Fitzwilliam Darcy knew that some people viewed him as a miserable man. He did his best sometimes to give people he barely knew that impression, it saved him the trouble of them coming to that conclusion anyway and gave him the chance to only form attachments to those who he genuinely admired. He looked at himself in the mirror; his face felt a lot thinner than usual, even though he was still filling his breeches. The brown curls on his head, inherited from his mother and which graced all of the Fitzwilliam cousins, were stylishly tousled, and set with the very fragrant Pomade de Graffe, the same scent that had filled his father's dressing room in the days when men wore wigs and face powder. He knew that his grey eyes could be a bit dull, and had always wished for blue or brown eyes, but they were the same colour of the eyes as the ancestors who had peered down on him from the portraits in the Great Hall for all of his life, and so he respected the generations that had brought their granite colouring to his face.

Darcy was tall; taller even than Bingley, who came from generations of working men from Yorkshire, and he was sporting. He knew very well that he was one of society's most eligible bachelor gentlemen, being hunted by packs of eager mothers looking for suitable matches, but none of the girls thrust before him by impatient hands had sparked anything more than a curiosity in him.

Financially, he was very secure, with over ten thousand a year, and a comfortable inheritance; he looked handsome, he thought, all thanks to the work of his valet, Hughes, who had arranged for a new trunk of clothes to be sent from the tailors in London. Here they were, a cacophony of colours – navy blue, moss green, a long overcoat made from a grey linen that made him feel like a spectre, and then the banyan robe in a deep scarlet, edged with a golden thread that reminded him of the long days in the Far East, where the sun scorched his skin and fired his mind.

Darcy knew that he could be hard work, that any woman who took him on would have to be very special indeed. He was argumentative and demanding, never thinking his opinion was wrong because he was rarely told it was. His aristocratic blood meant that his manner could be stately and majestic, but the family situation he found himself in meant that, sometimes, the clouds of sadness settled upon his countenance, and he could not pull himself out of the mire. But Darcy was loyal, he loved hard, he was chivalrous like the knights of old, and he would do anything for those who were his friends. He would make a fine husband; he would be a wonderful father.

Fitzwilliam Darcy never intended to return to Pemberley until he was much older, when he had been married for a few years and with a family who came before the vast Derbyshire estate in his attentions. He has spent his coming of age in quarantine on a ship in Portsmouth harbour after venturing to the edges of the continent, missing the parties and celebrations organised by his proud father; it had been worth the argument and heated discussion that followed. But now, here he was, the person solely responsible for everyone and everything that fell within the boundaries of his lands, because the Darcy estates were not just in Derbyshire. There was the London townhouse, the cottage on the coast in Hampshire, the historic lodge in Lancashire, the farms, the small holdings and then Pemberley itself, with the thousands of people who relied on it. When he thought about all of this, it was enough to give him a headache.

Darcy pointed to the waistcoat with the floral pattern and the tiny gold buttons, because today was a special day. Today was the day when he would ask Jemima Godwin to join with him in matrimony, to become the mistress of Pemberley and, by tonight, he would have a wife… even if just contractually. Hughes added some cologne and brushed down the midnight blue, soft velvet jacket. Fitzwilliam took another look at himself in the mirror. Yes, he would definitely do.

The room at the north of the house was very grand, Jemima found that excepting the poor light, there was little about the Yellow Bedroom suite she could complain about, with its ornate bedframe decorated with ostrich feathers, and the tall windows that gave her the view across the courtyard, there was also a private sitting room. In all honesty, she found it incredibly special. Neither could she complain about the attention she was given by the Darcy servants, including the little housemaid with the sooty nose, or the red-headed footman who stood guard at her door. But all of this was just a means to an end. Fitzwilliam would thank her in a few years time, and he would be a good husband after all of this, when she explained it all and it made sense.

"Thank you, Ellen," she said to the young maid, "that's look beautiful."

Ellen nodded as she pinned the last of the jewelled clips into tiny blond ringlets, they had been a gift from the master – sent from Bath a few days earlier.

"Anything else, miss?"

"Have any letters arrived?"

"No, miss. Were you expecting something? I can ask Mr Staughton?"

"No, there is no need," she said, with a wave of the hand. "You may leave now."

