“Go,” he said.
She was out the door before the word finished, joining the group with the breathless delight of a girl who had learned that she was allowed to want things and that to wish for happiness was not invariably to court disappointment.
He lingered at the window, watching until the last bonnet disappeared around the corner, as if staring hard enough might conjure them back.
He was alone, a state he usually prized, and his mind drifted to the small, wiry creature currently left behind in the house next door. Nettle would be pacing, her leather ball likely resting against a door that would not open for several hours.
Unable to interest himself in correspondence or the empty room, Darcy’s footsteps carried him through the adjoining garden between Number 34 and Number 33. The gravel path, still damp from last night’s rain, led him beneath a bower of early roses and along the clipped hedges that separated the two properties.
Lady Sophia’s housekeeper greeted him with the briskness of someone who had long since stopped expecting explanations from gentlemen. With a nod, she ushered him into the drawing room, where Lady Sophia waited—her posture promising a conversation far less soothing than the garden he’d just escaped.
“Fitzwilliam, good morning, my dear. Is there some urgent crisis requiring Miss Elizabeth’s attention?” Lady Sophiaremarked, her eyebrow arched sharply. “A miscounting of the clothing allowance, perhaps?”
“The dog required exercise,” Darcy replied, his voice a fraction too stiff.
“Ah, a mission of mercy for a terrier. How very selfless.” Her eyes twinkled with a mirage of innocence. “You have missed the expedition. Allegra has whisked them all toward the Pantheon Bazaar—apparently, the Miss Bennets have discovered that London contains a truly alarming number of ribbons. I suspect they shall be gone for hours.”
She watched him, clearly enjoying the way he stood like a man waiting for a sentence to be passed.
“Allegra is very good with them,” she continued. “She has a gift for drawing people out. Even Miss Mary has begun to soften under her influence. Your sister, too, delights in her animated conversation. And she is so easy with Elizabeth—their friendship is the most natural thing I have observed this Season.”
A pause followed, measured to the width of a needle.
“My goddaughter would do well with a man who truly esteemed such qualities—the warmth of her manner, the grace with which she moves through company, and that singular talent for making every acquaintance feel themselves quite at ease.”
Darcy said nothing. Both Allegra and Elizabeth were goddaughters, along with half a dozen young ladies whom Lady Sophia had taken an interest in across England.
“Fitzwilliam. Do sit down. You are looming.”
He sat, but relaxing was out of the question. With Lady Sophia, comfort was always a temporary illusion—she was bound to spring something on him, or worse, demand honesty.
“Allegra is four-and-twenty, Fitzwilliam,” she said, her voice dropping the mocking edge. “In this town, that is considered a dangerous proximity to the shelf, though why we treat vibrant young women like wilting produce is a mystery I have nevercared to solve. She has the granddaughter of a duke for a pedigree and a spirit that would brighten even the draftiest corners of a house in, say, Derbyshire.”
He felt the weight of the Derbyshire mention, suppressing a nod as he sensed danger. “Miss Courtenay is a credit to your guidance. Any man would be fortunate to secure her hand.”
“Any man, but not this man?” She set her cup down with a soft clink. “You are avoiding my eyes, which usually means you are busy being noble and miserable. Allegra possesses a warmth that would compensate for… a certain reserve in your temperament. She makes everyone feel welcome. Even you.”
“Allegra deserves a man who loves her,” Darcy replied, his voice low. “Not a man who finds her merely… agreeable.”
Lady Sophia leaned back, eyes on the empty street. “Elizabeth is not Allegra. She does not hand out welcomes; she decides if you are worth the trouble. That mind of hers could run a kingdom, and her temper—well, I imagine you have lost sleep over it.”
Darcy swallowed hard, resisting the urge to touch his cravat. “I wasn’t aware you tracked my sleepless nights. As you are aware, the role of a trustee requires vigilance, especially for a woman so newly wealthy.”
“Yes, and I require a deputy.” She sighed, rubbing her back to emphasize her frailty. “I am far too old to navigate the crush of Bond Street or the humidity of a musicale. I need someone younger and more robust.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Elizabeth will require a chaperone in all but name,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Someone to stand at her side when I cannot. Someone to ward off the men who will inevitably swarm about fifteen thousand a year like flies to a honey pot. I want you to be my shadow, Fitzwilliam. Her Season is my responsibility, but I am delegating the ‘hovering’ to you.”
Nettle, abandoned by the departing expedition, trotted into the drawing room with her leather ball clamped in her jaws. She dropped it at Darcy’s feet, eyes full of expectation.
He picked up the ball, and Nettle’s tail began a hopeful wag.
“The dog needs exercise,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“You are avoiding my observations.”
He bounced the ball on his knee, earning Nettle’s undivided devotion. “I am certain you are aware that an unmarried man cannot play guardian to an unmarried woman. The scandal would be immediate, and Miss Bennet’s reputation would not survive it. If society saw me as her guardian instead of her trustee, the inference would be?—”
