “Miss Bingley appeared fit to be tied when he danced with you and not her.”

“With Miss Bingley’s opinion,” replied Elizabeth, “I am well acquainted.”

“Yes, I dare say you are.”

Mr. Bennet paused and considered this epiphany, then he nodded. “There was evidence from the autumn that he found you agreeable, though I did not see it until now. At the ball, he watched you a great deal, though I recall you suggested he was attempting to find fault.”

“That is absurd!” exclaimed Mr. Gardiner. “What man looks to excess at a woman he finds unappealing?”

“It appears we have all been blind,” said Mr. Bennet.

Elizabeth did not respond, for she felt the justice in Mr. Gardiner’s point.

“Mr. Darcy will come tomorrow morning?” asked Mr. Bennet.

“Yes, Papa,” said Elizabeth. “He did not say what time, but I suspect it will be early.”

“Well before visiting hours, or I shall eat my hat,” said Mr. Gardiner.

Mr. Bennet nodded. “I shall enjoy seeing the lovesick swain he has become.”

“Oh, Papa,” said Elizabeth, shaking her head with exasperation. “Do not treat him like Mr. Collins—Mr. Darcy will not misunderstand comments made at his expense, and the regard he professes is quite real.”

“No, I cannot suppose he will,” replied Mr. Bennet. “Yet I am curious all the same.”

With that, Elizabeth had to be content. She and her uncle focused on their dinners, then they sought their beds. Tomorrow, Elizabeth thought as she lay between crisp sheets, would be a long day—far longer than any of them wished.

THE FIRST THING DARCY did when he stepped into his house was to inquire after his cousin’s whereabouts. Since his footman had ridden on ahead, his staff had at least a little forewarning of his arrival, for which he was grateful, as his housekeeper had arranged a hot meal for him.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam has been staying here for the last two weeks,” advised Monroe, his butler. “He is not present at the moment, but we expect him to return before long.”

“Excellent,” said Darcy, thanking him. “When he returns, please inform him that I wish to speak with him at once. I shall take dinner in my study.”

“Very good, Mr. Darcy.”

With no valet to care for his needs, Darcy untied his cravat and draped it over the back of his chair, seating himself behind his desk to write some letters. The first was to his man of business, asking him to undertake the delicate task of finding someone who might marry Miss Lydia if a suitable sum were settled on her. The second letter was to his banker requesting a meeting at his earliest convenience. Darcy contemplated a third, a means of dispensing with the distasteful obligation to inform Lady Catherine of the impossibility of her designs. What stopped him was the knowledge that a letter would provoke Lady Catherine to erupt in rage, journey to London to confront him or—and the notion made Darcy’s blood run cold—journey to Hertfordshire to confront Miss Elizabeth, not knowing she was in London.

No, Darcy decided, putting his pen and ink away. There was no choice but to inform Lady Catherine in person and warn her against any volcanic displays. Lady Catherine would rant and rage, and she would almost certainly confront her brother and demand he enforce Darcy’s compliance, but if he spoke to her himself, he did not think she would then accost Miss Elizabeth. For that moment, Darcy put Lady Catherine from his mind, as a maid entered with a tray.

By the time Fitzwilliam arrived, Darcy had finished his dinner and had settled before the cold hearth, a glass of brandy in his hand. He was not thinking of anything in particular, but the notion of Wickham facing the consequences of his crimes had occurred to him. It was not at all unpleasant to consider.

“Darcy!” boomed Fitzwilliam when he stepped into the room. “I had not expected you to return to London so soon.”

Seeing Darcy with a glass, Fitzwilliam went to the decanter and poured himself a generous portion before joining Darcy, flinging himself into the other chair. The grin he displayed was characteristic of his cousin, and Darcy felt the familiar lightness of spirits Fitzwilliam’s presence had always inspired in him. Just as quickly he forced it away—there was serious business to discuss.

“Shall you not tell me why you have come?” Fitzwilliam grinned and nudged him. “Did you grow so fatigued with Miss Bingley that you retreated to London desperate to escape from her?”

Darcy snorted—his cousin knew him well. “Miss Bingley is, as always, unendurable, but she did not drive me from Pemberley. Bingley is taking his sisters north to visit family at present. I have come for another reason altogether.”

Fitzwilliam sensed a measure of gravity in Darcy’s demeanor, and sobered. “This sounds serious, Darcy. Since you requested my presence, I must assume you mean to tell me what has happened.”

“I do,” said Darcy. “Would it interest you to learn that my presence in London is because of the actions of George Wickham?”

As Darcy had expected, Fitzwilliam grew focused. “Wickham?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me more, Darcy. Given your general demeanor, I must assume that you mean to do something about that miscreant.”