Anne paused, tilting her head. “Do we have a treaty, Cousin?”
“We have a treaty,” Darcy groaned, rubbing his temples.
“Excellent.” Anne turned back to the room, clapping her hands together briskly.
“Right then,” Richard said. “The ‘Darcy’s Dignity Rescue Mission’ is officially formed.”
It was a bizarre assembly, uniting an unravelled gentleman, an amused soldier, a strict valet, and a pragmatic heiress.
“What is the first step?” Dawson asked, pouring a second, much-needed glass of brandy for his master. “Do we storm the parsonage at dawn? I am quite handy with a picklock, sir. A remnant of my misspent youth.”
“We do not storm the parsonage.” Darcy ran a hand over his face. “We need intelligence. We need to know where she has hidden it, and if she has shown it to anyone.”
“Leave the intelligence gathering to me.” Anne’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of actual, unsanctioned activity. “I can call upon Charlotte Collins. I am the patroness’s daughter; they cannot refuse me entry. I will assess the situation and determine the emotional state of the quarry.”
“The quarry,” Darcy repeated weakly. “We are referring to the woman I love as ‘the quarry’.”
“She holds the weapon of your destruction, Fitzwilliam. Terminology is important,” Richard corrected him. “I shall accompany Annie. I can charm Mrs Collins while Anne interrogates Miss Elizabeth.”
“And what shall I do?” Darcy demanded, feeling useless in his own rescue.
“You,” Anne pointed a commanding finger at him, “will remain out of sight. Every time you go near that woman, you either insult her family or hand her a manifesto of your own mental instability. You are a liability, Fitzwilliam.”
Darcy opened his mouth to object, realised she was correct, and closed it again.
“We will strike tomorrow,” Anne declared, moving back to the door. She hunched her posture, transforming into the sickly, frail invalid her mother expected. “I have to go downstairs to throw dust in my mother’s eyes and placate my companion. I shall come back the moment I escape them.”
She offered a weak cough that echoed in the corridor.
Then, she winked at them.
“Do not despair, Cousin,” she whispered in her normal voice. “We shall retrieve your poetry. Just remember our deal.”
The door clicked shut, leaving the three men alone in the chamber of horrors.
Darcy stared at the closed door, then down at the rational letter still sitting on his desk. He picked it up, walked over to the fireplace, and dropped it onto the burning coals. It caught instantly, the edges curling and turning black.
“Well.” Richard patted Darcy on the back. “Look on the bright side, Fitzwilliam.”
“Is there a bright side?”
“Certainly. If she reads that letter, she will no longer think you are a cold, unfeeling statue.” He grinned. “She will think you are a raving lunatic. It is a distinct improvement.”
Darcy closed his eyes and prayed for the ground to open up and swallow Rosings Park whole.
Chapter Four: The Pragmatism of Hunsford
IF ONE WERE TO CATALOGUEthe various emotional states Elizabeth Bennet had anticipated experiencing during her stay in Kent, the list would have been comprehensive. She had expected to feel bored by Mr Collins, patronised by Lady Catherine, and irritated by Mr Darcy.
She had not expected to feel as though she were standing on the deck of a ship during a storm, holding a piece of paper that proved the universe possessed a deeply twisted sense of humour.
Elizabeth paced the length of her guest chamber in a state of agitation. The catastrophic paper rested innocently upon her neat white bedspread.
She paused in her pacing to glare at it. It looked back at her.
She oscillated between breathless, hysterical laughter at his desperation and genuine distress over his raw honesty. Every time she remembered his haughty, rigid posture in the grove that morning—the dignity with which he had handed her a letter containing the phrase“I confess a desperate, starving longing”—she had to press a hand over her mouth to suppress a shriek of manic amusement.
He had no idea,she realised, a fresh wave of embarrassment on his behalf washing over her.The most formidable, prideful man in England has just handed me a written account of his complete emotional collapse, and he believes he handed me a legal brief.
