A/N: We begin our second arc.
Pride, Prejudice, and Pretense
Chapter Four: Sincerity
The three of them had rooms under aliases at a motel not far from the airport.
It wasn't seedy but the chances of crossing paths with anyone in Lady Catherine's set there approached zero. Rooms had been reserved ahead of time and the desk clerk told Darcy, who checked them in using a flawless midwestern American accent, that the packages had arrived and been placed in 305.
After Darcy got the key cards from the clerk, he turned and stepped away from the desk. He handed one card to Lizzy and one to Bingley.
When the clerk began to help the next customer, Darcy spoke softly, his native accent returning.
"I set things up here in Chicago before we left DC. You'll see that your alias for the hotel is on the key card envelope. We'll use those names only here. Our rooms are separate, non-adjoining, but we are in 301, 303, and 305."
He looked at Lizzy. "You'll find packages in your room — clothes for Fanny, including a couple of formal options for the Rosings party. Let me know if the items chosen will do. I had them sent here so we'd have time to replace them if necessary. I'll give you some time to look them over, try them on, and then we can meet to discuss Fanny and Ned, work out details of his and her, our, backstory."
He quickly looked at Bingley. "We've got some prep work to do, some tech equipment to discuss." Bingley nodded. "And then you'll have to head downtown." Another nod.
He shifted his gaze to include Lizzy again. "Tomorrow morning we'll move to Fanny's apartment in town — that's still being staged or we'd be there now. You'll be staying there, of course," he said to Lizzy, "and Bingley and I will be in the apartment directly across the street."
They got on the elevator and went up to the third floor. Darcy stopped at 301, Bingley at 303 and Lizzy at 305.
As Lizzy opened her door, she looked back down the hallway. Bingley was in his room already, but Darcy was standing at his, keycard poised but unused, watching her, studying her.
He looked away when she saw him and opened his door, stepped inside.
Lizzy was shocked when she entered her room.
She shouldered off her backpack and placed her purse on the floor.
The bed was piled with shopping bags from a variety of high-end shops. The closet was open and two black hanging garment bags, marked 'Versace' in red, were visible.
Taking a deep breath, Lizzy began to take things from the packages on the bed, examining them, one after another. The first thing she noticed was that everything seemed to be the right size, even the bag containing various items of underwear. But the second thing she noticed was the faultless taste on display in the collection, the judgment. Each item was well-made, from the sweaters to the shirts to the pants to the skirts. The colors and shades of colors, lots of reds, some bright, some muted, blacks, a few pastels — It all seemed to match, in some general, difficult-to-articulate way.
She took off her clothes and tried all the clothes on. Everything fit, everything looked better on her than it did in the bag. She wasn't sure she could have chosen as well for herself. Clothes mattered to her — but not enough to court decision fatigue or to spend much time in shopping for them.
The trying-on took a while, and Lizzy did it slowly, enjoyed it. In the past, the clothes supplied her for CIA missions, while typically nice enough and mission-appropriate (she chuckled slightly bitterly at the phrase) were also always cookie-cutter — they fit but did not fit her.
Of course, that was often an advantage, because, when undercover, it helped her keep a firmer line between herself and her pretense, herself and who she was pretending to be. But these clothes would blur the line; she'd have liked to own them all. She felt like herself in them, an even better version of herself. More attractive, more put together.
After re-folding the items she tried on, returning them to their bags, she walked to the closet in her bra and panties and took out one of the Versace bags. She cleared a spot on the bed, put it down and unzipped it.
It was a fuschia, a sheath mini dress, the color soft but insistent. The fabric was patterned, small diagonal stripes inside longer vertical stripes, but the pattern was background to the color. It had shoulder straps, decorated with small, ornate, gold inserts, connecting top of the straps to the bottoms. She lifted it out of the garment bag and held it up. The color certainly rhymed with her new blonde hair. She carefully slipped it over her head and took a step toward the mirror to get a better look when she heard a soft knock at the door. She changed direction and went to the door, looking through the peephole.
Darcy.
She had lost track of time. Brushing her hair down with her hand, she opened the door.
Darcy looked up then stood there.
Since she was not wearing a strapless bra, she knew her white bra straps showed beneath the fuschia straps of the dress, marring its effect. She suddenly felt her bare feet. And the distance that separated her from her last pedicure.
