“You are building a house of cards,” Darcy countered, patting his shoulder. “Go and wash your face before you frighten the maids.”
They swept out, leaving behind a wake of polished refinement. Robert watched them go with a pang of jealousy. Darcy had his lady. Robert had a plaster cherub with gout.
He went back to work, giving the chisel a whack with the mallet. The cherub groaned, the plaster cracked, and with a sound like a pistol shot, the cornice piece gave way.
Robert had not expected the weight of it. The plaster came down like a falling gargoyle. He tried to leap clear, but his heel caught on the edge of the ladder.
He fell.
There is no graceful way to fall from a ladder while holding a mallet. He went down in a cloud of dust, limbs flailing, landing squarely on his back with a thud that knocked the wind out of him. The cherub landed beside him, its smug little face shattering into a dozen pieces.
He lay there, wheezing, staring up at the ceiling, covered in a fine layer of white powder, feeling like a ghost who had died in a messy avalanche.
“Well,” Anne remarked, not bothering to look up from her book. “That was dramatic. I assume you are intending to do the whole room in that fashion?”
“I meant to do that,” he wheezed, patting his head to determine if it was still there. “It was a... a strategic demolition.”
“I am sure it was,” she replied, turning a page.
It was at that exact moment that the front doors opened. He could hear the thud of boots on the marble foyer, followed by the clatter of two walking sticks.
“I tell you, Sir William,” a dry, droll voice echoed, “I am curious to meet this gentleman. Darcy mentioned his cousin is a viscount, but my experience with the aristocracy has led me to believe that they are peacocks disguised as fops.”
“Oh, my friend, you are too cynical! The viscount is a capital fellow, you shall see. Lord Keathley is a most distinguished gentleman. We became acquainted at Rosings, you know. A charming man. Very charming. Entirely at home in the highest circles.”
Behind Sir William stood a tall, thin gentleman with an elegance that not even the chaotic surroundings could dim.
The gentleman looked at the broken plaster, then at the mallet, and then at Anne, who offered a serene nod, and Richard, who had instinctively hidden Mrs Nicholls behind his back.
Finally, the gentleman’s gaze settled on Robert.
Robert stood frozen. His shirt was a disaster, his trousers were comical, and his hair, usually styled to perfection, was standing on end, caked in white dust.
The stranger stepped past the paralysed Sir William and over a stray piece of plaster wing, his face a mask of droll sincerity.
“My good man,” he asked, his voice as dry as the dust coating Robert’s hair. “Is there a master in this house? I was told I had to call on a peer.”
Sir William finally found his voice, letting out a breathless squeak. “Mr Bennet! Good heavens, man, thatisthe peer! My lord Keathley, I beg your pardon for the intrusion—and, oh dear, have you suffered an incident?”
Mr Bennet.
Mr Bennet lifted an eyebrow. He surveyed Robert, his eyes twinkling. He seemed to be weighing Robert’s worth as a human being against the amount of rubble on the floor.
Richard choked on a laugh, rapidly disguising it as a cough, while Anne’s eyes gleamed with unholy delight.
Robert felt the heat rush to his face, turning the plaster dust on his cheeks into a thick paste. He possessed a lightning-fast wit; he had traded barbs with the sharpest minds in London and he recognised exactly what Mr Bennet was doing. The man was testing the waters, probing the aristocratic armour to see what lay beneath.
Robert drew himself up to his full height. He brushed a massive clump of gypsum from his shoulder and executed a bow of such sweeping grace that it created a small secondary cloud of dust.
“Mr Bennet,” Robert said, his rich baritone steady despite his appearance. “Sir William. You must forgive the state of the reception. The peerage is indeed present, though currently engaged in a violent and largely losing battle against Miss Bingley’s aesthetic.”
“I see,” Mr Bennet drawled, his eyes twinkling. “So, you are Viscount Keathley. I must confess, my lord, when Darcyinformed me that you had leased Netherfield, I did not expect to find you covered in ceiling debris.”
“I am a man of many talents, sir,” Robert replied, stepping out of the wreckage. “Today, I am a plasterer. Tomorrow, I aim for carpentry.”
Sir William chuckled nervously. “Oh, Mr Bennet, you are too droll! His Lordship is merely taking an active interest in his estate! The mark of a capital landlord!”
“Indeed,” Mr Bennet murmured, walking a slow, deliberate circle around the shattered cherub. “Though it is a curious thing, is it not, Sir William? A wealthy peer with a grand townhouse in London and, as rumour has it, a sprawling estate in Cornwall abandons all for the air of Hertfordshire. Have you an ailment, my lord?”
