If I Loved You Less

By DJ Clawson

Last time on our series, an emotional wounded Georgiana Bingley ran from a physically wounded Geoffrey Darcy by spending a year in a womens' school in France. There she learned trust herself, open up to other people, and that if you start killing people, it's going to just pile on itself.

Posting twice weekly. Some chapters may have mature content and will have a ratings notation.

Chapter 7 – Mr. Bingali

Mr. Bingley responded to the doorbell, thinking it might be the post. Instead, the doorman informed him, "Lady Littlefield to see Miss Bingley, sir."

"Of course," he said, and bowed as she entered. "Lady Littlefield."

"Mr. Bingley."

Monkey scampered out of Bingley's office to greet the young lady, who had developed a certain fondness for him. She had learned that he knew how to hold out his hand on command for shaking, and gladly took it. "Hello, Monkey!"

"If he bothers you, let me know. He has been rather fussy today."

"I am sure he will not, Mr. Bingley."

She curtseyed and excused herself to wait for Georgiana, who soon hurried down the steps to greet her friend, briefly curtseying as she passed. "Papa."

Bingley smiled and returned to his study. He was enthusiastic about Georgie's friendship with Lady Littlefield, a slightly younger lady of a respectable family whom his daughter had met at the seminary. She was forever dragging Georgie shopping and to dances, which was something no one else had succeeded in doing. How their friendship was forged, he had no idea, but he was not one to question the ways of women.

He emerged at half past two and briefly paused outside the sitting room.

"The viscount was even there!"

"Who, Lord Brougham's son? The one you have a crush on?"

"Georgie!"

"Well, don't mention him if you do not wish my commentary," Georgie said, and her father smiled.

"Fine. Yes, he was there. Do you know who else?"

"The Duke of Wellington."

"No! Better! That Mr. Dartmouth. The one you danced with – "

"Oh G-d ..."

Bingley could almost hear his daughter blushing.

"He really is a very interesting person, Georgie. His father is a manager in the East India Company. Perhaps Mr. Bingley knows him?"

"I'm not asking."

Feeling a bit guilty for eavesdropping on them, he put on a clueless face and stepped into the room. "Lady Littlefield. Georgie."

"Mr. Bingley."

"Papa."

"I will be at the office until a bit before supper. If I am delayed, please don't wait up, and give my apologies to Eliza."

"All right, Papa."

"And don't feed Monkey." To which Monkey squealed, and Bingley gave him a hard stare. "You don't get an opinion."

"I am tired of walking these filthy streets with you," Quon Jin complained. "You won't even take a rickshaw!"

Liu Xiao was calmly encouraging. "They move too fast. I cannot see anyone from one of their rickshaws. If you don't like it, you can go home and prepare for the reception tonight.

"If I go home, you are sure to get in trouble!"

Liu laughed, and bowed to the passing ladies, who giggled and scampered off. "I have not been in trouble once this trip, no matter how boring it has been."

"You have come close. And now you bring us closer. You want to attract the attention of every monkey in this disgusting city?"

"No. I am only looking for one," he said.

"You are obsessed!" Quon Jin said. "I have half a mind to – "

But Liu put a hand against Quon's chest to stop his movement. "Look," he said gesturing his head in the direction of the river. Across the bridge, a couple was walking together. "The samurai and his wife."

"How do you know they're – Oh." Quon Jin squinted. "They're white. They're playing dress up, like one of the king's parties."

"I don't think so," Liu said. "Look at him. He's not wearing those swords like props, like the generals do." He headed towards the bridge.

"Liu Xiao! Where are you going?"

"To meet them. What do you think?"

"On what pretext?"

"I'll make one up!" he shouted and kept going as Quon ran to catch up with him.

By the time he was on the bridge, the couple had noticed him, and with no apprehension, came to greet him. They were white, and had been speaking some unknown language as they approached, but at least one of them was likely English. The samurai was dressed traditionally, his wife the same, except her hair was covered by a cloth. They were wearing tatami slippers, not geta shoes, he noted as he bowed. "I am Liu Xiao, Ambassador from the Imperial Court and Privy Council of the Forbidden City," he said in Japanese. As Quon caught up, he said, "This is Quon Jin."

