Matlock House
London
Major General Richard Arthur Fitzwiliam, second son of the Earl of Matlock, war hero of the Peninsula, lay in his over stuffed bed, staring up at a sumptuously thick curtained canopy and wishing fervently that he were dead.
When he closed his eyes, he could briefly pretend it were so before images of his fallen brothers would assail him. The guilt he felt at simply surviving his tour of the peninsula when so many, too many, far better men hadn't was eating away at his sanity and making sleep elusive.
Dead or asleep, he didn't rightly care at the moment, so long as he was no longer conscious.
The sun was casting its first rays across the sky and flickers were entering the slivers of space between his curtains. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed his upper thigh. The bullet that had pierced his leg had gone through his commanding officer first, making it more shrapnel than bullet. The muscles of his leg were mangled but functional.
Small mercies.
He dressed slowly but methodically. He would need to make an appearance at the Defense Ministry before he was to help Darcy survive his first meeting with his… well, with his lady.
Richard smirked. He would need to save that to use it on the dour Duke.
He made his way slowly down the stairs, refusing to limp, or to at least acknowledge that he now had a limp. It was small enough that most wouldn't, and didn't, notice.
It was big enough that Richard despised himself for it.
He reached the breakfast room just as the warming trays had been placed. It was a bit early for such things but he paid no mind. He instead made his way to the sideboard his father had stocked, much to his mother's chagrin, with alcohol for in the case of overindulgence the night before. He poured himself a brandy, probably too full for before he broke his fast but it dulled his senses enough to start the day. He sat down at the table as far from the newspaper as he could. He had no desire to read of the heroics of war.
He, more so than most, knew better.
Lady Matlock came bursting through the doors in a huff, frightening Richard. His hand went to his sword belt unconsciously and he very nearly drew a weapon on his mother. His hands began to shake as he realized what he had almost done.
"Oh, Richard. Do sit down." She sashayed to the warming trays before Richard could offer to make her a plate. "Have you seen your father? Why he must wake the entire house at this ungodly hour for this saffron business is beyond -" She stopped and looked to him and her sudden, rather dramatic, inhalation let him know she had seen his glass. "Richard Arthur Fitzwiliam! Is that brandy?!"
Lord Matlock came strolling in at this moment, holding his head as though it were precious. "Ohhh" he groaned. "I do hope so."
"Not you, Matlock. Richard! Richard is drinking brandy at the breakfast table." Richard felt the indignation in his mother's voice was a little over the top.
"Oh ho, my boy. Best thing for it." His father leaned over to whisper conspiratorially. "I was a trifle disguised myself last night." He straightened and addressed Lady Matlock. "Now, stop bothering the boy. Man's a war hero, he can celebrate all he wants."
Lady Matlock huffed and Lord Matlock poured a matching glass of brandy before clinking glasses with his youngest son and making a triumphant face at his wife.
Major General Richard Arthur Fitzwiliam found himself once again staring at the ceiling, wishing fervently that he were dead.
*****/
A fashionable town home
Near Matlock House
Darcy had come to the decision that the emotion winding its way through his gut was trepidation. He was quite certain he was qualified to identify the feeling as he vaguely remembered experiencing something similar in the summer of '98. He had just taken over the estate fully from his absent father and was an overwhelmed youth trying to fill a man's shoes.
He did not like it then and he most certainly did not appreciate it now.
His well sprung carriage stopped in front of a fashionably situated town home at precisely the appointed hour and he was again grateful for a meeting on neutral ground. The beauty of taking tea at a house rented frequently by visiting diplomats was that, while it might be commented on, it would be a comfortable place to meet a lady and speak with her privately without ruining reputations. He shuddered at the thought.
Grateful but, as he had astutely assessed earlier, still filled with trepidation.
His footman opened the door to the carriage and he descended quickly, attempting to hide his face by awkwardly tilting his head forward so the brim of his beaver skin could shade his countenance. His chin touched his cravat, scrunching, and more than likely entirely ruining, the hard work of his valet.
His subterfuge was for naught, however, as he was immediately assaulted by a deep voice hailing him.
