“Six months is generally considered suitable to mourn a wife,” he replied, then blew out a sigh. “It would take far longer to forget her.”
“I would see you wed and settled again before then. Have you thought more on what I said about Georgiana?”
“Well, of course, Father, but….” Reginald stopped and a look of frustration passed over his face. His lips pressed together and the muscles in his jaw flickered for a moment.
“Reggie,” comforted his mother, “of course you do not wish to replace Priscilla so soon! No one is asking you to put her from your heart, my boy.”
His expression broke and he offered his mother a weak smile. “I quite understand, Mother. Naturally, you and Father are right, but I am not convinced that… Georgiana… will wish to marry a man… with a broken heart. There, is that fair to ask of her?”
“Fair? Well, what would be fairer, to saddle her with a lecherous old widower? You are still a fine specimen—a chip off the old block, eh? There are plenty of eligible suitors who will wish to stake a claim for her hand, but I know most of them, and they are either cads or puppies. With you, she would not even have to leave what family she has left. I think it a perfectly suitable idea.”
“I think…” Reginald leaned forward in his seat, steepling his fingers and pressing them until the tips were white. He sighed, ground his teeth, and swallowed. “Perhaps she might still be willing, regardless of… but it must be handled delicately. Is she to come to London… er… with Richard?”
“Your mother and I were just discussing that. I have heard nothing, but I would expect to soon.”
“You sent the note by express?”
“Of course.”
Reginald cast his gaze to the ceiling, his lips moving as if counting, then his eyes widened and he coughed violently. He rose hastily, upsetting his mother, who had been patting his arm. “Excuse me, Mother and Father. I am afraid I am suddenly not feeling well. I beg you would excuse me, I must return to my flat.”
“Reggie!” his mother protested. “If you are feeling poorly, you must remain here! Giles may see to you so much better.”
“No, no, Mother, I must go! I have… er, medicine for my cough at my flat. Do forgive me for rushing out so. Father,” he bowed briefly in respect. “I will call tomorrow.”
“Well!” ejaculated Her Ladyship. “I do hope he has not got what ailed poor Priscilla!”
The earl’s bushy brows knitted together as he watched his son race from the room. He said nothing, merely rose to adjourn to his study. A fine cigar and a glass were what his mind wanted just now.
London
ManuelVasconceloscrushedthenote he had just received, but that seemed insufficient to his wrath. He tore at the corner and shredded it into three or four pieces, then tossed them on the floor to stamp them with his foot. “More money!” he fumed in Portuguese. “As if the failure were not entirely his own!”
The manservant he had hired upon his arrival quailed at the door, unable to understand his words. “Do you wish to send a reply, sir?”
“A reply!” he stormed. “It is not worth the paper! He does not intend to give me my deed, he wishes only to extort what he can!”
The manservant squared his shoulders—that blasted English formality again—and affected a short bow. “Very good, sir.”
Vasconcelos resumed pacing. A week already he had been in this miserable city, and still he had no more answers. The horrible suspicion had long since taken hold—that this Englishman never had intended to keep his end of the bargain, was perhaps even intending to mine the Portuguese soil himself, and had used him for a fool.
He was not without his leverage, if he dared employ it. Certainly, it was true that the word of a foreign statesman would carry little weight against the reputation of his adversary, but it might be enough to trigger an investigation into his affairs. He growled, his fists balled as he prowled the hired apartment.
Darcy should have been apprehended by now!he snarled as he paced. Without Darcy, his own advantage disappeared! Surely the man had been taken somewhere, and he need only wait for word—but what if he had not yet been recaptured? No, certainly he must have been, for his man had been watching Darcy’s town house for months, sending back whatever information might be found valuable, and he had not been seen. And yet, surely, he could have gone nowhere else.
Vasconcelos stopped to stare at a correspondence on his desk, calculating again the necessary time for travel. He had left Portugal himself two days after Darcy had vanished, but on a ship built for speed. He had checked with the docks the instant that he had arrived, and he had only missed the passenger ship by half a day. Surely Darcy must not have been aboard that ship, or if he had been he had not arrived in London without some sort of mishap. Such a man did not suddenly reappear without creating a stir, nor did he attempt to travel to his estate in the north by public means. He would have taken his carriage, but the stables at Darcy house had been quiet.
Perhaps Darcy had gone to some friend for assistance, but even if he had, eventually he would try to make his way to his estate and sister. Vasconcelos drew a steadying breath and slowed his strides. He had men there, as well, though Fitzwilliam Darcy had not been their target. Whichever Darcy they captured, if they were successful, all was not lost. He need only wait.
He resolved to make some cheeky reply to this recent demand, but the manservant re-entered just as he was seating himself at the desk. “Excuse me, sir, but you have a caller.”
Vasconcelos glared up at him. Useless Englishman! “Well, who is it?”
“He declined to give his name, sir, but… er….” The manservant stood back and a figure brushed past him. The fellow’s expression assumed the wretched complacency of his countrymen as he withdrew and closed the door.
“Pai!” Miguel pushed his way into the room, his face white.
“Miguel! Why did you come? You were to remain in Porto!”
