And in the end, George reflected as he sealed the letters, everyone would be grateful—to him.
“What is it, Mr. Bennet?” Fanny Bennet clutched at her dressing gown, hastily drawn close against the chill of the morning. The nursery fire had burned low, and the winter light filtering through the curtains did little to warm the room. She held two-year-old Lydia, her youngest child and fourth girl, the child’s soft breath warm against her collarbone, her small fist tangled in her mother’s lace.
Her husband, Mr. Thomas Bennet, stood near the window, a missive held carefully in his hand as though it might burn him. The sealing wax bore an impression he had never seen before on one of his letters—clean, authoritative, unmistakably official. “It is a summons,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual.
His wife blinked in confusion, fatigue and alarm warring on her features. “From who? Who would dare—”
“It is from Carlton House.” That alone was enough to silence her, though her mouth fell open in shock. The words carried a weight far beyond their simplicity. Carlton House was not merely a residence; it was power itself, distant and rarely turned toward men like Thomas Bennet.
“What?” Her voice pitched up despite herself. “What can anyone want of you there?” Fanny sounded incredulous, and Thomas agreed with her sentiment. He had spent his life comfortably removed from the great machinery of court, content with his books, his land, and his family. That machinery had now inexplicably turned its gaze upon him.
“Prince George has summoned me to discuss the matter of Elizabeth’s guardianship.” The words felt strange in his mouth, formal and heavy. Thomas had only heard about his sister’s passing two days before, the news delivered by letter, its brevity cruel in its restraint. It had been years since he had seen her. First, she had stayed away because of their father—the man who had forced her into marriage. Then, after Thomas had inherited Longbourn, Nathan de Bourgh had kept her away, despitehaving a house less than three miles from the estate. Distance, it seemed, had never been measured purely in miles. Thomas had not seen his younger sister in years. He had never met their child, a girl named after their grandmother, whose name alone stirred a deep, aching regret.
“The child is to come here, of course,” he murmured, already shaping the future in his mind, clinging to the idea as something solid amid uncertainty. “I do not know why the prince needs to discuss it.” Rebecca had moved in circles beyond his imagination, thanks to her husband’s friendship with the Prince Regent. He despised those circles instinctively—places where affection was secondary to advantage, and kinship bent beneath convenience.
“Here?” Fanny exclaimed, instinctively tightening her hold on Lydia. “Mr. Bennet, we have four girls! We can scarcely afford another.” Her mind leapt at once to gowns, schooling, food—each additional child another tally in an already precarious household.
“Elizabeth will have inherited all her father’s wealth. Her care will not come from Longbourn’s coffers.” He spoke gently, knowing Fanny’s anxieties were practical rather than unkind. Privately, he longed to have a piece of his sister at his side—to correct, however belatedly, the distance that had grown between them. His girls were lovely, each in her own way, but none of them possessed the spark Rebecca had written of so fondly, the intelligence and perceptiveness that leapt from her descriptions.
“Be that as it may,” Fanny persisted, agitation sharpening her tone, “her presence will prevent gentlemen from pursuing our daughters. Her dowry will put theirs to shame!” In her mind, the marriage market was a battlefield, and any imbalance a threat.
Thomas sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fanny, she is my niece. I cannot shirk my responsibility.” The wordswere spoken with quiet firmness. Whatever else he was, Thomas Bennet would not abandon blood for convenience.
His wife sighed in turn, the fight leaving her as she rocked Lydia, who had long since fallen asleep, her small body heavy with trust. “Go, then, and see what the prince wants.” A spark of excitement crept into her voice despite herself. “Imagine that, Mr. Bennet! My husband, a caller at Carlton House!”
“It will give you something to speak of, Mrs. Bennet.” There was the faintest hint of dry amusement in his tone as he crossed the room and kissed his wife’s brow. “There is a carriage waiting. My trunks are being packed as we speak.”
“Bring me some fabric from my brother’s warehouse.” The request was automatic, comfortingly familiar, and Thomas could not help but smile faintly.
Fanny’s request was expected, and he murmured his assent before leaving her chambers, the weight of duty—and the shadow of royal interest—settling heavily upon his shoulders as he went.
Chapter Seven
“Mr. Thomas Bennet.” The butler, solemn and serious, announced his presence, his voice echoing faintly off gilded walls and polished marble. Thomas stepped forward, acutely conscious of his plain coat and country tailoring amid such opulence. Across the richly decorated room, in a plush armchair, sat a figure of whom Thomas had only seen cartoonish likenesses in the newspaper—grotesque caricatures exaggerated for satire. The reality was more sobering. He was more corpulent in person, the evidence of a life of excess obvious to any who beheld him: heavy-lidded eyes, florid complexion, and a languid air that suggested indulgence rather than authority, though authority clung to him all the same.
Thomas executed a perfect royal bow, thankful his father’s enforced training had not been long forgotten. It had seemed tedious at the time; now it might save him from disgrace.
“Mr. Thomas Bennet. I can see a likeness to your sister in your features.” The prince’s voice was casual, appraising, as though he were examining a portrait rather than a man.
The thought that Rebecca had regularly been around the heir to the throne still felt surreal. That his quiet, perceptive sister—who had once read novels beside him under the old oak at Longbourn—had moved in such circles seemed almost implausible.
“Your Highness.” He kept his gaze lowered. “I came as quickly as I could.”
“Yes, yes, that was expected. Sit.” He pointed at a chair near his.
A servant bustled in with a tray laden with food and beverages—cold meats, delicate pastries, a crystal decanter of amber liquid. She placed it between the two chairs and promptly began serving the two men with practiced deference.
Thomas waited patiently for the prince to speak. It was not his place to initiate the conversation, and silence, he had learned, could be as instructive as speech. The minutes stretched, the prince sipping leisurely, clearly enjoying the imbalance.
After several interminable minutes, the prince finally addressed him. “I spoke with Lady Catherine de Bourgh yesterday. She was in London calling upon her brother, the earl of Matlock.”
The harpy,or so his sister called her sister-in-law. “I am afraid I have not seen Lady Catherine in some time.” And he hoped never to see her again. The woman was a menace. She had terrorized Rebecca constantly, or so his sister’s letters said—criticizing her manners, her household, her very breathing.
“Yes, well, as aunt to your niece, I wished to ascertain if she had any interest in raising the girl.”
Thomas’s blood ran cold. “I am her nearest male relation.” As such, he ought to have first claim; the law, imperfect as it was, generally favored him.
“Yes, but her situation in life is far above your own.” The prince waved a dismissive hand. “Miss Elizabeth de Bourgh’ssocial status is more in line with her cousin, Anne de Bourgh, than with yourself. Your niece’s fortune is not at all modest. She owns an estate, and her dowry is her father’s fortune, also bequeathed by his maternal grandparents. When she is of age, she could easily marry the heir to an earldom. Fortunately for your niece, Lady Catherine has no interest in raising her. I, on the other hand, have a vested interest in her future, since her father was such a close friend.”
