Elizabeth ignored them both. She placed a hand over her heart, feeling its erratic rhythm. She thought of Mr Darcy’s pale face and his final, whispered words.
I am at your mercy.
She turned and marched to the door.
“Where are you going, Lizzy?” Charlotte called after her.
“Upstairs,” Elizabeth replied, her voice firm. “I need to read a letter. Again.”
Chapter Seven: The Council of War
IF DANTE HAD REQUIREDan additional circle of hell for hisInferno, he would have done well to study the dining room of Rosings Park that evening.
The Rosings party had returned from their dizzying parsonage visit. Now, they were required to endure a dreadfully long formal dinner under the watchful eye of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The dining table was a vast, polished expanse of wood that was less a place to consume roasted fowl and more a tribunal.
Darcy sat to his aunt’s right, staring at his soup as if he expected it to rise up and recite his own humiliating prose back to him.
She has read it,his brain chanted to the clinking of silver spoons against porcelain.She has probably read it to her friend. They have likely composed a musical arrangement of my despair to perform on the pianoforte.
“Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine’s voice boomed down the table, vibrating the crystal goblets. “You are not eating your pheasant. Is the preparation inadequate? I expressly told the cook that a French reduction is the refuge of a lazy kitchen.”
“The pheasant is exemplary, Aunt Catherine,” Darcy lied, his voice tight. “I find myself lacking an appetite this evening.”
“It is the country air,” Viscount Keathley smoothly interjected, deploying his charisma to keep their aunt pacified. Robert leaned forward, flashing a smile that had famously convinced a duchess to hand over her prize-winning spaniel. “The air in Kent is so robust, so intellectually stimulating, it quite overpowers the physical senses. I, for one, have been captivated by the majesty of your estate management, Aunt. The glazing on the parsonage windows alone is a testament to your foresight.”
Darcy shot his cousin a look of disbelief.
Lady Catherine, however, puffed up like a bejewelled pigeon, oblivious to the underlying tension coming from her nephews.
“You have a keen eye, Robert,” Lady Catherine declared, her tone shifting from accusatory to smug. “I have always said that a well-glazed window is the cornerstone of moral fortitude in the clergy. If they are draughty, they spend their time complaining rather than composing sermons. It is simple logic.”
“Brilliant,” Robert murmured, raising his wine glass in a salute. “Truly, a masterpiece in governance. Parliament could learn much from you.”
Across the table, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam coughed into his napkin to disguise a snort of laughter, while Anne continued to eat her asparagus with the serenity of a seasoned assassin.
Darcy closed his eyes and prayed for the sweet release of a well-aimed thunderbolt.
The evening dragged on, but finally, the clock in the hall chimed ten.
The moment Lady Catherine retired for the night—sweeping up the grand staircase with a final directive regarding the precise temperature of her warming pan—Viscount Keathley sprang into action.
The mask of the amiable vacant aristocrat vanished, replaced by the sharp, focused energy of a general preparing for a siege.
Robert moved swiftly through the silent, shadowed corridors of Rosings. He bypassed the drawing room and headed straight for the west wing. He summoned Darcy, Anne, and Richard to a covert, emergency meeting in the library.
The Rosings library was a cavernous room filled with thousands of unread, leather-bound volumes. Darcy started pacing in front of the unlit fireplace. Richard lounged on a sofa, and Anne perched on the edge of a reading table, her woollen shawls discarded.
“The perimeter is secure,” a hushed voice announced from the doorway.
Darcy turned to see Dawson, stepping into the room. Beside Dawson stood Boodles, equally impeccably dressed in a dark coat, emanating an air of competence and a patrician nose that seemed permanently lifted in disdain at the general state of the universe.
“Ah, excellent.” Robert clapped his hands together. “Cousins, Dawson and Boodles shall be present in this conversation.”
Boodles offered a bow so precise it could have been measured with a protractor. “An honour to participate, gentlemen. Miss de Bourgh.”
“Boodles,” Robert addressed his valet, “what is the intelligence from below the stairs?”
“The housekeeper is fast asleep, my lord,” Boodles reported, his tone as dry as dust. “The footmen are engaged in a game of whist in the servants’ hall. We have approximately five hours before the scullery maids begin the morning fires. You are free to strategise without interruption. However, I advise keeping your voices to a respectable murmur. The acoustics in these historical piles are notoriously treacherous.”
