Darcy stepped into the drawing room and pulled back the velvet curtains.
A groan of human suffering emanated from the depths of a leather wingback chair.
Richard Fitzwilliam was draped across the upholstery in a silk dressing gown, holding a tea saucer against his forehead. Darcy suspected his cousin had enjoyed London society far too much the previous evening.
“Close the curtains.” Richard kept his eyes tightly shut. “The sun is far too loud today.”
Darcy removed his hat and placed it in the centre of a side table. “It is noon, Richard. The sun is performing its function.”
“Its function is to torment me.” Richard shifted his head slightly and the saucer clinked against his signet ring. “Have you come to judge me, or is there a specific reason you are invading my sanctuary?”
“We are leaving for Brighton tomorrow morning.” Darcy peeled off his leather gloves.
Richard lowered the saucer and cracked open one bloodshot eye.
“We absolutely are not.” He closed the eye again. “Brighton is filled with noise, sea gulls, and people who wish to talk. I cannot abide talking.”
“My trunks are being packed.” Darcy took a seat opposite his cousin. “Johnson is securing our lodgings as we speak. You will accompany me.”
“I am a grown man.” Richard pressed the porcelain back against his brow. “I have survived Napoleon’s troops and Lady Catherine. I do not have to follow you to a crowded seaside town because you have developed an inexplicable urge to ingest salt water.”
“Wickham is there.”
Richard froze.
The saucer slowly descended to his lap, both eyes opening. The lingering effects of the previous night’s revelry vanished from his features, and his gaze focused on Darcy.
“Wickham.” Richard sat up straight, ignoring the throb in his temples.
“He is with the militia.” Darcy met his cousin’s gaze. “The encampment is set for the summer. Brighton is overrun with wealthy young women.”
Richard set the saucer down and stood up without swaying.
“I shall tell my batman to pack my trunks.” Richard tightened the belt of his dressing gown. “We leave at dawn. If necessary, I shall walk to Sussex.”
The journey to the coast the following morning was an exercise in extended discomfort.
The carriage was spacious, but the atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions. Darcy sat on one side, staring out of the window at the passing countryside. Richard sat opposite him, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed firmly on Darcy.
Horlicks occupied the corner seat next to Richard. The valet sat upright, his hands folded neatly in his lap, presenting a portrait of utter neutrality.
The silence stretched from London to Croydon.
“You fled Kent.” Richard broke the silence just as the carriage hit a deep rut. “We departed Rosings with such haste I barely had time to pack my boots. You refused to speak of it then, and you have refused to speak of it since.”
Darcy adjusted his cuffs, finding the stitching on his sleeve extremely fascinating. “I recalled urgent business in town.”
“You are a terrible liar.” Richard leaned forward. “You have always been a terrible liar. It is your single redeeming quality. We left because something happened at the parsonage.”
“Nothing of consequence happened.”
“You spent every afternoon walking in the park, hoping to accidentally encounter Miss Elizabeth.” Richard tilted his head. “And then, suddenly, we were galloping to London as though the hounds of hell were snapping at the carriage wheels. Tell me.”
Darcy looked at his cousin, then at Horlicks. The valet immediately closed his eyes, feigning sleep with professional courtesy.
“I offered for her.” Darcy kept his voice devoid of inflection.
Richard’s eyebrows shot upward.
