Page 131 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

"No bloody way," he whispered to the empty room, and closed his eyes as if that might end the matter.

It did not.

Chapter Six: Enemy Territory

Caroline Bingley was contemplating murder.

Not the swift, merciful variety one read about in novels. No. She envisioned a slow death involving a thousand small humiliations, culminating in the target drowning in a vat of his own smugness. The target in question was currently being announced in the hallway below.

"Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam," the butler's voice echoed up the stairs, pronouncing a death sentence.

Caroline gripped the arm of her chair hard enough to leave nail marks in the damask. It had been two days since the opera debacle, and here he was, calling upon her household at eleven o'clock in the morning, a time when any decent gentleman would be sleeping off the previous night's debauchery or terrorising his tailor.

She was not dressed for battle, unfortunately. Had she known of his visit, her armour would be more full assault than strategic retreat. Her morning gown was a sober dove grey merino, cut high at the neck and devoid of ornament save for a thin border of white piping at the cuffs. Her hair was twisted into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. No feathers. No jewels. Nothing that could be mocked or used as ammunition.

The drawing room door opened. The Colonel entered with the casual confidence of a man who owned the world and found it mildly disappointing.

He wore civilian dress today, a coat of dark blue superfine that had seen better days but was cut by a master's hand. His buckskin breeches had an excellent fit, and his Hessians gleamed despite the obvious age of the leather. His cravat was tied in a simple mathematical knot, and a single gold signet ring adorned his left hand. He looked annoyingly well-rested.

Caroline remained seated, still holding her embroidery. To stand would be to grant him importance. To remain seated was to remind him that she was in her own domain.

"Miss Bingley." He executed a bow that managed to be technically perfect whilst radiating insolence. "What a delightful surprise. I half expected to find the house shuttered and the servants fleeing across the rooftops."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam." Her voice was cold enough to preserve a corpse in Mayfair.

"I was not aware we had scheduled an appointment. My calendar shows no such entry."

"I am a spontaneous creature, Miss Bingley. The military teaches one to seize opportunities when they present themselves." He glanced around the drawing room with the critical eye of a surveyor assessing condemned property. "Though I see you have fortified your position admirably."

Caroline followed his gaze. The room was, admittedly, a monument to excess. Every surface gleamed with gilt. The walls were papered in silk damask of an aggressive shade of cream, featuring blue Grecian urns. The furniture was French, Louis XIV, acquired at ruinous expense, and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling contained enough crystal to outfit a minor palace.

"My brother has exquisite taste," she said, lifting her chin.

"Your brother has exquisite coin." The Colonel ran a finger along the back of a chair, examining it as one might a museum specimen.

He moved deeper into the room, conducting reconnaissance. Caroline tracked him with narrowed eyes, watching as he paused in front of an ornate side table crowned with a marble bust of Caesar.

"Tell me, Miss Bingley," he picked up a small porcelain shepherdess, turning it over to examine the mark on the base,"do you ever worry that your possessions will stage a revolt? Rise up against the tyranny of bad taste and demand asylum in a simpler home?"

"I find that inanimate objects rarely harbour revolutionary sentiments, Colonel. Unlike certain members of the military, they know their place."

He returned the shepherdess to its position with exaggerated care. "Touché. Although I suspect this particular shepherdess dreams of escape. She has the look of a prisoner forced to wear stripes."

Caroline's fingers twitched near the bell pull. She could summon the butler, claim sudden illness, have this insufferable man ejected onto the street where he belonged. But that would be retreat, and Caroline Bingley did not retreat. She advanced. Or, when necessary, she held the line until the enemy starved.

"Is there a purpose to this visit, Colonel? Or have you simply come to insult my brother's furnishings? If so, I must inform you that the French gilt is impervious to mockery. We had it specially treated."

He turned from his inspection of an elaborate ormolu clock. "I came to enquire after your family's health. I thought it prudent to ensure no permanent damage had occurred after the theatre incident."

The concern in his voice was as genuine as the shepherdess's smile.

"How extraordinarily thoughtful." Caroline arranged her features into a mask of polite disdain. "I assure you, we are all in excellent health. My sister, Mrs Hurst, is currently indisposed upstairs, suffering from nothing more serious than the natural consequence of matrimony. My brother is still abed, recuperating from the shocking revelation that his brother-in-law is a brute. And Mr Hurst is, I believe, hiding in the wine cellar. Or the grave. I confess I have not checked."

"Matrimony can be fatal," the Colonel agreed solemnly. "I have observed many men succumb to it. The symptoms are well documented, a loss of freedom, a sudden interest in curtains, and an inexplicable compulsion to discuss the weather."

"You have neglected to mention the financial bleeding."

"Ah. The primary symptom. How careless of me."