"Your Grace!" The voice, while the deep timbre of a male was pitched higher in clear excitement. "Montagu! Is that you?!"
Darcy lifted his head and groaned inwardly. The Earl of Sumner nearly tripped on his own feet rushing towards him, smiling so wide Darcy could see the blacker teeth in the back.
"Yes, Sumner." He nodded a bow. "How do you do?"
"Capital! Just the man I wanted to see!" The Earl was very nearly bouncing as he bowed, barely executing the movement before losing his already tenuous balance, only to be steadied by his beautiful, and clearly abashed, daughter.
"Your Grace." Lady Agatha greeted him with a deep curtsy, bending at the waist so her cleavage very nearly fell from her dress. As she rose, she graced Darcy with a smoldering look. A look she had mastered well since he had last seen her.
"Lady Agatha" Darcy bowed.
"Your Grace!" The Earl continued enthusiastically "allow me to be the first to tell you of a marvelous opportunity just coming to light." The Earl drew selective vowels out far longer than necessary in what Darcy assumed was a misguided attempt to make his offer seem enticing.
It was an ineffective tactic.
"Thank you, Sumner, I am sure it is an excellent opportunity but I am now late for an appointment. If you will excuse me." Darcy bowed to the two and made a move to leave them before the Earl interrupted his movement.
"Wait!" His screech was bordering on rude and his face paled when Darcy whipped back to him, a thunderous expression hardened on his face. The Earl's throat worked hard to swallow, making his Adam's apple bounce nervously. "I mean, if you please, Your Grace." He bowed and held out a snuff box as though presenting a knight with his sword.
Darcy was now thoroughly confused. "I never touch the stuff." His voice was gruff and he had no intention of hiding his annoyance. "Good day." He left off the bow this time and turned back to the stairs.
"No!" Sumner very nearly shouted his desperate plea. Darcy turned back to him, annoyance turning murderous. "Your Grace!" Sumner laughed a stilted, awkward laugh before his daughter pulled the snuff box from her father's hand. She approached Darcy with a shimmy of her hips.
"Your Grace, what my father means is this is not snuff." She shook the box. "This is a small sample of the saffron" she rolled her R's dramatically and unnecessarily "which will be forthcoming. My father has been able to procure eight bushels by rescuing it from poor Spanish farmers." She sketched a sympathetic face as though she had any idea what the life of a poor Spanish farmer might be like. "Please, take this small sample." Her father made a choking sound next to her but she ignored it in favor of batting her eyelashes.
Darcy could not possibly get away fast enough.
"Thank you." He took the snuff box before she could caress his hand in the exchange. He knew the tricks by now. "Lady Agatha, Lord Sumner" he nodded to both and turned on his heel to walk briskly up the front stoop.
Lady Agatha and Lord Sumner stood at the bottom watching him as he did so, wide, wooden, and very nearly matching smiles plastered to their faces. His knock was answered quickly by an ancient butler and Darcy rushed the man in his desperation.
The butler was 94 if he was a day but took no time in assessing the situation. He glared at the still fawning father and daughter with an unexpected ferocity before shutting the door with more force than necessary.
Darcy immediately liked the butler.
"Good morning, Your Grace." Not a shake to his voice and his bow was exquisite.
Darcy handed him his hat and gloves silently, gratitude surging through him as he made it inside the house without another proposition being made.
He was always hunted. Either marriage or money, someone wanted something from him at all times.
"If you will follow me, your guest is set to arrive presently." Again, his voice was strong and his gate was, though slower than that of a youth, steady as stone.
The butler opened an ornate set of double doors just down the main hallway.
"If you will wait here, Your Grace." He motioned for the Duke to enter the room and Darcy passed him to do so. Before he could fully enter, the butler stopped him, looking him full in the eyes as he did so. "I would protect her with what life I have left, Your Grace." He raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Do not make me do so." The butler's face was placid as Darcy's, showing nothing but a hard, wrinkled exterior. Darcy had no doubt he would follow through with the implied threat.
He nodded to the butler, receiving an answering nod, and accepting his words for what they were. Before moving inside to await a woman who, he now knew, inspired incredible loyalty in those around her.
