In fact, its members were treating his devastation as a raree-show. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Anne de Bourgh, who could not stay away and had returned in haste, and Dawson, were lounging about the room providing a stream of increasingly absurd and spectacularly unhelpful suggestions.
The contrast between Darcy’s genuine, heart-palpitating frustration and their relaxed, insubordinate amusement set a brilliant, if infuriating, comedic tone for the morning. Even he could see it.
“India is too hot, Fitzwilliam,” Richard observed casually. He was draped upside down over an armchair, his legs hooked over the back, attempting to balance a silver spoon on his nose. “Your cravats would wilt within minutes. It would be a tragedy for British tailoring.”
“We are not discussing my cravats!” Darcy roared. “We are discussing the fact that a woman who already believes me to be an unfeeling tyrant now holds written confirmation that I am also a raving lunatic!”
“I still think my idea holds the most merit,” Anne decided. She had commandeered the chaise longue and was idly inspecting her nails. Having dropped her sickly persona once again within the safety of Darcy’s chambers, she was proving to be ruthlessly pragmatic. “We set fire to the parsonage.”
Darcy stared at his cousin. “You wish to commit arson.”
“Just a small one, Fitzwilliam. In the kitchens, perhaps, or Mr Collins’s study. It would not take much to ignite his sermons; they are already dry. In the ensuing panic, the residents evacuate, Dawson climbs up to the first-floor guest chamber by way of the trellis, he slips through the window, retrieves the letter, and we all return in time for luncheon.”
“We cannot burn down a clergyman’s house!”
“Why not? He is insufferable,” Anne reasoned. “And frankly, the architecture of that building is offensive. I would be doing the landscape a favour. The only thing worth saving is the windows with the new glazing my mother insisted upon installing.”
“Miss de Bourgh’s tactical assessment is sound in theory, though perhaps perilous for my well-being,” Dawson chimed in. He was standing by the wardrobe, using a silver brush to polish a pair of Darcy’s boots with mesmerising motions. “However, if I may offer an alternative, sir? I could seduce the parsonage maid. I have seen her admiring my person. Afew ribbons, a little flattery regarding her complexion, and she would happily search Miss Elizabeth’s room for us.”
Darcy rubbed his temples, the headache throbbing since yesterday evening. “Dawson, I forbid you from seducing anyone in the name of Pemberley. We are not a den of spies.”
“As you wish, sir,” Dawson replied, unbothered. “Though I must say, my cheekbones are usually very effective in these scenarios.”
“There has to be a diplomatic solution,” Darcy muttered, resuming his pacing. “I must write to her. Yes. A second letter. Third. I shall calmly explain that the first letter was a draft...”
“A draft of what?” Richard asked, letting the spoon drop to the carpet and righting himself in the chair. “A Gothic romance novel?‘You have ruined my peace’is not something one casually drafts, Darcy. It is the sort of thing a man screams from a parapet in a thunderstorm.”
“Thank you, Richard. Your support is, as always, overwhelming.”
“I am pointing out the practical flaws in your narrative,” Richard said, grinning. “If you try to play this off as a mistake, she will know you are lying. You must embrace the madness, Cousin. Go to her. Weep openly, clutch her hem, wipe her slippers with your cravat. Women love a bit of grovelling.”
“I do not grovel!”
“You literally just wrote her a letter doing exactly that,” Anne remarked, one elegant eyebrow lifting. “In ink. With your family crest on it.”
Darcy slumped against the mantelpiece, burying his face in his hands. He was trapped, undone by his own exhaustion and his own foolish, unrequited heart.
The tension in the room, previously thick with mocking amusement, was suddenly broken.
The sound of a carriage grinding up the sweeping gravel drive of Rosings Park echoed through the chamber. It was not the light rattle of a local gig, nor was it the lumbering roll of Lady Catherine’s phaeton. It was the crunch of an extraordinarily expensive, well-sprung vehicle drawn by a team of prime bloods.
Darcy’s head snapped up. Richard leapt from the armchair and strode to the window, pulling back the curtain to peer down at the courtyard.
Darcy joined him. They looked down.
A grand, gleaming carriage, painted in an obnoxiously elegant shade of midnight blue, had pulled into the estate. The horses were sweating, indicating a rapid journey from London. Emblazoned on the door in gold leaf was a crest they both recognised instantly.
Darcy and the colonel looked at each other and let out a synchronised groan of dread.
“Tell me my eyes deceive me,” Darcy whispered, the remaining colour draining from his face.
“I cannot,” Richard said grimly. “The apocalypse has arrived, Cousin.”
Robert Fitzwilliam, Viscount Keathley, was on the premises.
The occupants of the room, however, had wildly different reactions to the sudden appearance of the heir to the earldom of Matlock.
“Robert is here?” Anne bounded off the chaise longue, her eyes shining with delight. She adored Robert. He possessed a lazy grace, a rakish charm, and an endless amount of amusement, but most importantly, she adored him for his covert mockery of her strict mother. Robert was the only person in the family who treated Lady Catherine not as a tyrant but as a minor inconvenience.