In the low-wattage light of the hallway, and beneath his blue stubble, Darcy seemed somehow to reflect the color of Lizzy's dress. But then he cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt; I had thought you'd be finished by now." He waved a set of files clutched in his hand.
His comment seemed a correction, as if Lizzy had done something wrong.
Annoyed, she stepped back. "I was just finishing up. It takes time to try all these things on."
Darcy walked past her. She shut the door. He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking at the garment bag still handing in the closet. "You haven't tried on the black one?"
Lizzy's annoyance caused her to sail past him and snatch the other bag. "Hold on, I'll do it now," she huffed.
She carried the garment bag into the bathroom and closed the door, growling to herself.
She unzipped the bag and took out the dress, the black dress, out of it. It was another mini dress, but tweed, with an inlaid, slightly floral pattern, the inlaid pattern translucent. The back of the dress was dark, fine mesh but quite transparent, dipping in a shallow 'V'. The shoulder straps were of the same design as the fuschia dress, with the golden inserts. The bottom of the skirt had a horizontal brocade stripe of small spikes, silver and gold. Far from making the dress busy, however, the metallic accents seemed to make it blacker, sexier.
She took off the fuschia dress and put it in the garment bag, then donned the black one.
Again, she brushed her hair, then, without any conscious deliberation, she pushed the dress' straps down her arms and undid her bra, taking it off and then pulling the straps back up. She touched her hair again and left the bathroom.
Darcy was standing where she had left him but facing the bathroom door. When she came through it, he stiffened, but a slow smile grew on his face. It spiked her annoyance because she agreed with him. Lovely as the fuschia dress was, the black one was the one.
He held up his hand, index finger down, circling, motioning for her to turn. She did, taking her time. Her back to him, she thought she heard an intake of breath but by the time she was face-to-face with him again, she realized it must have been a mistake.
He looked almost as impassive as he had when she first met him, but the impassivity now seemed an achievement.
"That's the dress," he said with a closed matter-of-factness. "That dress and that hair and — " his stopped speaking although his eyes rapidly descended then ascended, " — well, that's the dress."
Even though he spoke monotonically, Lizzy felt an implied, reluctant compliment and her ire receded. "Thanks, all the clothes are great. Who chose them?"
He looked at her for a moment, blank, then mumbled, "CIA somebody. I don't remember her name."
Lizzy headed back to the bathroom, after picking up her clothes, the ones she had worn into the room. "Give me a second, and we can get started."
As she walked away, she had the strongest conviction of his eyes on her, down from her blonde hair, down her back and backside, down her legs, of his eyes exploring her, north to south.
The conviction gave her prompt goosebumps. She closed the door. The goosebumps vanished as she took off the dress and returned it to the bag.
Dressed, she came back into the room, dressed, but still barefoot. She'd have to live with her embarrassingly ancient pedicure.
Darcy was seated in the room's lone armchair, a file open. Lizzy walked to the end of the bed and sat there, facing him.
"Would you be more comfortable in the chair?" he asked, closing the top file and lifting himself from the chair.
She waved him back down. "No, this is fine. What do you have there?" she asked, gesturing to the files.
"Some notes, thoughts." He shuffled the files like a short deck of large cards. He handed her the new top one. "This is a reproduction of the MI-6 file on Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Since we've looked at Wickham's file, and since it will be her party we attend, I thought we should start with her."
Lizzy nodded and opened the file. Like Wickham's, on the top of the papers was a photograph, but unlike the photograph of Wickham, this was a headshot, not a surveillance but a professional photograph.
Lizzy was unsurprised but irked to find that Lady Catherine was blonde, her hair stacked on her head.
She was a woman of unrecognizable age but recognizable plastic surgery. Her features showed a tightness that had nothing to do with her expression. Any expression. Her smile in the photograph was at odds with her eyes and her brow, as if they were fighting against it. She was still an attractive woman but she had obviously once been beautiful.
She had narrow, neon white teeth, and wore deep red lipstick. Her eyes were gas-flame blue. The bottom of the photograph showed pearl necklace, the pearls duller than Lady Catherine's teeth. Despite her lipstick, her wide smile, and intense eyes, a coldness seemed to hover around the photograph.
