“He may have acted on impulse, Catherine, but I would not expect Darcy to allow his cousin’s disgrace to fall only upon her. Certainly, he has only gone to draw up a settlement.”
“He has been away some hours. I have it from the staff that he was not seen after the middle of the night. He compromised my daughter, and then he fled!”
“It is his own house,” the earl reasoned. “He must come back some time or another. Where else could he go?”
“In search of one to vouch for him. I think he went to some friend so that it might be falsely sworn that he was not at home when my daughter was found in his bed.”
“Well, was he?”
Lady Catherine made no answer but for a deep scowl and an almost guttural noise.
“Well,” the earl shook his head in dismissal. “No matter. It is his bed, in his house, and if Anne was… disgraced… then he must do the proper thing.”
“I shall depend on you to ensure that he does. I know what he is about, and I will not see him evade his responsibilities to Anne. He has attempted it for far too long!”
“The surest way to ensure that he does is to have the betrothal announced publicly.”
“That I have already done,” she smiled, and moved to his desk where a footman had already placed the morning paper. She searched up the appropriate entry and displayed it before him in triumph.
The earl laughed quietly. “Then it sounds as if there is nothing left to do. He must marry her, or he will be as disgraced as she.”
“Indeed, he shall.”
It was humiliating, lurking outside the servants’ entrance of his own house as if spying on his staff. He was hoping that at any moment, Wilson might be seen stepping out for a bit of fresh air. However, nearly half an hour had passed with no sign of the man, and there was no reasonable expectation that he would emerge. Darcy had been praying for good fortune, rather than depending with any certainty on Wilson’s activities, and it appeared that he would be disappointed.
He began instead to search for other faces as they would trickle out on some errand or another, and to weigh each one in the light of his new suspicions. Upon whom could he depend for discretion and a truthful account?
Nelly, the cook’s assistant? No, far too flighty. She would talk to everyone, telling all and sundry that the master had arrived at the servant’s entrance wearing a valet’s costume. Insupportable!
Ned, the butcher’s boy? No, too simple to orchestrate the request. He would sooner depend upon his hounds.
Two or three maids came and went, their irreverent chattering putting him off any hope of speaking with them. Next was a pair of footmen walking together, speaking in low voices.Certainly not. He could trust no one who would speak in a voice not meant for others’ ears. It may have all been innocent enough, but he needed someone in whom he could be confident.
He had been ready to surrender and walk into the house himself in search of his manservant, embarrassment be hanged, when the carriage pulled into the mews. Darcy stepped back into the shadows, watching it cautiously. Its passenger had naturally been sent down at the front of the house, and now the coachman returnedthe horses to the stable. The coachman! He would have little to do with any gossip surrounding the house but could easily arrange a meeting with Wilson.
Darcy watched for his opportunity. It seemed an hour dragged by before the coachman had seen the horses put up properly by the stable boys and had stepped away from his duties to smoke a pipe. At last, Darcy dared to step up to the man. “Mr Smith, may I have a word with you, please?”
The coachman jerked and sputtered, singeing his fingers and shaking them to relieve the pain. “Mr.… Mr Darcy, sir? Sir… Yes, sir!” The coachman was well schooled in proper etiquette for his station, but even he could not help staring up and down at Darcy’s vestment.
“Smith, I desire to have a message sent to the house. Will you please see Mr Wilson brought out for a private word?”
The coachman touched his hat smartly but then appeared at a loss. There was no procedure in place for the master requesting the coachman to send a message to one of his own servants. It was always a servant who carried the message to him from the master unless some emergency in the stables required that the master be notified—but never by the coachman himself!
“Smith, if you please, I have not all day to wait. Tell him I shall meet him in the mews.”
“But… sir, begging your pardon sir, how shall I send the message?”
Darcy nearly rolled his eyes. “One of your errand boys should be sufficient to the task. Have you not a boy who carries orders for the stables? Better yet, do it yourself. I require Wilson’s presence at once, and it is a matter of discretion.”
Smith was still shaking his hand vaguely, his face a study in bewilderment. “Yes, sir.” He put out the pipe, which had been smouldering in his far hand the entire time, and touched his hat again to the master.
Darcy watched him go, feeling somewhat less than hopeful that the message would be conveyed quickly. He then took himself to a bit of an alcove near the back of the mews to await Wilson.
Half an hour passed. Darcy removed the shoes again, rubbing his swollen toes. Fitzwilliam’s shoes were an improvement, but they did not answer for the insult already done.
Another quarter of an hour drained away, during which he had ample opportunity to once again appreciate the ridiculous irony of his circumstances. At last, there was a scuffling of small feet on the paving stones, and presently before him stood a boy of perhaps nine years old. The lad stared up at him respectfully, with no trace of intimidation as he waited for the master to address him.
Darcy stared at the boy. “And what is your name?”
