The bell above the door chimed, shattering the quiet of the library.
“Lizzy?” Charlotte called out, stepping into the shop. “Are you in here? The apothecary took forever; Mr Collins has apparently requested a bespoke tincture involving too much peppermint.”
“I am here, Charlotte,” Elizabeth called back, leaving the fiction aisle.
The viscount followed her, seamlessly slipping the romance novel behindPlutarch’s Livesso that only the respectable history tome was visible to the vicar’s wife.
“Mrs Collins.” He bowed with a smile. “A delight, as always. I was just discussing the fall of the Roman Republic with Miss Elizabeth. She has a staggering grasp of ancient politics.”
Charlotte looked at Elizabeth, then at the viscount, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the undeniable, crackling energy emanating from both of them.
“Indeed, my lord,” Charlotte said dryly. “Lizzy has always had a knack for ancient ruins. Shall we go, Lizzy? Mr Collins awaits the tincture.”
“We shall,” Elizabeth smiled. She turned to the viscount one last time. “Good day, Lord Keathley. I hope your studies prove fruitful.”
“They have already borne fruit beyond my wildest expectations, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, offering a low bow aimed at both ladies. “I bid you a good day.”
Elizabeth and Charlotte left the library, stepping out into the pale Kentish sunlight.
“What were you truly discussing with the viscount?” Charlotte asked as they linked arms and started walking back to the parsonage. “And do not say the Roman Republic. I saw him hiding a blue spine behind that massive brick of a book.”
“We were discussing the maintenance of marbles,” Elizabeth said. “And the possibility of renovations.”
Charlotte stopped walking and stared at Elizabeth.
“Renovations,” she repeated. “Does this mean... the ten thousand a year is still under consideration?”
“It means,” Elizabeth laughed, linking her arm tighter with her friend’s and pulling her forward, “that I am willing to inspect the property before I condemn it.”
Back in the library, Robert Fitzwilliam threw a handful of coins onto the counter, startling the clerk for a second time, and strode out the door without caring about the change.
He darted to the carriage waiting at the end of the lane.
“Hamond!” Robert shouted to his driver as he approached. “Rosings Park! Maximum speed!”
“My lord?” Boodles emerged from within, opening the door. “Is there an emergency?”
“No, Boodles! There is a miracle!” Robert launched himself inside, tossingPlutarchandUdolphoonto the opposite seat. “We have breached the castle! The damsel is willing to negotiate!”
As the carriage tore away from the village, throwing up clods of dirt from the wheels, Viscount Keathley leaned back and laughed out loud.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was going to owe him a debt of gratitude so massive it would likely bankrupt the Pemberley estate, and Robert fully intended to collect.
Chapter Eleven: The Beast of Hunsford and Other Triumphs
FITZWILLIAM DARCY HADfaced down angry tenant uprisings, navigated the notoriously treacherous waters of the London marriage mart, and once survived a carriage accident in a blinding Derbyshire snowstorm. Yet, none of these experiences had adequately prepared him for the madness of attempting to court a woman in the middle of a situation involving a sycophantic vicar, an overly enthusiastic knight, and the Fitzwilliam cousins.
Over the course of the next four days, the daily visitation to the parsonage became a military exercise of staggering precision.
Every morning, Viscount Keathley would rally the troops in the library, outline the daily objectives, and march them down the lane to invade Mr Collins’s humble abode. The goal was simple: isolate Miss Elizabeth, distract the human breastworks, and allow Darcy to demonstrate that he was capable of basic human interaction.
It was exhausting. It was chaotic. And it was, quite possibly, the happiest four days of his life, because the strategy was working.
Darcy stood near the parsonage window on Friday morning, nursing a cup of barely adequate tea, and surveying the fray.
In the far corner, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam—a decorated officer of His Majesty’s Dragoons who had commanded men under artillery fire—was trapped in a floral armchair. His large, calloused hands were held awkwardly aloft, serving as a display stand for Miss Maria Lucas, who was draping bright ribbons over them.
“You see, Colonel,” Miss Lucas chirped, oblivious to the frustration in the soldier’s eyes, “this scarlet ribbon would look most becoming tied about your hat! It would catch the light splendidly on parade!”