Lizzy looked up. "She looks like a problem. Is she with Wickham?"
Darcy shrugged. "It depends on how you mean the preposition. There's no doubt they've slept together. Likely they still are. But I doubt either of them expects…fidelity. I'm almost sure that they expect, prefer infidelity. Each is more devoted to his or her pleasure than to the other, to any other. But that doesn't mean that Lady Catherine's incapable of possessiveness or jealousy, particularly of a younger woman. So, you will have to manage her as well as Wickham."
"And how do I do that?"
Lizzy asked as she rifled through the other papers in the file, mostly a history of Lady Catherine's recent travels as well as a copy of her financial records. Lizzy looked over the latter twice, then whistled low.
"She's crazy rich."
Darcy nodded, frowning, responding to the comment not the question. "That piece of paper, more than the photograph, explains Wickham's attraction, I think."
Lizzy put the file on the bed beside her. "So, I'll look at that more later. Is there anything else about her I need to know?"
"Well, to go back to your question, you manage her by making her believe you believe you're no competition. Make her accept that, from your point of view, for Wickham to have anything to do with you while Lady Catherine is available, is a deep puzzle."
Lizzy stared at Darcy. "So basically, I convince her that from my point of view, if Wickham wants me, it would be out of…pity? A handout for the poor librarian?"
"Yes, although the trick is not making Wickham think that. His motivations will require different beliefs about him and you."
"But that means I'll need to have time with each of them but without the other."
"True, pleased you understand what I mean. These cover plots become knotty fast."
She smiled tightly but with no humor. "So, you'll help me separate them tomorrow night, if need be?"
"Yes, I admit that small talk is not my strength, not in propria persona, but I can manage it while undercover. Most small talk is insincere, but since all cover talk is, I can manage the insincerity better."
Lizzy listened with some surprise. Darcy hadn't seemed a man to reveal weakness or lack of skill. "I'm not sure I quite understand what you mean by 'sincerity,'" Lizzy commented.
Darcy seemed surprised. "I was thinking of the term in its literary sense, say, as poets have often used it. The sensitive adjustment of what is said at once to the speaker's internal demands and the demands of external reality."
Lizzy looked up and just sat there.
It took her a moment. "I thought I was the literature major."
Darcy raised one eyebrow slightly. "Cambridge, philosophy."
"Oh," Lizzy offered meagerly, unable to supply anything more in the moment. That explains 'propria persona'.
"So," Darcy offered, shifting tone, "let's talk about me, or rather about Ned Moreland, Fanny's boyfriend."
Lizzy nodded. "What have you come up with?"
Darcy blew out a breath. "It probably works best if Ned is from out-of-town, if the relationship, our relationship, you know, is long distance. That'll make it easier for me, for Ned, to be absent, for you to be alone, giving Wickham access," Darcy almost spat the last word as he frowned through it, "without having to worry much about Ned showing up. At the same time, we need to play up our involvement, our feelings. I now believe you can capture Wickham's attention, but, twisted as this sounds, the sweetener for him will be his confidence he is corrupting you, despoiling you and what we have. What Fanny and Ned have."
"Okay," Lizzy said slowly, almost isolating the first syllable from the second, "but that means we have to pull off a balancing act in two directions, balancing Wickham and Lady Catherine, and balancing our own, Ned and Fanny's, relationship."
Darcy stood and started pacing, stationing the files on the small table by the armchair. "Right, but the latter is most important. The first only matters if you do succeed in capturing Wickham's attention, in arousing his interest."
"I'll do my best."
Darcy stopped pacing and his eyes met hers. His frown had deepened yet more. His nod was fierce. "Good, but keep this in mind. Wickham is a dangerous man. A cold-blooded, bare-handed killer. He has left a broken glass menagerie of shattered women behind him. Hurting them, breaking them, is his truest, deepest source of pleasure. You mustn't ever be truly alone with him. Bingley or I, one of us or both, must be on comms and be near, close enough to intervene in time, as backup. This is non-negotiable." He made a gesture with his hand, holding it out, splaying his fingers, emphatic.
Lizzy recoiled in pique. "Look, Darcy, I can handle myself. Kellynch wasn't exaggerating. He suggested me for good reasons."
