“That depends on how badly you want new gowns or music sheets—or food,” he growled with mock severity. “Perhaps I was hasty in my assurances. Let us save the worst of my youthful mishaps for after Miss Elizabeth has married me. You do want to have a sister, do you not? Ah, Mr. Travers. Perfect timing. You have saved me from further rehashing past follies.”
“I do my best, Mr. Darcy. How else may I be of service?”
“Please pass the message to have my carriage readied in one hour. I have an appointment with my tailor.”
The butler gave his assurances and then briskly departed the room.
“Will you be gone all day?”
Darcy turned back to his sister, torn between amusement and sympathy by the strain in her voice and creased brows. Pretending he misunderstood the concern behind her question, he answered, “I will be away all morning. Beyond that I am unsure. No need to fret, Georgie. I promise not to interrupt your afternoon engagement.”
“I was rather hoping you would join us,” she mumbled, staring at her slippered toes.
“You do not need me for moral support, nor, to be frank, would I particularly enjoy sipping tea while three ladies gossip and share fashion advice.” Darcy patted her cheek and switched to a tone of authority, as he knew she needed in times such as this. “You are Miss Georgiana Darcy of Pemberley, the daughter of Lady Anne Darcy and niece of the Countess of Matlock, and as such will perform brilliantly. Never forget who you are. Perfection as a hostess is in your blood, my dear.”
Pleased at the confidence straightening her spine and lifting her chin, Darcy continued in the same Master of Pemberley pose. “I took the liberty of requesting orange pudding and sugar cakes be added to the menu since Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet expressed particular delight in each. I have also instructed Mrs. Smyth to use the Compagnie des Indes tea set”—Darcy ignored Georgiana’s gasp—“and the Würth cutlery.”
“Oh, William! Are you sure? I know Miss Elizabeth deserves the best, but what if—”
“Indeed, Elizabeth deserves the best and always shall have it. That, however, is not why I specified the two.” Clasping both her hands between his, Darcy bent until at her eye level. “They were Mother’s favorites when entertaining, so fitting for today. Most importantly, I knew you would be nervous and this, more than my words, proves my trust in your capabilities. Be placated, dearest.”
He kissed her forehead and then straightened. “Now, I have a bit of work to attend to before my appointment. Have an enjoyable day with my beautiful future wife and her sister.”
Confident that Georgiana would overcome her nervousness, especially once in the presence of the always-effervescent Elizabeth and soothing Jane, Darcy exited the room, once again whistling.
* * *
Like all gentlemen of wealth and station in society, Darcy had his garments created by the best tailors, hatters, and boot makers in the business. Even with the plethora of possible choices in London, certain craftsman gained preeminence, with competition to be on their client list quite stiff. Fortunately, Darcy had access to three of the top tailors in London, thus having a choice when it came to selecting who would sew his wedding ensemble. Nevertheless, he hadn’t needed to contemplate the matter.
Jonathan Meyer, the renowned Austrian tailor who serviced Beau Brummell and the Prince Regent upon occasion, was famous for his impeccable workmanship and unique designs. For an event as important as his wedding, Darcy insisted on something special, and there was no doubt that Mr. Meyer would deliver.
Standing before the tall mirrors lining one corner of the secluded fitting room suites at Thirty-Six Conduit Street on the northern end of Savile Row, Darcy examined the black woolen broadcloth trousers and jacket sewn precisely to his measurements. Not a flaw was found to any seam or hem, not that he expected any. Whether sewn by his hand or by one of his skilled assistants, nothing passed beyond the front doors of Jonathan Meyer’s shop without his final inspection.
A young apprentice tailor materialized to Darcy’s left, the final garment necessary to complete the suit hanging from his outstretched arm for full display. “Here is the waistcoat, Mr. Darcy. The embroidery is complete as per the agreed upon design. With your approval, and Mr. Meyer’s,”—he bobbed his head toward the tailor quietly standing nearby—“we can sew the lining.”