"Maddox-san, and my wife, Nadi-sama," the samurai said in perfect Japanese, returning the bow.

"Do you speak pinyin?" Quon said.

"Very little," he answered in Chinese. "My partner, speak more." He switched back to Japanese. "We have a shipping company. We do business in Hong Kong and Nagasaki."

"Silk?"

"And other goods, yes. How do you find London, Ambassadors?"

"Good, but it seems the king has other things on his mind than relations with China."

"The king has very little on his mind," Maddox-san said with a laugh. "We are very interested to hear about your mission, unless it is private."

"It is not," he said, "except for some matters."

"I imagine you have had very few to talk with," the woman named Nadi-sama said. Liu was used to a woman speaking out of turn by now. "Ones who do not make a spectacle of you, that is."

"You are correct," he said, and quickly translated for Quon Jin, who did not speak much Japanese.

"If language is a problem," Maddox-san said, "my partner is more fluent than I am, and he is in the office right now."

"We would not wish to impose."

"Hardly," he said with an Englishman's smile. "He loves to practice his languages. He will be grateful." He turned and said something to his wife that was in their own language, and she returned it, and kissed his cheek before bowing to both ambassadors and leaving. "So, we go?"

The shipping area was not very far from the docks, but the office itself was in a bit better of a neighborhood. By now Liu was familiar with most of London, at least from the streets, but had rarely been inside a building in this neighborhood. The office was unmarked, but there was a little golden Buddha statue in the corner of the window.

"Bingley!" the samurai said as he entered the hallway, where the employees were going to and fro. "Where is Bingley?" he said to the servant at the door in English.

"In his office, sir."

"Give me a moment," the samurai said to them in Japanese, before knocking and entering his partner's office.

Quon sat down on the nearest available stool. "This is a mistake. The wife isn't this fighter."

"No, of course not. She was the wrong size," Liu said, looking at the door that had been closed in front of him. There was a sign on it in Chinese – a death waiver for a fight with a wushu master named Ji Yuan and one Humgao Guizi. Liu laughed. "Do you think he knows what they wrote on this form?" Beneath it was an Englishman's signature. "They called him a demon all right. They even – " But the door opened and he and Quon Jin entered the office.

The man sitting behind the desk rose to greet them. "Charles Bingley," he said with a bright smile - and very red hair, almost orange.

Liu smiled. "I am honored to meet you."

Two hours and a pot of very good tea later, they had secured a friendship with these two businessmen and a dinner invitation for the following night at Bingali's house. Mr. Bingali was very inquisitive, and even more polite and outgoing than his samurai partner. He asked them dozens of questions about the Forbidden City, of which he had heard much, alternately flipping between Chinese, Japanese, and English as he needed to. Of him they learned that he had a small family – one wife, two sons, and two daughters.

Yes, they would come to dinner.

Elsewhere in London, dinner was hastily approaching.

"Careful – careful. You don't want to mix too much in."

"What if I do?" George said nervously, holding the beaker over the glass jar with shaking hands.

"Well, then the house will blow up."

George dropped the beaker, which fortunately did not shatter but rolled along the table before he caught it, and half the contents were spilled out. He was still catching his breath when he heard Dr. Maddox laughing. "Please don't do that, sir."

The doctor smiled from his position in his chair. "You know very well that there is nothing so combustible in this house. Or if there was, I wouldn't have you messing with it with only me watching over you. I do not have a death wish, Mr. Wickham." He was still stifling his chuckling. "Now, if you've done it correctly, you should have something yellow and clear, not cloudy at all, and smells a bit like soap. It's very good for cleaning sores – " A knock on the door interrupted him. "Come."

The servant entered. "Dr. Bertrand to see you, sir."

"I've forgotten the time. Is he early?"