Darcy's frown became a tight smile without changing its dark, expressive character.
"I know. I've crisscrossed your file, carefully. I'm not insulting you or your considerable abilities; I'm simply underlining Wickham's serious danger, his perverseness. I'm not underestimating you, I want to keep you from underestimating him."
"Noted. Noted. So tell me more about Ned." She smiled slowly but without effecting a change in Darcy's countenance. His eyes smoldered for a moment but finally the darkness dispelled.
"Ned. Well, the CIA analysts are filling out the online backstory and it should be in place by now, or soon. Ned's an editor for a New York publishing house, St. Martin's Press. Yours — ours — is a bookish romance. We met at a literary conference in New York, six months ago. Things moved fast in New York that week. We were a couple within a few days, committed to trying the long-distance thing even after so brief a time together. It's going okay, the long-distance thing, although we both hate it, and Ned is currently trying to move to a publisher's office in Chicago. How's that sound?"
Lizzy pondered it for a moment, turning it over in her mind like a three-dimensional shape, looking for obvious holes, liabilities. "It seems like it sets the scene well, given what you know about Wickham, what interests him. What are we angling for tomorrow, exactly?"
"Interest from him in you, although we don't have to have it expressed and you should be careful not to push for it. Remember, he's supposed to be your corruptor; the initiative needs to be his. Trust your instincts. You'll know if he interested enough to pursue you. That's the goal."
"And you'll take my word for that?" She knew her tone was doubtful.
Darcy did not react to her tone. "Kellynch said you were the one for the job. And here you are." He paused, meeting her eyes. "One word from you will decide it."
Lizzy accepted that, although she wondered if it would be true when the time came. "So, let's talk more about how we met," she said. "We need a meet-cute story. Almost all couples have one."
"I suppose it makes the most sense for it involve books. Why don't we claim we met at a used bookstore in the city, both of us searching for a copy of the same book."
"That sounds good. Very rom-com. But what's the book? Is there any book that Wickham likes?"
"Marquis de Sade," Darcy whispered grimly, his mood darkening again. But then he exerted himself and shook his head, managing a wavering smile. "Sorry, that's not productive. No, I don't believe Wickham's a reader. We can't gain any traction on him that way, not even a little."
"Alright, so what book would bring Fanny and Ned together in New York City?"
Darcy sat back down, his eyes focused in the distance, thinking. "Nothing too rare or too expensive, we'd have to explain that."
Lizzy leaned forward. "Speaking of expensive, what about these clothes, especially that black Versace mini? That costs more than I can afford, and I'm no librarian."
"Oh, sorry, I forgot." He shuffled the files again and handed one to her, embarrassed. "More backstory. Fanny is from a wealthy family, although she's determined to make it on her own. Her family's not crazy rich, wasn't that your term?" he asked Lizzy, "But she has a trust fund, money, quite a lot, that will be hers when she marries. And until that happens, her parents are paying for her apartment, to make sure she lives in a safe neighborhood."
"That's sounds a little Regency England," Lizzy said, taking the file.
Darcy smirked. "Yes, but it's another way of interesting Wickham. Just in case your…charms prove not to reel him in fast enough. There's information in the file about fake bank accounts the CIA had created. And Kellynch has provided us a generous bankroll of real cash, should we need it. Anyway, there's more backstory on Fanny in the file, along with the financials. College, high school, hometown. The standard litany."
She put that file down on the bed too. "Okay, so I'm a dating librarian who's a covert and reluctant heiress, but who is unknowingly ripe for temptation by the wrong sort of handsome devil?"
Darcy's eyes flashed and his lips compressed. "Yes, that's the one-line synopsis," he said tightly, with a certain finality.
They sat for a moment in silence.
"So, what's the book? Fanny and Ned's shared lodestone?" Lizzy asked.
Darcy, who had dropped his head, lifted it with a quick grin, an idea. "An old edition of Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters."
Lizzy knew the book. She had read it in a class at Haverford and liked it, although she hadn't thought about it in years. She hadn't thought about any book in years. Not really.
"Gaskell? Maybe Fanny's hunting for that, but Ned? Won't it make him seem, I don't know, a little…soft?"