Darcy slipped the jacket off and into the waiting hands of a second attendant, his expression neutral as the unlined waistcoat was gingerly pulled over his shoulders to test for fit. A full minute passed with Darcy calmly turning side to side as he lightly ran his fingertips over the creamy ivory satin with polychrome silk floss delicately patterned into a scrolling floral motif along the edges up to and including the high collar. The cloth-covered buttons were also embroidered and positioned to blend perfectly into the design. While not as ornate as the handful of waistcoats he owned to be worn exclusively for official Court events, this one came close. Unlike those gaudy, old-fashioned suits that Darcy abhorred wearing, this modern-cut ensemble with the contrast of ivory and splashes of color against the midnight black was visually stunning.
Glancing toward the tailor, Darcy wasn’t surprised to see his triumphant expression. Mr. Meyer was familiar enough with his client to detect Darcy’s delighted approval with the waistcoat, despite the practiced noncommittal cast to his face. Mr. Meyer’s smile of satisfaction, Darcy knew full well, was in part the result of another superbly crafted garment, but primarily about proving his stubborn client wrong.
Meyer’s insistence that a fancier style was essential for his wedding had taken some convincing. Even after seeing the sketches, Darcy hadn’t been one-hundred percent sure he would like something so different from the simple prints he preferred. His trust in Mr. Meyer’s skill and experience in such matters had paid off to be sure. Somehow he knew that Elizabeth—who had never said a word about his wardrobe—would be delighted.
Approval rendered without hesitation, Mr. Meyer nodding once and saying nothing.
Darcy was still in a state of partial undress when Peters, one of the Darcy House footmen, arrived with a folded note. Emergencies or critical messages were rare, yet Mr. Darcy never left the townhouse without Mr. Travers being aware of Darcy’s agenda. The habit had been put to the test infrequently, and if not specifically instructed by the sender of this note to immediately place it directly into Mr. Darcy’s hand, the butler would have simply set it on his master’s desk and thought nothing more about it.
Darcy broke the blob of red wax imprinted with a crown over a lone star. The single line was unsigned, but between the seal insignia and the scrawled message itself, Darcy knew it was from his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.
York’s. 1pm. Usual table. I have news.
“Typical,” Darcy mumbled.
Well versed in Richard’s penchant for mischief and rattling his somber cousin, Darcy did not anticipate the “news” being anything of significance. It was more probable that the intriguing summon was a ploy designed to force a lazy afternoon upon him. Nevertheless, his interest was piqued and, he admitted, hot coffee, friendly male conversation, and lounging sounded far more appealing than the ledger waiting on his desk.
* * *
York’s Coffeehouse, located across from Green Park on Piccadilly Street, was a favorite place for Darcy and his cousin to meet. The address was a rough halfway point between Grosvenor Square and the townhouse of Lord Matlock on Saint James’s Square, but easy access was only one reason the two men had chosen York’s years ago.
First, the coffee was excellent. All the beverages and meals served were superb, in fact. Many coffeehouses in London could boast the same, yet few claimed a comparable atmosphere. Urbane and elegant was York’s, with an air of casual comfort elusive in a pretentious gentlemen’s club, such as White’s where Darcy and Richard were members.
The black-brick building sat on the corner, the windows providing adequate lighting and a spectacular view of Green Park. York’s spanned the entire ground lev
el and two-thirds of the first storey. Unlike the majority of the coffeehouses scattered about the city, seating places were distributed spaciously rather than crammed into every available inch of space. If greater privacy were desired, it could be arranged—for a price—in the upper room, where thick walls separated the booths. York’s was the perfect establishment to relax, drink, and converse freely without fear of eavesdropping or having one’s behavior censured.
A smiling Darcy crossed the threshold, ascended the stairs, and headed directly to the booth next to a south-facing window.
“You are late,” Colonel Fitzwilliam noted.
“You are fortunate to have me here at all. A servant had to hunt me down at Meyer’s. Next time, send your order for my appearance earlier. Now, scoot over and remove your dusty boots from my bench.”