"A bit, sir. Mrs. Bertrand and Mr. Bennet have not yet arrived. He is, however, very eager to see you."

"Send him in then," the doctor said, and Dr. Andrew Bertrand entered. "Dr. Maddox. Mr. Wickham."

"Dr. Bertrand."

"I was giving Mr. Wickham a taste for mixing chemicals on his own, and so far, we have succeeded in not blowing ourselves up. A good start, I believe."

"Yes," Dr. Bertrand said. "How are you, George?"

"Very well, Dr. Bertrand," George said, bowed again, and left them alone. Bertrand shut the door securely behind him before taking a seat on the stool by the table.

"What brings you by, Andrew? I am sure you have better things to do," Dr. Maddox said.

"That does not mean I find them more pleasant," he said. "I am beginning to understand why you retired, Dr. Maddox."

To this, Maddox just chuckled. "Understood. What is it this time? Is His Majesty squabbling with his Prime Minister, Parliament, or his mistress?"

"None, actually. Or, not to the extent that's worth mentioning." He toned his voice down. "What do you know about Sir William Knighton?"

"Is he not His Majesty's new Private Secretary?"

"Not officially, no. They abolished the office to get rid of Bloomington." He sighed. "I know you always told me to steer clear of politics – "

" – And I do stand by that, thank you."

"And I always have, but lately it's gotten rather hard to avoid. His Majesty is not well."

Dr. Maddox cautiously replied, "His Majesty has not been well in many respects for several years."

"I fear his isolation and increasing illness are turning him into a recluse. He listens to everything Sir Knighton says, even if he fusses about it like he does with the Prime Minister. Even Liverpool is concerned. Anyway, the reason I come to you is that he approached me today on my way out and asked me some very leading questions about you."

Now Maddox did not look so jovial. "About me? Why ever would he be concerned about a retired physician? Is he not one himself?"

"He is. He wanted to know the usual things – what your party affiliation was, what your political views are, what meetings you attended – and at first, I said nothing, and when he became more pressing, I asked him if I was being formally questioned. I meant it in jest."

"But you were."

"He said otherwise, but I know what he meant. So I told him that you had no particular political views, had never been to a session of Parliament or a Radical gathering in your life, and could not find the subject more boring." He added, "He also inquired as to your health."

"In the same tone?"

"I hope you understand – I told him of your condition."

He nodded. "Anything else?"

"That was it. I was quite relieved when he was gone, actually."

Dr. Maddox took a moment to digest this new information. "I have no idea what he is up to, if he is up to anything, but I have nothing to hide from the king." Technically, not a lie. "Thank you for telling me."

"I will keep my ears open."

"Your eyes, too, if you have use of them," he said, rising and trying to restore his usual demeanor. "Well, we'd best not keep the ladies waiting. I hear your wife arriving."

"You do? So the adage is true?"

"Of your other senses being heightened? Oh, yes. Quite beneficial. Especially in the bedroom."

"Dr. Maddox!"

"There had to be someone I could brag about it to," he said. "Well, I suppose if you make enough subtle hints, you may be relieved of your post, if it's become dangerous."

"The king has added more doctors to his staff."

"Without your consent?"

"Knighton's doing again. Well, there's him, though he gave up his practice – "

"To gain the ear of a king, many men would."

" – and then there's that Prussian, Mr. Engel. Just a surgeon, I believe."

Dr. Maddox paused, stopping Bertrand's own step with his cane. "A Prussian doctor?"

"No, just a surgeon and apothecary. I've only met him once."

"What does he look like?"

"Short hair – black. Glasses. Other than that, not quite noticeable." He added after a moment of silence, "Dr. Maddox, is something wrong?"

"No, no – there are thousands of Prussian doctors, I imagine – you said he has glasses?"

"Yes. Doctor, you've gone white, do you need – "

"No, no, it's nothing," he said, but rested heavily on his cane. "A Prussian doctor operated on my hand once. Saved my life. I don't know why I'm not more grateful. It was just a bad time in my life. Brings up all sorts of memories."

