“You proposed to Elizabeth Bennet?” Richard sat back against the squabs.
“I did.”
“And?”
Darcy looked out again. The Sussex hills were rolling past, green and indifferent to his misery.
“She declined.” Darcy swallowed the tightness in his throat. “Comprehensively. She detailed my faults with remarkable precision. She considers me arrogant, conceited, and responsible for her sister’s unhappiness.”
A strange sound filled the carriage.
Darcy turned his head.
Richard was attempting to smother a laugh, pressing his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with the effort.
“You find my humiliation amusing.” Darcy felt a surge of cold indignation.
“I find it magnificent.” Richard let the laugh loose. It was a joyous, booming sound. “Oh, Darcy. The great Master of Pemberley, rejected by a country gentleman’s daughter.”
“I am pleased to provide entertainment for your journey.”
“Do not sulk.” Richard wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. “It is the best thing that could possibly have happened to you. You have spent your entire life surrounded by people who agree with your every pronouncement. You desperately needed a good set-down. Miss Elizabeth has performed a public service.”
“She despises me.”
“She challenged you.” Richard grew serious. “And judging by this covert expedition to stop Wickham, her words have actually taken root. You are finally doing something uncomfortable.”
Darcy could not argue with the assessment. He turned to the corner.
“Horlicks.”
The valet opened his eyes. “Sir?”
“You have served my family for two decades.” Darcy gestured vaguely to his cousin. “Do you agree with the Colonel’s assessment? Do I require character-building humiliation?”
Horlicks did not hesitate. He reached into his coat pocket, produced a small silver tin, and clicked the lid open with his thumb.
“Would you care for a mint pastille, Sir?” He extended the tin. “They are excellent for settling the stomach during travel.”
Darcy stared at the tin.
Richard began to laugh again.
Darcy accepted a pastille and placed it on his tongue. It tasted of peppermint and diplomatic avoidance.
“Thank you, Horlicks.” Darcy folded his arms.
“My pleasure, Sir.” Horlicks closed the tin and resumed his posture of perfect neutrality.
They arrived in Brighton late in the afternoon. The town was a swirl of salt spray, shouting vendors, and bright red uniforms.
Johnson had secured lodgings on a respectable crescent set slightly back from the seafront. It was a tall, narrow townhouse featuring pristine white steps and a polished brass knocker.
Mrs Gable, the landlady, stood in the hallway to receive them. She wore a starched grey gown and a critical eye that meant she tolerated no nonsense. She inspected Darcy, Richard, and Horlicks as though she had seen far too many summer tenants, and was not impressed by them.
“The drawing room is on the first floor.” Mrs Gable pointed up the stairs. “The dining parlour is below. I do not permit smoking cheroots in the bedchambers, and I expect the front door to be locked securely by midnight. Brighton is full of gentlemen who forget their way after dark.”
“We shall be the very models of decorum, Mrs Gable.” Richard offered his most charming smile.