Darcy smiled with some humor this time, though the smile remained grim on its outer edges. "All the better — especially if Wickham believes that or picks up on it. It will make him more sure of himself. More sure Fanny's ready for a real man."
They talked for a while longer, going over many more details, their talk not moving in a straight line but zigzagging over various relevant topics in the backstories. They spent some time imagining the whirlwind romance of Fanny and Ned in the city, deciding the general contours of their relationship, its typical dynamic. The details of the dynamic they decided to play by ear, they were both experienced agents, and it would be best if their interactions were guided in part by Wickham's real-time reactions. Overprepping for the moment often resulted in missing the moment when it came.
They had ordered in pizza and ate it as they talked. Darcy ferried three slices to Bingley's room before he and Lizzy ate theirs. Bingley had just returned from overseeing the set-up of Lizzy's apartment was right, that the bugs, audio and visual, were planted in the appropriate spots, and that the signals were working, that everything could be heard and seen in the apartment across the street.
When Darcy finally left, Lizzy closed the door and sighed.
She still wasn't sure what to make of the man.
He was hard to read, at times inscrutable, even for her, with her long-practiced skills of observation. At least he now seemed to believe she could do the job, or, if not quite that, he was at least willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. That was, for now, enough. But what troubled Lizzy the most was Darcy in relation to Wickham. Darcy's dislike of Wickham felt personal. Perhaps she was wrong. She knew how it could go: trail and surveil a mark for long enough, witness enough of what they are willing to do, and it's possible to come to hate the mark with a real hatred, motivating and strong.
But there seemed to be an anger in Darcy's hatred of Wickham that disturbed her.
In the bathroom, she got a drink of water and smirked at her blonde hair, then took the black dress off the hook and replaced it in the garment bag.
She walked back to the bed and picked up the files he had left with her, deciding to study them for a few more minutes before she prepared for bed.
The next morning, they took separate taxis to the apartments. Lizzy and Darcy went in one, all her packages with them. Bingley went in the other.
Darcy seemed less grim, but he had also shaved, and that might have accounted for the change. He was pleasant company on the ride, chatty. When they reached her apartment building, Darcy managed to carry most of the packages. Lizzy only carried the two garment bags. They went inside, past the security guard at a small desk who spoke to her as if he knew her, calling her Miss Prince, and they boarded the elevator. Her apartment was on the tenth floor, 1019.
Bingley had given her the keys, so Lizzy unlocked the door and held it for the encumbered Darcy. The apartment was nice — not grand but certainly beyond what any librarian could afford. She followed Darcy through the foyer into the living room. It was large, the furniture comfortable-looking and colorful. To one side of the living room, divided from it by a long marble counter, stools on this side, was a kitchen, gleaming stainless steel. To the other side was one door, open, to the bedroom, and another, closed, which Darcy said was the bathroom.
The view from the large living room window was impressive. Lizzy walked to it and stood looking out while Darcy put the packages on the bed. He joined her in a moment. "What do you think?"
"Fanny thanks her mom and dad; it's very nice."
Darcy pointed to the building across the street, to mirroring room on its tenth floor. "That's where Bingley and I will be."
As if on cue, Bingley stepped in front of the mirroring window and saluted them. Darcy shook his head but saluted back. "Lovesick fool."
Lizzy snapped her head toward Darcy. "Lovesick?" That's news.
Darcy nodded, disapproval in his posture. "He's fallen for a woman in DC but they're trying to keep it secret for some reason. He hasn't told me anything about it, I've just figured it out. He was on the phone with her when I took him the pizza last night, though he hung up before I came in."
"Listening at the door?"
Darcy shrugged. "Spy. Habit. And I wasn't trying to listen, Bingley was talking excitedly."
And you couldn't be mistaken about him?"
"Couldn't be? Yes, I could be. It's logically possible. But I'm not. You have to grant that for a spy, Bingley's remarkably open-natured. He might as well have newsprint on his face. And he and I go back a long time. I see the boy in the man."
Lizzy turned away, chuckling, both from surprise at this news and from pleasure for Bingley. She waved at Bingley. Lizzy liked him and hoped he was happy.
Bingley left the window and Lizzy turned and breathed in the new apartment. "The decor is nice. I like the solid colors."