Ellen placed the heavy brush back on the dressing table and did a small curtsey before exiting quietly, she waited until the heavy oak door closed before rising quickly and opening the box next to her bed. There were five letters there. Five letters written out in tight copperplate hand and stamped firmly. George.

Jemima had felt a kinship to George Wickham when she first met him at Felham Manor. He was there as the particular companion of the dowager Lady Wyndham, whilst she was there as the poor relation of one of the minor cousins who happened to be staying in Norfolk. Both were low on the list of priorities in the grand scheme of things, and they had gravitated to each other in the ballrooms and drawing rooms of London throughout the next few months. It had been George who had introduced her to Lord Forrester, the Lady Piedmont, and the higher ranks of society where she had fizzed and bubbled right to the very top. It had been George, of course, who had pushed her towards Louisa Bingley, the tradesman's daughter with pretentions of grandeur, and from there it had been fairly simple. She would never have thought of it herself, clever old George. Using Fitzwilliam Darcy with his romantic ideals of love and mother issues as a foil for her affair with the Prince. She wasn't a fool, she knew that the bloated, priggish Regent would tire of her soon enough, but not before she had gained a title for a cuckolded husband and guaranteed inheritances for the bastard child that was growing in her belly. Jemima Godwin had her good name to protect, and she had no intention of being lauded as the King's whore like Sophia Darcy, whose unfortunate face smiled down at her from the portrait above the fireplace.

And Fitzwilliam had fallen for her hard, just as George had said he would, for all of his morals and dramatics, Mr Darcy was just like any other man with a lust in his breeches and a tendency to always get what he wanted; she had seen it in his countenance and kept one step ahead of him – learning his ticks and foibles from George, reading his book – which was more an essay in schooling full of maps, rather than the adventure novel she had believed. She had laughed and played along with him, teased him, flirted, because Jemima Godwin needed someone to make her respectable, and Fitzwilliam Darcy would be the man to do that. Even after the wedding when he found out the truth, he would still love her and cherish her and hold her above all others, especially when her lover reinstated the Darcy's Dukedom as he said, and they would be as happy as married people of their rank could be. She knew they would.

Georgiana tapped her foot impatiently against the leg of the table, causing Caroline to tell her to stop with a clatter of a coffee cup in a saucer. Miranda was dallying about with hot muffins as Staughton directed the footmen to place the silver dishes of kidneys on the table.

"I just think it is rude," Georgiana said, "to keep one's host waiting for breakfast."

"When I'm married, I shall never come down for breakfast," Miranda mumbled, her mouth full of buttered bread. "I will dine in my rooms and only come down when there is something to do."

"Very wise, Miss Miranda," Caroline said kindly, "Mrs Hurst has already taken to that with ease."

"So, shall I," Beatrice said quietly. "Are we waiting for Miss Godwin?"

"Aye," Georgiana said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She was nervous about the plan that had been concocted in drawing room whispers, and in frustrated murmurs whilst walking around the garden. "What has your father planned for you after the main party travel to Netherfield?"

"We are to return to the Ladies Seminary," Beatrice answered, "in a bid to refine our accomplishments."

"I shall be grateful to go back to Miss Daulby's this next month," Miranda said, "I want to learn the fancy stitching like Miss Caroline does, even though the younger Miss Daulby says I do not have delicate enough fingers for it," she frowned with her podgy fingers in the air, "and what about you, Miss Darcy?"

"I will be staying with my Aunt, Lady de Bourgh, until Christmas and then I will come home to Pemberley to see my brother."

"If his new wife lets you," Beatrice said, with a smirk. "I'd fancy she'll have you sent to some school in Scotland out of the way."

"Any wife of Mr Darcy's couldn't make that decision," Caroline said, her voice quietening as she heard the tell-tale sounds of Miss Godwin's wooden heeled pumps on the oak floors, followed by the entrance of the lady herself. Dressed in a pale yellow muslin, and with her cheeks pinched pink, none of the ladies present could deny her beauty. Not even Miss Bingley, who was desperately searching for a fault.

"Staughton, please can you ask Mr Artaud for some fresh kidneys, those look positively congealed," she said, as she examined the food.

Georgiana noted that Jemima spoke as if she were already the Mistress of Pemberley, but it was her to whom Staughton looked for confirmation of this request, and she gently nodded her consent.