As though it were possible, he was more confused than ever.
*****/
"Good morning, Mr. Shipley!" Elizabeth greeted the butler with a smile. "I hadn't thought to see you here. Are you well? Did you receive my basket?"
"Miss Bennet." The butler bowed formally and immaculately especially considering his advanced age. "I am as you see. Though, perhaps slightly more of me after I ate your shortbread." He winked at her but his face remained impassive. "Mr. Marley contacted me so I would be here for you. Retirement, I am afraid, does not sit well with me." A ghost of a smile graced his weathered face only to be replaced with a slight wince when she handed him her hat.
No one liked that hat.
She thought it was perhaps the taxidermied pheasant that bothered most. Orange wasn't the greatest color choice, either.
He looked behind Elizabeth's shoulder and his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "I see you have brought in reinforcements, my dear." He bowed low to Jane.
"Indeed. Only the very best." Elizabeth smiled wide. "Mr. Shipley, please meet the real Miss Bennet, my sister."
Jane moved forward hesitantly at first but seemed to remember herself halfway through, executing a perfect curtsy before raising her head and squaring her shoulders.
"It is wonderful to meet you, Mr. Shipley, Lizzie has told me much of you over the years."
"Lizzie, is it?" Mr. Shipley raised a single eyebrow to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth chuckled. "I was young once as well, Mr. Shipley."
"Yes. I had assumed as much." His tone was dry but his mirth apparent. "Thank you, Miss Bennet, I am glad to meet you." He had genuine warmth in his voice. "Now. Ladies, if you will follow me, I will show you to the library. Your guest awaits." He looked knowingly at Elizabeth before turning to lead them through the ornately appointed house.
They passed large, gilt framed paintings of rustic scenery and delicate pottery before Elizabeth looked back to her sister. The anxiety she felt was written plainly over her features. Even if it weren't, her attempted strangulation of her poor handkerchief would have given it away.
"Jane." Elizabeth whispered. "Everything will be fine, I swear it." It was easy to feel brave in the face of a loved one's fear. Elizabeth dearly wished it were she strangling her handkerchief and worrying over this meeting. Lord knows she had done so all night.
Jane stopped her wringing hands and took a deep breath, lifting her chin as she did so. She primly placed her now thoroughly wrinkled handkerchief in her overstuffed reticule and looked up at her sister, very nearly with defiance.
"I know it, Lizzie." She didn't bother to whisper and Elizabeth enjoyed these new shows of boldness from her incessantly tranquil sister. "I am worried for you, it can't be helped." She turned her eyes forward and followed Mr. Shipley with a determined step.
Elizabeth smiled wide. After so long of carrying this burden on her own, having her sister here with her, even strangling a handkerchief, was like a balm to her frayed nerves.
Before she could retort, Mr. Shipley stopped at the library doors.
"Mr. Shipley, I believe I will leave Miss Bennet in the room next to this until I can assess the situation, will that do?"
He nodded his assent and waved them to the room next door.
Jane's face was cool, a blank, angelic expression masking her features. "Lizzie, are you absolutely certain I can not stay with you? I can not imagine the Duke would deny you a chaperone."
"I do not think he will either, Jane." Elizabeth nodded, her exasperation preemptively building. They had already had this argument thrice now. "But, this is a very sensitive subject for His Grace and I have no idea how he would react to bringing yet another person into his confidence." She smiled wryly. "I will have my hands full gaining as much myself." She moved to change the subject, she was firm on her stance to allow the Duke his privacy even if it did make her uncomfortable. "Do you remember what we spoke of last night?"
Jane's newfound confidence collapsed in on itself and she seemed to shrink as her face contorted. "About weaponry?!" she whisper-shouted, blue eyes wide with panic. "Oh, Lizzie, I couldn't - do you really believe it will come to that?"
"Of course not" she said with far more conviction than she felt. "But, it is always good to have in mind." she wagged her finger at her elder sister and smiled. "The best weapon in this room is the fire poker." she nodded her head to the fireplace mantle with the ironware neatly stored in its place. "However" she picked up a large volume of, oddly enough, poetry that had been left on a side table. "Never underestimate the power of a good book."
