Masquerade 2

by Emma East

  Darcy closed his eyes. “Of course, of course, that is why you are here.”

  Fitzwilliam snorted. “In all my years, I never expected I would see the day when Fitzwilliam Darcy would forget an appointment.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and then let his hand fall to the top of his desk. “I apologize. I don’t know what has overcome me. I certainly don’t intend to delay the visit—I will simply need the afternoon to make arrangements.”

  “That, I think, is the definition of a delay.”

  Close to the same age, his relationship with his cousin had always been one of brothers. Their relationship had only solidified when they were made joint custodians of Georgiana. Thus, he felt comfortable giving Fitzwilliam a rundown of the issue at hand.

  Once finished, Fitzwilliam issued a low whistle. “That is quite the pickle you are in, cousin. But why haven’t you called in an investigator to take care of it? We both know a few who would be happy to take the case and get this person off your back.”

  “If I could have seen an alternative to compliance, I would have taken it. Unfortunately, there is a second party who cannot protect themselves to contend with.”

  “A second party? Darcy, I don’t see—” He stopped short, eyes going wide. “Oh.”

  “Exactly,” he said dryly.

  “And this second party—she is a close friend of yours?”

  Darcy glared. “She is a young lady, yes.”

  “Ah.” Fitzwilliam pushed up out of his chair. “I need a drink. Drink, Darcy?”

  Darcy shook his head. He’d had too many drinks lately. Too many drawing rooms as he attempted to convince this or that gentleman to take a chance on the masquerade, always striving to stay away from inviting those he respected. His reputation, once pristine, was being eroded one invitation at a time. Now he had to function in a society where too many men—and a few open-minded wives of those men—gave him sly smiles and nudges.

  “And is the young lady in question worth this effort?” Fitzwilliam turned toward him, raising his glass to his lips. “I mean, how do you know this isn’t a scheme she has going on with several men—”

  “She wouldn’t,” Darcy snapped. When Fitzwilliam only stared at him, he said, “It’s not negotiable.”

  Fitzwilliam made a face. “Very well, but that puts you in an untenable position. How long will you bend to this blackmailer’s demands? How long can you?”

  “It’s not a matter of money, though I suspect that may soon be coming.”

  Honeyfield would someday become dissatisfied by the few people he had directed toward her manor. She would come forward with greedy hands outstretched and Darcy would have no choice but to reach into his pockets.

  Then how long until she bled him dry? How long until his funds propped up her sordid blackmail schemes and he ended up in the papers for financing illicit parties?

  “Well, I hope the lady feels grateful for all this effort on her behalf,” Fitzwilliam said, walking back to his chair. “Darcy, how the hell have you gotten wrapped up in this kind of scheme?”

  “I would appreciate skipping the lecture,” Darcy snapped. “Now, if you can entertain yourself for a few hours, I will plan for our trip to Rosings.”

  * * *

  Darcy breathed a sigh of relief to be out of sight of Fitzwilliam. He hadn’t been able to prepare mentally for his arrival, leaving him flat-footed when his cousin stepped through the door. But it wasn’t entirely Fitzwilliam’s fault. Anyone could have come through that door and found him off-kilter.

  Where was the Darcy of old? The man who would sneer at those who hoped to use him for their own means?

  His feet dragged as he walked up the steps to the manor. Tonight was another event. Honeyfield would undoubtedly be primping and preparing. They would turn the bedrooms out, open fresh, empty ledgers, and arrange finger foods on silver trays.

  Servants directed him toward the front drawing room. Honeyfield was preparing the masks that she would give out that night. She assigned masks to people beforehand, writing assignments in the little black book she referenced periodically throughout the night. This careful handling made the assignment of masks appear spontaneous, while allowing Honeyfield to keep track of her victims.

  She looked up from her desk when the door opened and set down the box of masks on the end table beside her. “Darcy. How good to see you—and so early in the day, too. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  He sat in the chair across from her at her direction. “I must leave London for a while. I came to inform you I will be on my way this evening.”

  Honeyfield’s brows rose in polite surprise. “Leave? My, my, Darcy. For how long do you wish to leave us drifting without your smiling presence?” Darcy scowled. Honeyfield’s lips curled. “That’s my familiar Darcy.”

