“Thank you, Dawson. Your continued insubordination is noted.”
“I shall coach you,” Robert promised. “I shall teach you the art of the flirtatious banter. I shall instruct you on the proper deployment of a meaningful gaze that does not induce fear in the recipient.”
“It is a monumental task, my lord,” Boodles murmured from the door. “One might say, Sisyphean.”
“I shall roll the boulder up the hill, Boodles,” Robert declared.
“Wait,” Anne interrupted the plotting, slipping off the reading table and moving to the centre of the room.
The heiress of Rosings Park held up a hand, laying down a non-negotiable mandate.
“This is all very touching, and I am thrilled to see Fitzwilliam subjected to a romantic reformation.” Anne’s tone turned authoritative. “But there is a fatal flaw in your stratagem. You have forgotten the dragon sleeping upstairs.”
The three men exchanged nervous glances.
“My mother,” Anne clarified, her eyes narrowing. “My mother must never catch a whiff of this scheme. If Lady Catherine even suspects that Fitzwilliam is courting Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Hertfordshire under our roof, the fallout will be apocalyptic. She will be furious and I will be caught in the middle.”
“Anne is correct,” Richard agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Aunt Catherine is operating under the delusion that Fitzwilliam is resting his humours before formally proposing to Anne. If she sees him smiling at Miss Elizabeth...”
“Then we must ensure she sees nothing,” Robert stated.
The group gathered closer, the atmosphere turning into a war council.
“We need a diversion.” Darcy’s strategic mind had finally engaged. “Something that appeals to her vanity so that she ignores everything else.”
“Or someone,” Anne suggested, an evil smile spreading across her face.
Anne outlined her plan. They would constantly redirect her mother’s scrutiny to the two most eager victims in the county: Mr Collins and Sir William Lucas. They would utilise the two visiting gentlemen as unwitting human barricades.
“It is genius,” Robert whispered in awe, staring at his cousin. “Annie, you are a menace, and I love you.”
“Think of it,” Anne continued, pacing the rug. “Mr Collins begs for her condescension. Sir William is so dazzled by the chandeliers he barely knows what day it is. Whenever Fitzwilliam needs to speak with Elizabeth, one of us will ask Mother her opinion on the optimal height of a pulpit, or the proper method for presenting a knighthood. She will corner them and will lecture them for hours. They will be so honoured they will not even realise they are being sacrificed for your love life.”
“It is slightly cruel to them. They might be dull, but they are good men,” Darcy said with a twinge of guilt for the poor victims.
“Mr Collins enjoys it, sir,” Dawson chimed in from the door. “He views her Ladyship’s lectures as spiritual nourishment. We are providing him with a feast. And fear not. Sir William is made of sterner stuff; he will survive.”
“Then it is settled,” Robert announced, wiping the slate clean with a cloth. “The Council of War has spoken. Anne isour spy. Richard is our diplomat. I am the romantic architect. And Collins and Sir William are the sacrificial lambs.”
“And what am I?” Darcy asked, looking at his cousin.
Robert walked over and placed a hand on Darcy’s shoulder.
“You, Fitzwilliam, are going to learn how to be human,” Robert said gently. “You shall walk into the sunlight, you shall be magnificent, you shall look the woman straight in the eye, and you shall prove to her that the man who wrote that madcap letter is a man worth saving.”
Darcy swallowed hard. The fear returned, but this time, it was mixed with a small kernel of hope.
“I am at your disposal, Robert,” Darcy said.
“I know.” The viscount grinned devilishly. “And I intend to enjoy every single miserable second of it. Now, Boodles! Dawson! Pour the brandy! We have a courtship to construct!”
Chapter Eight: The Truth in the Grove
ELIZABETH BENNET WASconvinced that, were there a purgatory designed specifically for unmarried gentlewomen, it would be fashioned to the exact dimensions of the Hunsford parsonage parlour.
It was Wednesday morning, and the air inside the small brick house was thick with the scent of boiled cabbage and the perpetual drone of Mr William Collins. He was reading aloud from a volume of Dr Fordyce’s Sermons, pausing every three sentences to offer his own, somehow even drier, commentary on the text.
Elizabeth was perched on the edge of her chair, her hands clenched in her lap, as though a blanket of mediocrity had covered her from head-to-foot.