"I'm sorry. I had no – "

"Forget it. It's nothing." He grabbed Bertrand's arm. "Come along. Don't want to keep the ladies waiting over nothing."

But Dr. Maddox's shaky grip indicated that it wasn't.

Georgiana and Eliza Bingley had no engagements that evening, but Bingley found himself alone while going through some records after penning a letter to Jane. He would be joining her in a week, but it seemed such a long time, especially with her so close, in Derbyshire with her sister. He would not be in London but for business and needing to chaperone his daughters. It was good for them to socialize, but the notion that they might find someone terrified him. All of this he expressed to Jane in written form, including a bit about the ambassadors he had met, and after sealing the letter for the next day's post, sat back in the armchair and stoked the fire.

"Papa?"

He looked up at his daughter, who had a shawl on over her gown. "Yes?"

Eliza Bingley sat down on the settee next to him. "How can you tell when a man likes you?"

"Why?" he asked, to which, she only giggled.

"Georgie said you would get like that if I said that," she said.

"Oh, I see. Baiting your father, are you now? I always wondered what terrible things would happened if the two of you teamed up," he said. "Now, answer my question. Who is this man?"

"There's no man! I mean, there are many men, but none with which I would say are chasing me so affectionately. Though Viscount Brougham did dance two dances with me ... Though it seems he did that with everyone."

"Yes, he seems quite the personality, doesn't he? Has he danced with Georgiana?"

"No. She'll hardly dance with anyone. The last person I saw her with was – Mr. Dartmouth."

"Mr. Dartmouth. And who is Mr. Dartmouth?"

"The son of a tradesman, has about sixty thousand pounds, a Cambridge man, and has just returned from two years abroad, including some travels in the east."

"You know quite a bit about this Mr. Dartmouth." He knew the youngest daughter was a bit of a flirt, but he was not quite sure where this was heading or whether he liked it.

"I know what everyone knows, Papa. You try to make something out of nothing."

"You're my daughter and I'll be as protective as I please. So, Georgiana has danced with this Mr. Dartmouth."

"She does occasionally indulge the men who request a dance."

Monkey climbed up on to the arm of the chair, and rested on his arm as he stroked him. "So why all of this questioning? On behalf of your sister?"

"If I can figure one of them out – I could never figure her out."

" Elizabeth! That's not polite."

"I know, Papa, but it's true."

He sighed. "I suppose it is. So, you want to know how a man shows his affection."

"Yes."

"Well, the proposal of marriage is usually a fairly clear hint."

"Papa."

"Or he could dance two sets in a row. Preferably the first two sets. Perhaps he will spend the whole time staring at you while you happen to dance with other men, knowing he can't dance a third with you and still be considered a gentleman because of someone's stupid rules, but secretly hating all of the other men who dare to dance with you. And then he'll beg his sisters to call on her no matter how much they do not desire to do so, or hold a ball just to have her over to his house – " He smiled. "There are many things. Or he could skulk in the corner, insult everyone he meets, and then corner one of them and propose marriage."

"You mean George?"

He laughed. "I mean your Uncle Darcy. Though if George has made any marriage proposals, I would be interested to hear such."

She blushed. "I don't want to know how Uncle Darcy courted women."

"There was only one woman, and he is married to her. As for the other man, the one who dances two dances and then watches his beloved dance with other men with displeasure, who do you think that was?"

"...Uncle Maddox?"

"Now you are just avoiding it. You know he has no sisters."

She attempted to bury herself in her shawl. "No! I cannot think of it!"

"And I cannot imagine my father courting my mother. But, there you have it. We were all young once. And foolish." He scratched Monkey, who gave a little whine and turned around. "But somehow, it all came together. And as for the rest of the tale, you are not old enough for that."

"Oh heavens, Papa! Don't!"

The sounds of her frightened laughter drowned out any loneliness he had been feeling before.

...Next Chapter – The Dashing Dartmouth