Darcy nodded. "Good. The fridge is stocked, as is the pantry. Some outerwear is in the foyer closet. Oh, and there's jewelry in a box on the bedroom dresser. Quite a few pairs of shoes are in the bedroom closet."
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, silent for a moment. "I guess I should go. I'll be back at 7 pm so that Ned and Fanny can go to Rosings."
"Okay," Lizzy said, feeling a little of the uncertainty he seemed to feel, although she could not have said what the uncertainty was uncertainty about. It just seemed free-floating.
Darcy turned and walked to the door. Lizzy followed and locked the door behind him once he left the apartment.
She turned and walked through the apartment slowly, opening all the doors that were closed, peaking into closets and the bathroom (surprisingly large, with a spacious shower), the pantry, the kitchen cabinets, making sure she knew what was what. It was a nice apartment, nicer than the one she lived in herself, back in DC. She had a piece of paper that Bingley gave her that morning, currently tucked into her purse, that mapped the locations of all the bugs in the apartment, but she remembered them. She checked them — all were carefully hidden. Across the street, Bingley and Darcy would be able to see and hear what was happening in any room of the apartment. But, of course, the bugs would be on only by plan, only when she knew. Right now, neither was listening or looking.
She went back to the bedroom and put the clothes away, hung up her dresses. She opened the jewelry box on the dresser and considered the pieces, choosing a simple gold chain with a heart pendent and a gold watch to wear with her black dress. From the closet, she chose a pair of black heels and put them beside the bed.
After that, she took the files from her purse, carried them to the marble counter and sat down, kicking off her shoes. Like an actor, deep cover had made her good at memorization; unlike an actor, for her failing to remember could have fatal consequences. Hers was not a forgiving business of multiple takes. It had to be right the first and only time.
She went back to memorizing Fanny's life — and her love life with Ned. Later, she'd go someplace nearby for that pedicure.
Lizzy was in the black dress and heels, jewelry on, when she opened the door to Darcy.
He was in a black tux.
As he gazed at her, she gazed at him. She was struck afresh by his size, the width of his shoulders, his wavy hair.
"Good evening, Ned."
He blinked several times before he answered, leaning toward her slightly.
"Good evening, Fanny. You look wonderful."
She nodded her thanks.
"Let's hope Wickham thinks so," she said softly, "since it's all for him."
Darcy straightened. "Yes, well, let's go. I have a car downstairs."
Rosings was massive, hulking. It looked more like an English country estate with vast grounds than a house near Chicago. It was lit brightly, festively, but it still had a brooding air, Lizzy thought. But maybe it's the dark.
A long line of cars was moving slowly along the half-circle driveway, each depositing passengers at the front of the house. When their car reached the front, Lizzy got out first, helped by a man in a white coat stationed there for that purpose. Darcy got out after her. Music wafted out of the house.
Steps led up to the large doors. Another man in a white coat stood by them.
Darcy took Lizzy's hand. Though she would have predicted the gesture if anyone had asked her, if she had asked herself, she did not anticipate it, and it surprised her. She looked down at their hands for a moment before she answered Darcy's gentle tug and followed him.
The white-coated man at the top of the stairs opened the door and they went inside.
The music was louder, the lights brighter. A man in a black coat, a butler, came to them and took their coats, handing Darcy a fancy claim ticket.
Darcy leaned to her and whispered in her ear. "Always feel naked at these without a gun."
His whisper raised goosebumps. He was good at that. She nodded. "You said no weapons."
He nodded. "I know, and I was right, but still. This will be the first time I am face-to-face with that man."
Looking up, Lizzy saw a woman moving toward them. It was unmistakably Lady Catherine. She looked much as she had in the photograph Darcy showed her, except that she was now visible from the neck down. She had an outrageous figure, insisted on by her tight silver gown.
Voluptuous.
The word forced itself into Lizzy's mind, and she swiftly felt much as she had in as a kid, around other girls, early bloomers, whose bodies made hers seem a boy's by comparison.
Lady Catherine was alone. Lizzy scanned the room and did not see Wickham, at least not that she could tell.
Darcy had given the butler the invitation. Lady Catherine was not approaching them, however. She stopped to speak to another couple, but Lizzy saw her notice Darcy, and take a second look at him a moment later.
Darcy took Lizzy's hand again and they entered the party, immersing themselves in the light and music.