***** /
Darcy had grown impatient the moment he sat down, long before he heard muffled voices next door. Even sitting in a library, surrounded by the only happiness he had found in his life wasn't enough to keep his mind successfully relaxed. He jumped up and began pacing preparing himself for what was to come.
He was in the uncomfortable position of dreading a necessary task, something he had thought far beneath him. As a Duke, he would dread every task necessary if he allowed himself to feel such things.
The primary issue he struggled with, and the unfortunate meeting on the front stairs brought this point to light, was that he could not fathom the type of woman who would want to work in this way. Either some foolhardy, adventure seeking type in which case they would, under no uncertain terms, never be trusted. Or, perhaps worse, some woman of the ton hoping to corner a rich husband. Just the thought of either of these possibilities set his palms to sweating.
Would either of these types engender such fierce loyalty in a butler? His mind was awhirl with possibilities.
All the possibilities he could imagine involved his, and for some scenarios his entire family's, inevitable doom.
By the time the handle was squeezed lightly to signal the arrival of his guest, Darcy had worked himself into a bit of a frenzy, his breath coming heavy and his broad chest heaving.
He stood in the middle of the room, where he had stopped pacing to watch his doom enter, when the butler announced his visitor.
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Your Grace." The butler bowed and the announced woman entered the room behind him, a full, genuine smile gracing her lips.
His doom was beautiful.
Not just, or not quite, the type of beauty glorified by the fashionable crowd but the type of beauty he couldn't take his eyes from. The type of beauty that demanded he memorize the exact distance between her eyes and the exact slope of her cheek bones so he could bring an exact picture to mind later.
"Your Grace." Her voice was a melodic contralto. She curtsied perfectly and stood straight, her posture graceful but strong, lacking the rigidity of someone forcing a straight backed stance but still tense as though ready to strike if necessary.
She was fascinating in her unexpectedness. Shorter and thinner than was fashionable but perfectly proportional. Her mess of curls precariously fastened to her head seemed, at once, a thing of beauty and a caged animal barely kept in check by its applied barriers. He wondered what it felt like. He quirked his head to the side as he examined her, debating whether her hair felt like silk or cotton softened from a lifetime of washing, entirely caught up in his relieved perusal.
She began taking small steps towards the fireplace, keeping her eyes trained on him but stealing small, longing glances at the fire.
"Are you cold, Madam?" He made a sweeping gesture towards the fireplace.
Her lips quirked into a secret smile, as though she laughed at an inside joke. "No, Your Grace." Her words belied her feelings as she stole another glance at the fire. Darcy followed her eyes and realized with a shock that she was staring at the fire iron.
She was uncomfortable.
He made her uncomfortable. A man of whom nearly every woman in England would have claimed compromise as soon as the butler shut the door.
"Are you uncomfortable, Miss Bennet?" His voice was equal parts solicitous and incredulous.
"Elizabeth. Miss Elizabeth, Your Grace." She corrected distractedly with a small, awkward laugh before looking again at the fire iron.
"Are you planning to bludgeon me, Miss Elizabeth?"
Her brown eyes widened in shock and her lips formed a perfect "o" before she smiled wide and laughed. Her laugh washed over him like a soft blanket and he couldn't hold back the chuckle that escaped his throat.
"Was I so obvious, Your Grace?" her smile turned wry and she shook her head. "The situation is rather uncomfortable but I would never hurt you." She paused briefly and looked up at him, eyes bright with mischief. "But don't tempt me."
He had now been threatened twice in as many hours, a crime given his title, and he didn't seem to mind either.
Something was clearly wrong with him.
"Let us sit." She continued. "I believe Mr. Shipley will have tea sent in shortly. We have much to discuss." She walked towards him to sit on the settee nearby and he fought the urge to touch her as she walked past, knowing full well that would have warranted a bludgeoning.
She slipped past him and sat, on the very edge of the couch, body tensed as though preparing to run at any moment. Her beautiful brown eyes looked around the room awkwardly before he realized he was still standing over her, staring.
He groaned internally.
Anne would have laughed until she couldn't breath if she could see him now.