“I will scoot,” Richard drawled, “but I am terribly comfortable stretched out, so you will have to suffer the boots. I wiped the muck off, and a little dust will not kill you.”
“If it does, I vow to haunt you.” Darcy slid into the bench across the table from the colonel, then motioned to a passing waiter. Once placing his order, he bobbed his chin in Richard’s direction. “No uniform today. Did they finally discover your limitations and toss you out of the army?”
“I am incognito. Actually, I am a notorious spy blending in with the common folk for an ultra-secret mission for the Crown. Quite heroic and dangerous. Are you impressed?”
“Exorbitantly. I always suspected York’s a hideout knee deep in traitors of the king.”
“The world is a strange place, Darcy.”
“Is this drivel practice for captivating women? Or is your ‘news’ that you are fully delusional?”
“Neither, although the women angle has potential. Thanks, Cousin!”
Darcy laughed and shook his head. The waiter brought his coffee, Richard grinning while Darcy prepared the hot beverage to his taste. Once the first gulp was swallowed, he changed the topic.
“What have you been up to these past few days? Georgie said you delivered her safely to Darcy House without sparing a minute to steal my whiskey. Then, when no answer to my alert of arriving in Town came, I began to wonder if you were working, as astonishing as that possibility is.”
Richard shrugged, unperturbed by the playful insult. “Nothing too taxing, although I did have some colonel-type business to finish after letting my duties languish while I attended to your request.”
“You have my utmost appreciation for escorting Georgiana, Richard. I owe you for that.”
“You owe me nothing,” Richard asserted with a firm shake of his head. His voice was sincere when he added, “The pleasure of my little mouse’s company is payment enough. And, of course, I know where you hide the whiskey at Pemberley too.” He lifted his coffee mug as a salute and winked.
Darcy again shook his head but matched his cousin’s grin. “So aside from informing me of the need to replenish my liquor stores, is there another purpose behind this meeting? Your note was typically vague.”
The colonel’s grin faded, and he put the mug down. “The pleasure of your company and sparring with your rapier wit was one draw. I do, however, have news. Good and bad. What do you want first?”
“I prefer to forego the bad news altogether, thank you very much. I am to be married in a month to the most marvelous woman in all of England, if not the world. Shockingly, I have discovered I like being giddy with happiness.”
“If I were not truly delighted for you and Miss Bennet, I would jump on that ‘giddy’ comment with glee. I shall resist and save the taunting for later. I believe your positive attitude will serve in this situation. Last night, I was finally able to get away and have dinner with my parents—”
“So, they are in Town,” Darcy blurted, cringing faintly. “I confess my sin in not taking the time to inquire.”
“I am not a priest so save your confessions of sins. Besides, absolution is assured considering the purpose bringing you to London, and trust me that it is better to talk to me first. The main topic of conversation was your engagement.”
“Is that the good news or the bad?”
“Depends, I suppose. They are dismayed, or perhaps confused is the better word, over your engagement to Miss Bennet.”
The furrows between Darcy’s brows deepened. “I cannot imagine why they are confused. I wrote to Lord and Lady Matlock not long after Miss Elizabeth accepted my proposal. I was forthright about her family, station in Society, and modest dowry while extolling her myriad virtues. I was also abundantly clear that I love her and that the feelings are reciprocated. Uncle’s reply was reserved but not unfavorable. He expressed the desire to meet her, and Aunt Madeline’s paragraph was congratulatory.”
“That was nearly a month ago. What you do not know, Darcy, is that while blissfully living in giddy happiness, our dear, sweet Aunt Catherine has been busy.”
Darcy’s face darkened with the anger perpetually simmering under the surface when it came to his other aunt. “How do you mean?”
“You really need to pay more attention to gossip. I have been back in Town for less than two weeks, spent half of that time running an errand for you to Pemberley, and still managed to get an earful. Maybe I should become a spy.”
Richard’s levity was appreciated, but it failed to alleviate Darcy’s foreboding. Hoping he was wrong, he smiled and forced an amused tone into his voice. “Listening to gossip is rarely beneficial, Richard, especially when I can readily imagine what is said.”
