Page 76

She raised her hand to knock and lowered it. The diamond rings were still in her pocket. She hadn’t realized she was carrying them until now. She leaned against the wall again and just… breathed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

NOT NOW

Darcy had been awaiting this reckoning with Richard ever since his cousin escorted Georgiana’s carriage up the final, rutted mile to Pemberley. Richard’s expression had acquired that particular tightness which, in the Fitzwilliam family, signaled a storm gathering behind the eyes. Byron Lefevre’s insolent summons had only postponed the inevitable. The moment Elizabeth and Georgiana ascended the staircase, arm in arm, Richard seized Darcy by the sleeve, ushered him into the study, and secured the mahogany door with a decisive flick of the brass latch.

“You have something to say concerning Georgiana’s unapproved excursion northward,” Darcy remarked, standing stiffly by the tall window to watch a pair of estate gardeners rake the gravel drive smooth where the heavy carriage wheels had scarred it.

“I confess I have a great deal more to speak with you about than simply Miss Darcy’s romantic follies with aspiring clergymen,” Richard said, stalking directly toward the mahogany sideboard and pouring himself a generous measure of amber spirit. “Brandy?”

Darcy waved it aside. A thoroughly miserable evening portended. Georgiana would undoubtedly be resentful once her two senior guardians delivered the severe sentence he was preparing. Yet Elizabeth’s immediate affinity for his sister would go a long way toward tempering the domestic atmosphere, softening the blow even without Charlotte’s steady presence to anchor the room.

“I have made my decision,” Darcy stated as soon as Richard had dropped into the leather chair by the unlit hearth. “My sister is to remain strictly confined to Pemberley under the auspices of my wife. She will not be returning to London and the sphere of the Ashworths, and she will not like it one bit.”

Richard set the glass down half-empty. “She will detest every minute of it, Fitzwilliam. Though I should warn you that my mother has already dispatched a rather frantic inquiry from Matlock House, demanding to know when Georgiana might return so she may be formally presented at Court and launched into what remains of the London season.”

“We did not plan on bringing Georgiana out until her eighteenth birthday,” Darcy reminded his cousin, his voice tightening as he turned from the window. “You were in absolute agreement with me, Richard. It is the age my parents prescribed, particularly given that her portion is presently locked away in overseas shipping ventures and entirely unavailable for immediate marriage settlements.”

“That was before a zealot with excellent cheekbones swept her off her feet with grandiose visions of saving benighted souls in tropical swamps,” Richard retorted dryly. “Now, my mother’s most urgent, sleepless preoccupation is to present her to polite society at the earliest possible hour, so that eligible gentlemen of proper lineage may court her.”

Darcy stiffened, the dark memory of Georgiana’s frantic letter flashing across his mind—the frantic, undeniable lines scrawled in haste: I must be married at once.

“Now is scarcely the time to thrust her into the ton’s scrutiny in a panic,” Darcy said tightly, breaking the silence as he crossed his arms over his chest. “A frightened, defiant girl introduced under a cloud of scandal will only attract the worst sort of vultures.”

“My mother’s circle is wide,” Richard said, despite the disapproving set of Darcy’s jaw. “She scrutinizes each gentleman with care and cultivates the families most worth noting.”

“And yet,” Darcy countered, his voice dropping into a dry, glacial register, “it was precisely within your mother’s London drawing room—amidst all her meticulous cultivation—that Georgiana was introduced to Mr. Ashworth at her musical evening.”

“The Ashworths possess lineage of the most impeccable order; they are an ancient earldom, Fitzwilliam. Who could have anticipated that their impoverished second son—who excelled at little more than turning pages at the pianoforte and murmuring pious platitudes would have made such an impression on your sister?”

“Precisely my point,” Darcy said, his jaw tightening as he uncrossed his arms. “Lineage and an earldom are a poor substitute for common sense. For now, Elizabeth will provide the steady, sisterly counsel Georgiana desperately needs. As for Mr. Ashworth, he is forbidden from calling on my sister.”

“I have no argument with you on that point.” Richard swirled the amber remnants of his brandy. “Young Ashworth should be permitted to sail to Barbados and preach to his heart’s content.”

“And Georgiana will not be permitted to go with him. I absolutely will not give consent.”

“She could have eloped instead,” Richard said, finishing the brandy. “The problem is not Mr. Ashworth, who would not wish to stain his reputation in that manner, but your sister who believes herself in love with the young preacher. How will you and Elizabeth handle her melancholy if she is not permitted to return to London? By bringing her out for the Season, my parents can offer distractions in a steady procession of eligible young men with incomes above eight thousand a year and complexions unblemished by tropical sun. My mother believes the cure for an unsuitable attachment is a suitable one, applied liberally and at considerable expense.”

“In a few years,” Darcy said. “My sister needs the wisdom that an older sister dispenses more so than a parade of suitors. Elizabeth possesses a clarity of judgment and an instinctive warmth that would benefit my sister’s discernment and judgment.”

“Doubtless Mrs. Darcy is all that is amiable,” Richard said cautiously, his tone losing its warmth. He looked up, meeting Darcy’s proud, unwavering gaze with eyes full of unspoken reservation. “Yet even the most perceptive minds may sometimes misjudge the character of those closest to them… or remain profoundly blind to the hidden designs of a family whose past is not entirely as transparent as it appears.”

“What are you insinuating?” Darcy turned from the window and glared at his cousin who poured himself another drink. “Speak.”

“I take no pleasure in dispensing this news.” Richard’s dark-brown eyes grew somber. “But you asked my father to investigate Mrs. Darcy’s uncle, Mr. Henry Bennet, and his connection to Bexley House. His express caught me at Derby.”

“Yes.”

“Then I can confirm one thing your wife mentioned. Her uncle did indeed stay at Bexley House when he visited London. The servants there remembered him—an older gentleman, flamboyant dresser, very fond of diamonds.”

Darcy’s shoulders eased as the tension in his neck receded a fraction. “Then Bexley knew him. What did he tell you or your investigators about Mr. Bennet?”

“Nothing,” Richard’s mouth twisted into a hard, grim line. “We were unable to question Mr. Horatio Bexley because he is deceased.”

“What?” Darcy recoiled with a start. He hadn’t thought of the eccentric man who had once been his father’s shadow. The debts were too heavy, and the pain too fierce, especially after he was forced to sell Darcy House to settle the most pressing debts. “When did this happen?”

“Early February. His solicitors have managed the estate and maintained the fiction that Bexley was traveling or indisposed. The death was kept quiet, apparently at Bexley’s own instruction.” Richard paused. “Did you know him well? As a boy, I mean?”