“During my visit in Kent I became reacquainted with a lady from Hertfordshire. If you remember, I spoke of her in my letter to you from Netherfield.”
“Yes! I do remember! The ‘impertinent fine eyes.’ Oh...” Georgiana faltered, crossing her hands on her chest. “Brother, what are you saying?”
Darcy smiled at her reaction. “I am saying that the lady is presently residing at her relatives’ residence in Cheapside and I wish you to meet her. I have been granted her permission to court her. Her name is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth?” Georgiana breathed, the name carrying a fragile hope.
“Yes,” Darcy confirmed, a smile finally breaking across his face.
Georgiana did not respond with words. She responded with a squeal so high-pitched and joyful it nearly shattered the crystal on the sideboard. She abandoned her tea, launching herself off the sofa and throwing her arms around her brother’s neck.
“Oh, Fitzwilliam!” Georgiana cried, burying her face in his shoulder. “I am so happy! I am certain she is wonderful! I shall finally have a sister!”
Darcy hugged her back fiercely, closing his eyes against the sting of emotion. “You shall, hopefully. And a fiercely intelligent, very opinionated one, at that.”
“She is, Georgiana,” Anne contributed from the sofa, sipping her tea. “She looked Fitzwilliam straight in the eye and dismantled his consequence multiple times. You will adore her.”
“I already do!” Georgiana beamed, stepping back, her face radiant. “We must go tomorrow! First thing! Oh, I must inform my maid to press my blue pelisse!”
Before Darcy could agree to the sartorial plans, the morning room doors were opened to reveal the cousins.
“We survived!” Viscount Keathley announced, striding into the room with Colonel Fitzwilliam trailing close behind.
Robert kissed Georgiana’s cheek and threw himself onto a vacant armchair, as though he had just returned from a bloody military campaign rather than a short carriage ride to hisparents’ house. Richard winked at the young girl and collapsed onto the opposite sofa, groaning audibly.
“Matlock House is a bedlam,” Richard reported, rubbing his eyes. “Mother is cataloguing the silver to ensure we did not steal any teaspoons on our way out, and Father is in the library shouting at a footman about the price of imported tobacco. We escaped before they could demand to empty our pockets or worse, introduce us to the first heiress passing in the street outside our house.”
“You are just in time,” Anne said, laughing. “Fitzwilliam was just detailing his impending foray into the wilds of Cheapside tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes. The grand mercantile expedition.” Robert grinned, his exhaustion vanishing, replaced by the wicked gleam of a cousin ready to mock. “Tell me, Darcy. Have you prepared your vocabulary? You cannot walk into Gracechurch Street and discuss parliamentary reform. You must speak their language.”
Darcy crossed his arms, his newfound good humour challenged but not defeated. “I am perfectly capable of conversing with Mr Gardiner, Robert. Miss Elizabeth implied that he is an intelligent, well-read gentleman.”
“He is a gentleman of trade.” Richard waved a hand dismissively, then leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. “He will require you to prove your worth before he hands over his niece. Have you considered your skills, Fitzwilliam? What exactly can you offer the firm?”
“I manage one of the largest agricultural estates in England,” Darcy growled.
“Yes, but can you gut a fish?” Robert asked, adopting a look of mocking concern. “I hear the warehouses are ruthless. They will probably stick you on a street corner with a cart. ‘Cod! Fresh cod from the master of Pemberley! Two pence a head!’”
Georgiana giggled behind her hand. Anne was delighted by the image.
“I can gut a cousin,” Darcy threatened, narrowing his eyes. “And I wager I could do it without staining my cuffs.”
“I would look dashing in an apron, frankly,” Richard mused dreamily. “I might ask Mr Gardiner for one.”
“You are both insufferable,” Darcy sighed, though he could not suppress a smile. He was too happy to be angry. The prospect of tomorrow—of walking into that house and seeing Elizabeth—was a beacon that outshone even his cousins’ relentless teasing.
“Come, Richard.” Robert pushed himself out of the armchair and dusted off his breeches. “We must leave the domestic bliss to the women. We have a duty to perform.”
“We do?” Richard asked, looking alarmed.
“We must show our faces at White’s. If we do not make an appearance within two hours of arriving in London, the club will assume we have been kidnapped by French spies, or worse, that we have developed a sudden interest in reading books.” Robert turned to Darcy. “Fetch your hat, Fitzwilliam. We are going to drink overpriced port and stare at men who have not had an original thought since 1798.”
Darcy hesitated. He wanted to stay. He wanted to plan tomorrow’s call, to ensure the carriage was pristine, to decide exactly which flowers to send ahead. But Robert was right; a failure to appear would invite questions, and Darcy wishedto keep his movements regarding Cheapside quiet until the courtship was formalised and public.
“Very well,” he conceded. “But only for an hour. I have a fish cart to polish.”
THE ATMOSPHERE INSIDEWhite’s was exactly as Darcy remembered it: thick with blue cigar smoke, the rich scent of polished leather, and the murmuring hum of extreme wealth being squandered on bad wagers.