  “Two months, at least. It is an annual ritual that I, unfortunately, cannot miss.”

  “This is a disappointment.” Honeyfield tutted. “I had big plans for you to scowl at the guests tonight and generally be your disagreeable self. How can we cope without you for two months?”

  “Maybe more, if I’m required to stay longer.”

  Honeyfield picked up her glass of champagne and then tilted her head toward the bottle beside her on the dainty end table. The silk hood waited at her elbow, and her long blonde hair fell in curls around her shoulders. She had dispensed with the anonymity with him, allowing him to see her in more vulnerable moments like this, with her hair down and her out of her gloomy costume. Now she crossed her legs and pinned him with her sparkling, always amused eyes.

  “Darcy, all jokes aside, this puts me in an awkward position.”

  “Unlikely,” he said stiffly. “It is not as if I am particularly needed here. As you said, I don’t take part and never have.”

  She smiled. “You did once, love.”

  Tightening his hands on the armrests of his chair, he said, “You know what I mean.”

  Honeyfield sighed and gestured to the champagne bottle. When he shook his head, she topped up her glass and sighed expansively. “But it comforts my guests—your guests—to know that their close, esteemed friend is here. If they ask upon signing in, what will I tell them? That you felt comfortable enough to invite them, but you have left for greener pastures? It just doesn’t seem very welcoming to me, and that is your role here. No matter how gloomy your manner is as you go about it.”

  Darcy clenched his teeth. “Even if that were true, the activities here would soon distract them.”

  Did she really plan to force his hand? Her eyes revealed nothing to Darcy beyond her enjoyment in this game. She truly assumed she was the cat in the henhouse… and, to be honest, Darcy had not presented himself as anything other than prey for some time now. Since that night in the garden maze.

  He ignored the flare of anger that clenched his chest. Elizabeth had made her choice. He would respect it, even if it was the wrong one.

  Honeyfield brought her champagne to her lips, her eyes bright over the rim as she watched him. “Perhaps we can make a new deal, Darcy. After all, as this situation points out, it isn’t feasible for you to be here for every event. But without you here, how can I be sure that you won’t forget about poor little me?”

  Now Darcy understood. “What do you want now, Dorothea? How much?”

  She smirked as she set her champagne down beside her. “Darcy, you wound me. I’ve told you before. I don’t want your money. I’m not as crass as you assume.”

  Perhaps paying her would be better than sitting and listening to her inane condescension. “Then what?”

  “It’s simple: a short letter, in your hand. Consider it as… insurance for us both.”

  “You want me to write a confession.” Darcy scoffed. “And include your role in it?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him coyly. “Of course. I don’t want this to be a one-way street between us. Then we both have a guarantee that I will guard the letter with the utmost care.”

  While he wrote
, Honeyfield leaned over him, her claw on his shoulder. “So tense,” she murmured, and then, “And include your Miss Kitten, if you will.”

  Darcy stiffened. “She’s an innocent party to this.”

  “No one is innocent.”

  Teeth gnashing, he included Elizabeth’s role and his despoiling of her. Then, tasting bile at the back of his throat, he watched Honeyfield as she took the letter from him and walked it across the room to a seascape painting on the wall opposite her desk. With a tug on the ornate frame, one side of it came free from the wall, revealing a safe embedded in the wall behind it. She opened it, shielding the dial from him as she entered the combination, and then placed the letter inside.

  “There,” she said, showing him the contents. There were approximately half a dozen ledgers inside and what looked like other letters. How many of those letters detailed the subject’s sins just as his did? He watched her shut it, shutting away his sins, hiding away Elizabeth’s participation, and his knuckles turned white.

  Honeyfield smiled at him. “Are you sure you must leave town right away? You could stay awhile, share a glass with me. It will make up for the disappointment that you’ll miss my birthday celebration next week.”

  The birthday party. He had been so close to striking it from his mind. He stood, straightening his jacket and tucking away his disgust. At her, at himself, the coward that he was. “No, I must go.”

  “If you must. I’ll monitor things until you return.” She gestured to the safe as if he could forget about his folly for any length of time.

