“Come to my study tomorrow at two o’clock,” he said, his tone brisk. “All three of you. We will speak further then.”
Elizabeth curtsied numbly, murmuring her thanks as relief washed over her. The earl’s dismissal was clear, and she had no desire to linger. She and her aunt and uncle made their way toward the door, their footsteps quick but quiet, as though they feared attracting any more attention than they already had.
As the heavy front doors of the townhouse closed behind them, Elizabeth exhaled deeply, her shoulders sagging. Whatever the earl wanted of her tomorrow, she could only hope it would make sense. But for now, all she wanted was to return to her uncle’s house and leave this impossible evening behind her.
Chapter Six
Darcy sat at thedesk in his study, his fingers drumming absently against the dark wood as his eyes skimmed the latest letter from Sir Frederick. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of papers and the occasional creak of the chair as he shifted. Benedict, his butler, had brought in a tray of tea earlier, but the pot sat untouched. Darcy’s focus was fixed entirely on the correspondence in front of him, though his mounting frustration made it difficult to concentrate.
The matter of Miles Stanton loomed large. Sir Frederick’s report detailed yet another grievance from the local farmers, this time concerning the sudden enclosure of what had long been considered communal grazing land. The land in question had supposedly been purchased by Stanton six months prior, but Darcy could not shake the feeling that something about the transaction was amiss.
The land should not have been sellable—not without significant legal hurdles, at least. As Darcy understood it, the grazing rights had been part of a long-standing arrangement dating back to the previous century. Such land, though technically owned by a minor noble family, had been left to the use of the local sheepherders by tradition and a series of informal agreements. Now, Stanton’s actions had disrupted the fragile balance, sparking unrest and mistrust.
Darcy frowned, leaning back in his chair and tapping the letter against the desk. Why was the land sold in the first place? And by whom? Sir Frederick had promised to investigate further, but the magistrate’s tone in the letter suggested there was little hope of reversing the transaction. Stanton’s dealings, while morally dubious, were often just within the bounds of the law, leaving Darcy with few options beyond trying to mitigate the damage.
He sighed, setting the letter aside and reaching for another from his growing stack of correspondence. Before he could read the first line, the door creaked open, and a small, hesitant voice broke the silence.
“Fitzwilliam?”
Darcy looked up to see Georgiana standing in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her and her expression uncertain. She was tall for her age—already nearly to his shoulder—and her fair curls framed a delicate face that seemed perpetually shadowed by hesitation. She was dressed simply in a pale morning gown, though there was a streak of charcoal smudged on one sleeve, a telltale sign of her recent attempts at drawing.
“What is it, Georgie?” Darcy asked, softening his tone as he set the letter down.
Georgiana stepped inside, biting her lip. “Mrs. Younge says I ought to practice the minuet again with Monsieur Rousseau this afternoon. But I do not want to.”
Darcy raised an eyebrow. “You do notwantto?”
Georgiana shook her head, her curls bouncing slightly. “He keeps correcting me every time I miss a step, and he says my arms are too stiff. He says I do not take it seriously, but I do! I just…” She trailed off, her hands twisting nervously. “I just do not like it.”
Darcy regarded her for a moment, his mouth twisting with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. This was not the first time Georgiana had pushed back against her lessons, though she rarely voiced her complaints so openly. “You must understand, Georgiana, that Monsieur Rousseau is only trying to help you improve. If he is correcting you, it is because he wants you to succeed.”
“But I do not want to dance for him,” she muttered, her eyes darting to the floor. “He stares at me too much. It makes me feel—wrong.”
Darcy’s frown deepened. He had hired Monsieur Rousseau on the recommendation of Lady Matlock, but Georgiana’s discomfort gave him pause. “Very well,” he said finally. “I will speak with Mrs. Younge about adjusting your schedule. Perhaps a different tutor would suit you better.”
Georgiana’s head snapped up, her blue eyes wide. “You mean it?”
“Yes,” Darcy said firmly. “But, Georgiana, you must also make an effort. I will not excuse you from every task you find unpleasant.”
She nodded quickly, though the relief on her face was palpable. “Iwilltry,“ she promised.
Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “Good. Now, if there is nothing else—”
“Wait!” Georgiana stepped forward, clasping her hands. “I was wondering if—if you might take me to the park today? Just us?”
Darcy hesitated, glancing at the clock on the mantle. It was nearing two o’clock, and the earl would not appreciate being kept waiting. “We will discuss it later,” he said, risingfrom his chair and shrugging into his coat. “I must leave now, Georgiana. Your lessons will continue as planned this afternoon.”
“But—” Georgiana began, her face falling.
“Later, Georgiana,” Darcy said, his tone firm but not unkind. He stepped toward her, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Behave yourself. I will see you this evening.”
Georgiana nodded reluctantly, stepping aside as Darcy moved past her. Mrs. Younge appeared in the hallway as he left the study. She curtsied briefly before ushering Georgiana toward the music room.
Darcy descended the staircase, nodding to Benedict as the butler opened the front door for him. The brisk air of the London streets greeted him, but his mind was already turning back to the earl, Stanton, and the tangle of problems awaiting him.
Gracechurch Street, London
September 18, 1812
