“Of course. You said it yourself. An unmarried man is a liability. You must present yourself as a stable, trustworthy family man. Marriage eliminates one of Stanton’s greatest weapons against you—your youth.”
Darcy let out a low, humorless laugh. “That is your solution? To marry for appearances? And who, pray, would you suggest? Anne?”
The earl’s expression flickered with faint amusement. “I doubt you would find Anne a suitable match. Or, for that matter, that she would tolerate you for more than an hour.”
Darcy’s lips twitched despite himself. “Precisely.”
The earl took a measured sip of his port. “If not Anne, then someone else. You need not marry for love, Darcy—though I would not dissuade you from it if the opportunity arose. What matters is stability. Trustworthiness. A sense of permanence.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the decanter of port. “I am not the man you want for this. There are others who would suit the role better.”
“Who?”
“John Brierly,” he began, “owns a modest estate in the south of the county. He has spoken openly against Stanton’s enclosures and has the respect of many of the smaller landowners.”
The earl waved a hand dismissively. “Brierly? A man who barely keeps his own accounts in order? He has respect, perhaps, but no influence. The merchants would eat him alive.”
“Sir Edmund Gresham. He is a good man. Father always urged him to stand, and so have others.”
“Sir Edmund's wife is ill.”
“Wasill,” Darcy corrected. “She is well enough now.”
“Forget it. He will not put himself forward. I have asked before. Moreover, he has not your connections.”
Darcy frowned but continued. “Then there is Thomas Ainsworth, a merchant in Bakewell who was able to purchase an estate worth about two thousand pounds last year.He has a thriving wool business and connections to several prominent families through trade.”
“Indeed,” the earl said dryly. “And how many of those connections would vouch for him if his dealings with that scandalous silk trader in Manchester came to light? No, Ainsworth is a risk we cannot afford.”
Darcy pressed on. “Samuel Houghton, then. A gentleman farmer near Matlock. His lands are modest, but he is well-liked and level-headed.”
The earl gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Houghton? The man barely speaks above a whisper. Do you imagine he would hold his own in Parliament? He would be devoured before he reached his second speech.”
Darcy set his jaw, frustrated. “Edward Langley, then. A landowner with a good reputation. His tenants speak highly of him, and he has a solid grasp of local politics.”
“Langley has the reputation of a saint, true,” the earl said, leaning forward slightly, “but his brother does not. The debts that man has racked up would be enough for Stanton to destroy him before the campaign even began. A good name only goes so far when your family is a liability.”
Darcy hesitated, his mind cycling through the list of other possibilities. Each name felt weaker than the last. He mentioned two more men—a retired colonel respected in local circles and a prominent baker’s guild member—but the earl dismissed them just as quickly.
“Do you see the problem now, Darcy?” the earl said finally, folding his hands on the desk. “Each of these men may be admirable in their own way, but none of them have the combination of integrity, influence, and capability to stand against Stanton. The field is too fractured, and the voters are too wary to rally behind a weak candidate. Stanton would destroy them before they even made it to the ballot. Itmustbe you, Darcy. The voters will not trust you immediately, but they will see your actions, your character, and they will come to understand that you are the leader they need.”
Darcy opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, a sharp knock echoed through the room.
The earl’s brow furrowed. “What now?” he muttered, rising to his feet.
Darcy sighed and sat back. “I am keeping you from your guests,” he apologized. “I had not meant to monopolize your evening. I willcome back—”
“You stay where you are. I have not done with you yet for the evening. Bloody impatient,” the earl grumbled as another knock sounded. “Hang it all, I am hosting a party, not holding court!”
He crossed to the door and pulled it open, revealing his butler, whose usually impassive face bore a hint of unease. Behind him stood a young woman—her dark eyes wide with a mixture of terror and indignation. Her cheeks were flushed, and her gloved hands were clenched at her sides as though she were holding herself together through sheer force of will.
Darcy’s gaze flicked to the woman, his brow furrowing. He did not recognize her, but something about her posture—defensive, yet fiercely determined—made his breath catch.
The butler cleared his throat. “My lord, I apologize for the interruption, but there has been… an incident.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of incident?”
The butler hesitated, his gaze darting briefly to the young woman and a man behind her whom Darcy recognized as Greaves before returning to his master. “One that requires your immediate attention.”
