“Oh, this is going to be spectacular,” Anne breathed, moving to the mirror to pinch her cheeks. “He will have Mother clutching her pearls before tea.”
“Dawson,” Darcy barked. “Lock the door. Barricade it with the wardrobe. If Robert finds out about the letter, I shall have to throw myself out of this window.”
But Dawson was not listening. The valet was standing near the washstand, a rare smile breaking across his usually cool features.
“Mr Boodles,” Dawson said reverently.
“Who is Boodles?” Anne asked.
“The viscount’s valet, Miss, and the only one I trust with my master’s welfare besides Mostyn, our butler,” Dawson explained, full of anticipation for excellent chess matches and intellectual conversations regarding sophisticated silk-washing techniques. “The man is a genius with the starch ratio. We have been conducting a correspondence for six months about the proper maintenance of velvet collars in damp climates. His arrival is a godsend.”
“We are surrounded by traitors,” Darcy muttered to Richard. “My own valet has defected to the enemy for laundry advice.”
“Robert is not the enemy,” Richard reasoned, though he still looked terrified of hisbig brother. “He is just... an unpredictable element. Like a firework. A very well-dressed, thirty-three-year-old firework with a title.”
They waited. The minutes stretched out like hours. They could hear the distant commotion downstairs—the slamming of doors, the flurry of footmen, the shrill demands of Lady Catherine, followed by the smooth, carrying baritone of the viscount effortlessly deflecting her.
Five minutes later, footsteps sounded in the corridor. They did not pause. They did not hesitate.
The chamber door swung open with a flourish.
Robert Fitzwilliam stepped inside. He was dressed in a riding coat of charcoal grey that fit him with scandalous perfection, his hair fashionably windswept, his boots gleaming. He stepped into the room, surveyed the gathering, and lifted a single perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
He did not immediately address his cousins. Instead, he turned his head and spoke over his shoulder to his valet, who was hovering in the hallway.
“You see, Boodles?” Robert drawled, his voice laced with amusement. “I told you. You were correct to insist upon this visit.”
“Was I, my lord?” a crisp voice answered from the corridor.
“Oh, indeed. Just look at them.” Robert gestured to Darcy and Richard with his silver-tipped cane. “The fear in their eyes proves that they need my assistance. Darcy seems as though he has swallowed a live eel, and Richard as though he is preparing to repel boarders.”
A unified groan of misery came from Darcy and Richard. Again.
Anne, however, abandoned the last shred of her sickly persona, let out a squeal of joy, and rushed forward to throw her arms around her favourite cousin.
“Robert!” she cried.
“Annie, my sweet,” Robert laughed, catching her and spinning her around. “You look quite healthy for a woman suffering from consumption, gout, and whatever else you told the apothecary this week.”
He set her down and turned his hawk-like focus on the master of Pemberley. The viscount’s eyes narrowed, taking in Darcy’s pale face, the rumpled state of his cravat, and the general air of impending doom.
“So.” Robert sauntered further into the room and claimed the armchair Richard had vacated. He crossed his legs, leaning back as if he owned the estate. “I am here. The cavalry has arrived. Now, Fitzwilliam. Look me in the eye and tell me exactly what has befallen you this time.”
Chapter Six: The Cavalry Descends
THE FRONT PARLOUR OFHunsford Parsonage was a room designed for reflection, moral contemplation, and the slow, inexorable crushing of the human spirit.
Elizabeth Bennet sat rigidly on a moderately uncomfortable chair, expertly masking her internal turmoil regarding the ink-stained letter hidden beneath her pillow upstairs. She was attempting to maintain an expression of polite engagement, which was a heroic feat of endurance considering the auditory assault she was undergoing.
Sir William Lucas and Mr Collins were in their usual tedious form. They had commandeered the primary seating area and were loudly speculating about the exact day and hour Lady Catherine de Bourgh might deign to grace them with another dinner invitation.
“I surmise it shall be Thursday,” Mr Collins announced, adjusting his collar with self-important gravity. “Her Ladyship often favours Thursdays for extending her hospitality to the clergy. It allows one the appropriate amount of time to reflect upon her grandeur before delivering the Sunday sermon. Do you not agree, Sir William?”
“Capital, capital.” Sir William nodded amiably, his eyes somewhat glassy. “A great lady. Magnificent staircases at Rosings. Truly, a marvel of the modern age.”
“And the chimneys,” Mr Collins pressed on, his voice a droning hum that threatened to vibrate Elizabeth’s teeth out of her skull. “I have counted them, you know. They cost a staggering sum. A staggering sum, Cousin Elizabeth. One can scarcely comprehend the magnitude of such superior chimneys.”
“It is truly beyond comprehension,” Elizabeth murmured, though the only thing she was comprehending was the memory of Mr Darcy’s handwriting burning a hole through the ceiling above her.I confess a desperate, starving longing.
