“I am not a politician.”
“No, you are not. Bloody miserable politician you would make, if you ask me.”
Darcy grunted. “At least we are in agreement about that.”
“But you are a man with influence, with connections, and with the respect of those who matter. These younger landowners, they do not have the weight to stand against Stanton alone. But with you? With my father behind you?” He stepped closer, his tone lowering. “You could unseat him.”
Darcy turned away, staring at the unlit candelabra by the window. “And why would I want to? To leave Pemberley, to embroil myself in petty debates and alliances? The cost of this—of leaving what I know, what I value—would be far too high.”
“And the cost of doing nothing? Have you considered that? I heard all about what happened, Darcy. A man’s son was threatened—a boy who, by all accounts, was doing nothing wrong. That was not discontent. That was desperation. And enough desperation leads to fire, to blood, to chaos. Stanton’s greed has made him blind to the storm he has sown. If someone does not step forward, that storm will come here, to Derbyshire, and could even spread.”
Darcy turned sharply, his expression taut with frustration. “You are asking me to abandon my life for a world of schemes and manipulation. To stand against Stanton, I would need more than influence. I would need allies, support, and—”
“You have them,” Richard interrupted. “You have Lord Matlock, who can rally the old guard. You have the respect of men who are tired of Stanton’s games. You have your tenants, who trust you more than they trust their own neighbors.”
“And I have my father’s legacy to uphold,” Darcy snapped. “He did not send me to Eton and Cambridge so I could become a puppet for political maneuvering.”
“No one is asking you to be a puppet. They are asking you to be a leader.”
The silence between them was thick, broken only by the crackle of the fire as Richard stepped back toward the mantle. Darcy remained by the window, his hands gripping the back of a chair, his gaze unfocused.
“Speak to my father,” Richard urged. “Hear what he has to say. If you still believe this is not your fight, then I will say no more.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “You willnotsay no more. You will continue to hound me, as you always do.”
Richard smiled faintly. “Probably. But you can hardly blame me for that.”
Darcy released his grip on the chair and straightened. “Very well. I will speak to your father. But I make no promises.”
“That is all I ask.”
Darcy crossed the room and rang the bell for the butler. When the man came to the door, he gave his order. “Prepare a carriage for tomorrow morning. I will be traveling to London.”
Chapter Two
The lavishly appointed entryhall of Lord Matlock’s London townhouse was a riot of light and sound, the kind of spectacle that swallowed people whole. Chandeliers glinted like stars overhead, their crystals catching every flicker of the candles beneath them. The hum of voices, laughter, and the faint strains of a string quartet floated through the air, and Elizabeth Bennet could feel the swell of the music already pulling at her feet.
Elizabeth adjusted the lace at her sleeve for the third time in as many minutes and glanced sideways at her aunt. Mrs. Gardiner looked equally uneasy, though she disguised it better, her posture straight, her chin lifted. Her uncle, in contrast, seemed to fit the scene with ease, exchanging pleasantries with a gentleman by the doorway as if they were old friends.
The invitation had arrived only two days before, as much a shock as a delight. Mr. Gardiner’s recent success brokering a complex trade agreement across the Channel had brought him to the attention of Lord Matlock himself, an acknowledgment so unexpected that Elizabeth had nearly dropped the letter when her aunt handed it to her. The earl’s gesture—inviting them to this gathering of London’s elite—seemed both a reward for Mr. Gardiner’s hard work and a challenge to their place in society. Could they withstand such scrutiny?
Elizabeth had overheard her aunt say as much to her uncle that morning: “It is not only an honor; it is a test. We must give them no cause to think us unworthy of the company.” That thought had stayed with Elizabeth, its sharpness piercing her like the stiff new stays she had reluctantly tightened to perfection earlier that evening.
Elizabeth smoothed her skirts and tried to ignore the tiny tremor in her hands. She had never been so determined to disappear into the background of a room, but the sheer opulence around her made it feel impossible.
“Do not fidget so, Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner murmured, leaning closer. Her tone was firm, but her eyes betrayed her own nerves. “You are drawing attention.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “I amtryingto look inconspicuous,” she whispered back. “I fear I am failing spectacularly.”
Her aunt gave a wry smile. “I was hoping Miss Fletcher would be here. She knows some of these people. It would have been easier with some introductions.”
Elizabeth only stared about, glassy-eyed. Her aunt’s newly hired “companion,” functioned more as an assistant, helping Mrs. Gardiner to sort papers for Uncle Gardiner's warehouses. Uncle had been urging her for some time to either pass the duty on to a clerk or find some help, and Anne Fletcher had provided a perfect solution to the trouble. But Miss Fletcher had been kept at home this evening by an inconvenient and rather violent stomach ailment. And so, they must do without the help of feminine introductions.
But they were not ignored for long. A liveried servant approached them, inclining his head crisply. “Mr. Gardiner, I believe? Lord Matlock requests the pleasure of your company in the main drawing room,” he said. “He would like to meet your entire party, sir. If you would follow me.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened as they were led through a gilded archway and into a space that seemed even grander than the one before. The drawing room was enormous, its high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork and frescoes of pastoral scenes. A sea of elegantly dressed men and women mingled beneath them, their movements fluid and practiced, as if they had rehearsed this very tableau for years.
Her uncle gestured for her to follow, and she clung to his side like a lifeline as they navigated the crowd. The sheer number of unfamiliar faces was dizzying, but a few names reached her ears as her uncle whispered them under his breath. “Lord Cowper… the Duke of Somerset… ah, and there is the Earl of Matlock himself.”