"I do love a Pemberley breakfast. I think it's what comes from being in the countryside, why when I…" Jemima started, and then stopped with a little giggle. "Where are the gentlemen, still abed?"

"Mr Darcy is visiting tenants with Willis, and Charles has gone to see the attorney," Caroline said, "final paperwork to be completed for the house in Hertfordshire."

"Have you ever been to Hertfordshire, Miss Godwin?" Miranda asked quickly, "I have never, but Beatrice went to stay with our cousins there last summer."

"Our aunt had a baby," her sister added.

"I have not been to Hertfordshire, nor do I intend to," Jemima said, before taking a decidedly pointed mouthful of coffee.

"You are welcome to visit us at Netherfield as a guest of my brother," Caroline said.

"I think maybe I will have other plans next season."

"Maybe if your plans change, the invite is always open for you."

"I heard the society is meant to be varied and delightful there," Miranda said, whilst Beatrice rolled her eyes.

"There will be about ten different families, all going to the same places and the same events. Everyone is always in each other's business in the countryside," she said.

Georgiana laughed, "the same can be said of Pemberley, I know the comings and going of half a dozen families on the neighbouring estates, and the Lady Durridge over in Kympton could write a gossip sheet with all she knows."

"I do love a gossip sheet," Miranda trilled, "they are, by far, my favourite part of being in town."

"And what of you, Miss Darcy?" Jemima said, as Staughton returned with the freshly cooked kidneys. "Do you care for town?"

Georgiana hesitated, "I much prefer being at Pemberley, our house in London is very big and very new. It doesn't really feel like home at all."

"I always thought Derbyshire House very grand indeed, but rather lacking somewhat in a woman's touch."

"My mother never really cared for town," Georgiana said softly.

"I am of the opinion that town always provides us with all of the better diversions of society, but then again, you are not out yet, are you?"

Georgiana felt herself flush, her presentation at court had been delayed for obvious reasons, and although Miss Godwin didn't know the details, she definitely knew things were amiss. She caught Caroline's eye.

"Not all young ladies are out early," Caroline said firmly. "In fact, I think the fashion amongst the Ton is to be presented a little later."

Jemima scoffed, "I have never heard of such a tendency. Especially not at St James'."

"Have you been to the Palace?" Miranda exclaimed, her excitement causing coffee to slosh from her cup and onto the table linen.

"Aye, I dine at the Palace frequently. I am a close friend of Lady Piedmont and, yes, she is as beautiful as the newspapers say."

"Oh, I never read those," the younger Hurst said, "but I have heard that she is famed beauty."

"Indeed, she is."

"That must mean that you know the Prince Regent then," Georgiana said pointedly.

Now it was Jemima's turn to flush, "of course, we are acquainted."

"You know the Prince Regent?" Beatrice said, displaying an excitement across her own countenance that was rarely seen.

Jemima faltered a little bit, "I do."

"How pleasant for you," Caroline said. "Although there are a great many ladies who boast the confidence of the Prince Regent that I, for one, would not claim it."

Georgiana bit her tongue, it seemed very obvious now that Jemima had decidedly underestimated Caroline Bingley and what she would do to protect her friend.

"Would you like to take a ride around the park in the phaeton with us later, Miss Godwin?" she said, quite innocently.

"Oh, la," Miranda smiled, "please do! Miss Darcy drives it much faster than she ought, and we have such larks!"

"Alas, I shall have to be excused. Mrs Hurst has already made plans for us in Lambton."

"Lambton?" Beatrice scoffed, "what is there in Lambton?"

"I think Mrs Hurst is of the mind to visit the milliners."

Miranda sighed audibly, she enjoyed the company of Miss Darcy, but a visit anywhere at all with the impossibly well-connected Miss Godwin would be far superior, and something to tell Mary Heston when she arrived back at Miss Daulbys.

"We can visit Lambton tomorrow, if you like, Miranda," Georgiana said, "I will take you to the milliners myself and ask my brother if we may all purchase new bonnets."

Miranda looked at Beatrice, and both girls beamed.

"I would rather like a new bonnet," Beatrice said.

"Me too," Miranda grinned, as both girls rose from the table, and clattered out of the room and into the gardens.

Caroline look over at Georgiana, and something unspoken passed between them.

The first part of the plan was in place.