Madame Céleste had actually wept, but the emerald silk had been produced in no time. Darcy had stood by the door, exchanging a look of respect with Dawson, who was holding the parcels.
Yes, Darcy’s world was a paradise of newfound joy and familial harmony.
Which made the catastrophic collapse of his cousin, Viscount Keathley, all the more spectacular to witness.
Robert Fitzwilliam, the renowned rake of London, the master of drawing-room banter, the man who had an effortless charm that made duchesses swoon and baronets weep with envy, was in a predicament that brought a role reversal.
Every time the Fitzwilliam clan called on Gracechurch Street or the Gardiners joined them for an outing in town, Robert underwent a metamorphosis. The moment Jane Bennet entered the room, Robert turned into a statue, experiencing the same affliction that Darcy had suffered in Hertfordshire.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and the combined party had decided upon an educational excursion to the British Museum to view the newly acquired antiquities. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were strolling arm-in-arm through a gallery of Egyptian artefacts, engaged in a debate regarding the architectural merits of pyramids versus the modern English estate.
“I simply believe, Mr Darcy, that a pyramid lacks practicality,” she was saying. “Where does one put the windows? How does one ventilate the drawing room?”
“The pharaohs were notoriously unconcerned with cross-breezes, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy replied, a warm smilesettling easily on his face. “They prioritised longevity of their dead bodies over a good view.”
“A fatal flaw. I should require a window and perhaps some sensible glazing.”
Darcy barked a laugh, the reference to Mr Collins’s obsession hitting its mark.
Behind them, the atmosphere was significantly less jovial.
Viscount Keathley was walking beside Jane Bennet. Jane was wearing a pale-yellow walking dress, her golden beauty illuminating the sombre museum gallery. She was examining a granite sarcophagus with interest.
“It is fascinating, is it not, Lord Keathley?” Miss Bennet asked gently, turning her eyes to him. “To think of the history contained within this stone. What do you make of it? What do you suppose the hieroglyphs signify?”
Robert stopped walking, his spine snapping straight. His hands, usually resting casually in his pockets or gesturing with theatrical flair, were glued stiffly to his sides. He stared at the sarcophagus as if it were about to spring open and demand he jump inside.
He opened his mouth and a strangled squeak emerged. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively against his pristine cravat.
“The stone is... very heavy, Miss Bennet,” Robert finally croaked, his voice devoid of its rich, carrying baritone.
Miss Bennet blinked, her smile faltering in confusion. “Heavy, my lord?”
“Yes. It is made of... rock. And rock is... heavy.” Robert stared blankly at the granite, a bead of perspiration forming on his temple. “Very heavy rock.”
Darcy, who had paused to observe this exchange, had to bite the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted copper. He caught Miss Elizabeth’s eye, and he could see her battling the exact same urge to laugh.
Darcy excused himself from Miss Elizabeth with a slight bow and strolled back to his cousin. He stopped beside Robert, who was still glaring at the Egyptian tomb as if trying to memorise its structure.
“Robert,” Darcy murmured, his voice pitched to reach only the viscount’s ears. “You seem tense. Would you care for a fire poker? I understand they are very comforting to look at when one is incapable of human conversation.”
Robert’s head snapped towards Darcy, his eyes wide from the betrayal.
“Do not do this,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his jaw barely moving. “I am dying. My organs are shutting down. She looked at me, Darcy. She looked directly at me and asked me a question about ancient scribbles. I did not know what to tell her. I only know how to play cards and insult people.”
“You are doing brilliantly,” Darcy lied with vindictive satisfaction, recalling the coaching sessions Robert had forced upon him in the Rosings library. “You successfully identified the sarcophagus as heavy. Next, you might point out that it is also old. Women love a man with a firm grasp of the obvious.”
“I hate you,” Robert whispered.
“I am merely offering pedagogical support, Cousin.” Darcy patted Robert on the shoulder with enough force to rattle his teeth. “Remember. Gaze, not glare. And breathe. A bluish complexion is not romantic.”
THE INCIDENT AT THEBritish Museum was not an isolated one. The viscount’s muting continued consistently.
Three days later, during a promenade in Hyde Park, the situation deteriorated further.
The party was walking along the Serpentine. Robert was beside Miss Bennet, holding her parasol for her. Actually, he was not holding it; he was gripping it, mostly above his own head, causing the lady to struggle to get some shade. He had not spoken a word in fourteen minutes.
Richard, who was walking behind them with Anne, could bear it no longer. He jogged forward, stepping in front of his brother and halting the procession. With a look of medical concern, Richard reached out, grabbed Robert’s wrist, and pressed two fingers against his pulse point.
