Darcy adjusted his cuffs. “You are looking forward to your daily errands, Horlicks.”
Horlicks placed the hat on a wooden peg. “Winslow has a great wealth of knowledge, Sir. I anticipate our discussions regarding the medicinal properties of mint pastilles will be educational.”
Darcy nodded once and ascended the stairs to the first floor.
He opened the door to the drawing room to find Richard sprawled across Mrs Gable’s floral settee. The Colonel stared at the plastered ceiling with an expression of despair, a glass of brandy resting precariouslyon his chest.
Darcy closed the door firmly. “A bit early for brandy, Cousin.”
Richard shook his head. “You do not understand. I went to the ninth circle of matrimonial hell. I attempted to speak with Colonel Forster at the camp.”
Darcy sat in the armchair opposite the settee. “I presume he was unhelpful regarding the discipline of his officers.”
Richard lifted the glass and took a fortifying swallow. “The man is bewitched. He has the commanding military authority of a damp sponge. I attempted to discuss the deployment schedules and the behaviour of his subalterns in the town. He wanted to discuss the precise number of kid leather gloves his young wife might need for a three-month stay at the seaside.”
Darcy raised a single eyebrow.
Richard sat up abruptly and planted his boots on the woven rug. “I am serious, Darcy. The commanding officer of a militia regiment spent twenty minutes debating the merits of primrose yellow versus seafoam green. If the French army were to land on the shingle beach tomorrow, Forster would surrender the entire kingdom of England without a single shot fired, provided Napoleon promised not to step on Harriet Forster’s hem.”
Darcy considered the vulnerability of the regiment. He thought of Lydia Bennet, residing under the questionable protection of a man obsessed with ladies’ gloves. The necessity of his alliance with Elizabeth became starkly apparent.
He leaned forward. “Colonel Forster’s incompetence is unfortunate. However, our own sources of intelligence have considerably improved since breakfast.”
Richard narrowed his eyes. “You went for a walk, Darcy. You did not recruit a confederacy of spies before noon.”
Darcy brushed an invisible speck of dust from his knee. “I encountered Miss Elizabeth, and we have reached an agreement. She is aware of Wickham’s true nature and she is seeking to thwart his designs on her sister and the general populace. We have formed an alliance.”
Richard stared at his cousin. A slow, brilliant grin overtook his features. “You formed a covert alliance with the woman who comprehensively rejected you.”
Darcy maintained a flat expression. “It is a partnership based on mutual purpose.”
Richard laughed loudly enough to rattle the porcelain figurines on the mantelpiece. “It is magnificent. How do you intend to communicate? You cannot be seen whispering in corners with a young lady. The town gossips would have the wedding banns read by Sunday.”
Darcy permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction. “Horlicks requires mint pastilles from the apothecary. Miss Elizabeth’s chaperone is a seventy-six-year-old scullery maid with a sore throat. They will meet and exchange intelligence.”
Richard slumped back against the floral upholstery, overcome with joy. “Your immaculate valet and a maid are conducting espionage in a seaside apothecary. I have never been prouder to be your relation.”
Darcy stood up and walked to the window overlooking the bustling street. “We need reliable intelligence to pass along this newly formed channel. Did you discover anything of use amidst the discussions of haberdashery?”
Richard sobered instantly, military discipline returning to his posture. “I do have reliable intelligence. When Forster finished rhapsodising over kid leather, I took a stroll near the officers’ mess. Subalterns are notoriously loud when discussing wealthy women.”
Darcy turned away from the glass. “Wickham.”
Richard nodded grimly. “Wickham, accompanied by Carter and Denny. They are planning an excursion this very afternoon. Five o’clock. Donaldson’s circulating library.”
Darcy crossed his arms. “They intend to read.”
Richard snorted. “They intend to hunt. Remember Miss Jenkins I was telling you about? She is nineteen years of age and has a fortune of forty thousand pounds. Wickham plans to manufacture a romantic, accidental collision among the bookshelves.”
Darcy felt the familiar cold anger settle firmly in his stomach. Forty thousand pounds was a prize Wickham would pursue with ruthlessness. He would isolate the girl, deploy his tragic history, and attempt an elopement before her family could even unpack their trunks.
Darcy walked to the small writing desk nestled in the corner of the parlour and pulled out a sheet of paper and a newly sharpened quill.
Richard watched him from the settee. “We cannot challenge him to a duel in the poetry section. It would cause a public panic.”
Darcy dipped the quill into the crystal inkwell. “We shall not need to resort to violence. We shall ensurehis romantic collision is thoroughly obstructed.”
Darcy wrote with swift, precise strokes, not bothering with formal salutations. The missive required efficiency.
