Elizabeth’s heart fluttered with something perilously close to hope. Jane gave a knowing, private nod and closed the door behind her.
Nettle claimed the warm spot Jane had vacated. Elizabeth blew out the candle, lay down in the darkness, and listened to the tinkling of Mary’s pianoforte drifting up through the floorboards—the Clementi, practiced and re-practiced with the devotion of a girl who had discovered something worth devoting herself to.
Through the wall, from Number 34, she heard nothing because she wasn’t listening for anything at all. And she was not thinking about the man who seemed determined to disrupt her thoughts and her composure with his relentless presence.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WRONG TO INTERFERE
A spikeof alarm hit Darcy as he entered Number 33 for his designated duty. Instead of being shown into the study where he expected to find Elizabeth at work with the ledgers, he was admitted into the drawing room.
“Lady Sophia’s instructions,” Mrs. Alford said, as if that were the only law of the house.
He entered to find Lady Sophia armed with a volume of Fordyce’sSermons to Young Women.
“Fordyce, Lady Sophia?” He arched an eyebrow, kissing her hand.
“Miss Mary abandoned it, and I wished to understand why.” She turned a page with a flick of her wrist. “The man writes as though young women were livestock requiring management. Your mother would have used it to level a wobbly table leg.”
“My mother had strong opinions on Fordyce.” His gaze drifted around the room, as if expecting… what?—Elizabeth to be hiding behind the velvet curtains?
“Yes, it was one of her finest qualities.” Lady Sophia set the book aside. “The accounts are in order, Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth reviewed them already. She has settled the vendors, corrected the wine merchant’s insolence, and informs me that the threeBennet sisters in London cost rather less than your budget suggested. She no longer requires an accountant to balance her ledger.”
The words slammed the door in his face. Elizabeth had handled everything. Her maddening competence—so admirable, so inconvenient—had made him entirely superfluous.
“I see,” he said, his throat tightening. “Then I am not certain why I am here.”
“Are you not?” Lady Sophia’s pale eyes captured his. “Sit down. She will join us presently.”
The settee sagged beneath him, too low, too yielding. With no desk to shield him, his hands hovered uselessly on his knees. He waited, his heartbeat tripping, for the door to open.
Elizabeth swept in. She wore a pale-blue morning dress entirely put together except for the ink smudges on not only her second finger, but also her third. She had clearly been burning the midnight candle to prove her competency.
“The accounts are settled, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes were bright as she noted his idle hands. “I hope Lady Sophia has informed you that the coal is confirmed and the wine merchant properly chastened. You are quite relieved of your duties as a tutor. Surely a man of your… pressing importance has more significant business than playing schoolmaster to a country acquaintance?”
“I have no business more significant than the welfare of this house,” Darcy replied, his manner a fraction stiffer than he intended.
“How selfless,” Elizabeth countered. “Though I suspect the Master of Pemberley finds a column of figures far less taxing than the ‘degrading’ company of those who cannot tell a credit from a debit.”
“Since the accounts require no further attention,” Lady Sophia interrupted, “I have a different use for you, Fitzwilliam.” She produced a silver salver stacked high with calling cards.“Elizabeth’s social calendar needs a firm hand. Invitations to be weighed, calls to be returned, suitors to be… judged. My eyes are weary, and Fitzwilliam has a famously discerning eye for… flaws.”
“You wish me to act as arbiter of Miss Elizabeth’s social schedule?”
“You are acquainted with theton.” Lady Sophia blinked, the picture of innocence, as if he had entirely misunderstood his role. “Miss Elizabeth may wish to consult you on the character of these gentlemen. A trustee’s duty, I should think, extends to guarding a charge against the… unsuitable.”
“Naturally,” he said, his voice clipped, not registering Elizabeth’s eyes widening in alarm. “I am at Miss Bennet’s disposal.”
Sentenced to such an exquisite form of purgatory, Darcy took the salver, the silver cold against his palm. He was now the gatekeeper for every man in London who dared hope to court the woman sitting across from him. Had he been left to his own devices, he would have consigned the entire stack to the fire without a second thought.
He lifted the first card. “Lady Prideaux and her son, Sir Weston. Miss Elizabeth? Your response?”
“The horse enthusiast,” she said, taking a measured sip of tea. “He spent twenty minutes on Tuesday describing the fetlocks of his new hunter. I believe his conversational range is limited to anything that requires four legs and a saddle.”
“His character is unobjectionable,” Darcy noted, his thumb brushing the edge of the card. “And his fortune is adequate.”
“Adequate is a very grey word, Mr. Darcy. I find I have a sudden distaste for the color grey. I prefer a man whose mind can travel beyond the stable door.”
Darcy nodded, noting that he himself could converse about all manner of topics, not limited to horses and fetlocks. He kepthimself from smiling. Did Elizabeth consider him grey or only adequate?