“What you imagine is the anticipated chatter heard whenever a wealthy, handsome, eligible bachelor gets taken off the market. And do not let the fancy words go to your head. They are not mine, God knows. The blather is juicier because no one has ever heard of Elizabeth Bennet. Speculation is rife, as expected. It was when I detected certain facts mingled within that my suspicion mounted.”
“Explain what you mean. What facts?”
“Details about her appearance, where she lives, her family—that sort of thing. Details difficult to discover unless one searched for them. Worse yet,”—he placed his booted feet onto the floor and leaned over the table—“there was an emotional tone tied to what was said. In truth, I have done some spying and collecting of intelligence in my time, so I know the difference between bare facts and those rendered with motive. Cousin, some of what I heard was, for lack of a better term, vicious.”
Darcy listened as Richard imparted a sampling of the rumors disseminating through the ton. The scandal of Lydia and Mr. Wickham. The crassness of Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth’s lack of proper connections or money or education. Theories that the Bennet girls used unsavory manipulation to ensnare the first two wealthy men to ever appear in Meryton and the degradation of close relatives in trade. These were merely the tip of the iceberg.
The kernels of truth were exaggerated and painted bleakly, and most of the rumors were blatant lies. Far too many, however, included detailed information few people should logically know. It was the latter that was particularly noteworthy to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“At first I suspected Caroline Bingley as the source. To a degree, this may be true. She has been in Hertfordshire for the most part and is now off in Bath, but has friends she may have vented her anger to in a letter. I know people, though, and despite Miss Bingley’s general nastiness, she’s not overly creative. It was the story of Lydia Bennet and George Wickham—God help that poor girl—and your supposed involvement that captured my attention. At first, I assumed the tale fabricated, and if so was too cleverly crafted to come from Miss Bingley’s limited intellect. So I zeroed in on that, asked careful questions—in my capacity as a spy, you see. Before long I uncovered it was based on truth—how much I do not know, nor do you have to enlighten me—but significantly I learned that the story originated directly from Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Darcy’s entire being was bathed in cold fury. Anyone other than Richard would have stuttered to a halt in terror at his expression. Richard did he
sitate, in fact, but he who was Darcy’s oldest friend and close as a brother felt that Darcy deserved to be fully informed.
After a gulp of coffee, Richard plunged on. “I tried to deny it, William. I am less fond of our aunt than you are, but I would not have believed her capable of this. For no other reason than to preserve family honor and reputation, I could not believe what I was hearing. Then again, in her strange mind, she probably believes she’s preserving family honor and…” Richard stuttered to a momentary halt, brows wrinkling. “What is it? A second ago you looked ready to kill someone. Now you are white as a ghost.”
“Where have you heard all of this disgusting information? From whom?”
“Here and there. Assorted people.”
“Now is not the time to be vague! I need to know!”
“What difference does it make?”
“Because, you imbecile, Elizabeth, her sister Jane, and Mr. Bennet are, right this minute, in London!”
“Oh! Well, yes, I see the problem.” Richard glanced around the room, Darcy following his gaze and knowing what was coming next before his cousin spoke the warning. “First, calm down, Darcy. Don’t make it worse by showing your emotions where people can see, not even here. Second, while I can appreciate your concern, I doubt the Bennets will—and don’t take offense—be shopping at the high-end merchants where the gossipy women are. Nor will they be socializing with the crowd at Almack’s and the like.”
At Richard’s warning and rationale, Darcy relaxed partially. He leaned back into the seat and drank his coffee as casually as possible though his insides churned.
True, they had no plans to attend any society functions and considering Mr. Bennet’s modest finances they probably would not visit the exclusive, priciest stores. Nor were Elizabeth or Jane apt to engage in random gossip with strangers or draw attention to themselves by bragging over their fiancés are.
Darcy & Elizabeth: Hope of the Future: Darcy Saga Prequel Duo Book 2 Page 5