  His carriage was ready and he departed with speed. To the bank, and then to his solicitor. On the way, he penned a quick note to Georgiana to update her on his location for the next two months in case she had need of him. On the way, he tried not to think about the letter, tucked safely away in Honeyfield’s safe. Evidence of his transgressions. Evidence that he had spoiled the purity of a gentleman’s daughter. His own script implicating Elizabeth in his sins. Anonymity was no longer an option with a written confession floating out there, and Honeyfield able to do whatever she wanted with it.

  This was the biggest blow to his pride yet, and the one that weighed the most heavily on his conscience. How had he allowed it to get this far? He had bent to the yoke Honeyfield put on him. Now the question was: How could he escape it?

  Chapter Nine

  “What good fortune you have, my dear cousin, to not only sit in society with the esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but also to meet with her most beloved nephews. We are very fortunate indeed, would you not agree, Mrs. Collins?”

  Charlotte gave Elizabeth a mild, knowing smile before responding to her husband. He was still fiddling with his coat. “I would, Mr. Collins. But we had best make haste if we are to arrive on time.”

  Elizabeth had been at the Collinses home in Hunsford for a little over a fortnight. It had been a pleasant visit so far, with only a few irritations in the form of her supercilious cousin. But yesterday her feelings for the visit had changed drastically when Mr. Collins had hastened inside from the garden to exclaim that Lady Catherine’s beloved nephews had just ridden by his humble abode. Elizabeth’s heart had nearly stopped.

  “But what does that have to do with us?” she had said, and could not help the hysterical note in her voice. Charlotte’s expression had flashed with surprise and concern, immediately making her regret the outburst.

  “Why,” Mr. Collins said, clapping his hands together, “if we are very lucky, we may be asked to attend Rosings and make a dinner party! Lady Catherine enjoys having a full table when she can—she is most generous to share her table, and Mrs. Collins will attest that she does so even when she has guests.”

  He was, unfortunately, not wrong. It was the next day when Darcy and his cousin, a Colonel Fitzwilliam, called upon the parsonage. Mr. Collins was thrilled with the attention, though Darcy’s dour expression did not shift during the whole awkward visit. They found Colonel Fitzwilliam to be an animated, wholesome conversationalist, but Elizabeth’s discomfort distracted her wholly. She couldn’t help but notice how thin Darcy had become since she had seen him in the winter, nor the length of his hair, which was nearly touching his collar.

  They did not linger for long, thankfully, and Darcy remained silent except a few brief words upon their arrival and their departure. Elizabeth could finally breathe when the door closed behind them, blocking him from sight. Now, a week later when Mr. Collins’s prediction had come true, Elizabeth attempted to restrain the wild horses of anticipation and dread bolting through her stomach.

  She could handle a few hours. There would be plenty of people around to deflect attention away from her. They need not interact at all.

  “Are you well, Lizzy?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, erm, I’m fine.”

  Charlotte’s brown eyes assessed her and found her wanting. Their friendship was one that didn’t need words for them to understand one another. Clearly not believing her, she fell back from her husband’s side to walk beside Elizabeth. “Truthfully?”

  “It’s only nerves. Naturally felt for someone of my station about to dine with the esteemed and dignified—”

  “Lizzy,” Charlotte warned, but her mouth twitched.

  “Truly, it’s nothing. My stomach is a little queasy. Our lunch with Mrs. Stephens did not sit well with me.”

  Charlotte grimaced. “She is a lovely woman and well respected in the community, but no one ever accused her of being a capable cook.”

  Gravel crunched under their feet as they traversed the drive and then, far too soon, Mr. Collins was knocking and the great door to Rosings was opened to them. Elizabeth took a deep breath and ignored the worried glance Charlotte sent in her direction.

  She could do this. It would be easy. They were merely acquainted for a short amount of time. Nothing untoward had ever happened between them. Not in carriages or in her father’s house or on top of her new brother’s desk.

  She was an actor in a play, that was all, and tonight was the first night’s performance.Lady Catherine’s enthusiasm to introduce her parson’s new wife and relations to her nephews was greatly dampened upon finding out that they were all acquainted with Darcy in some respect. Ignoring Mr. Collins’s rambling explanation, she bore the full strength of her attention on Elizabeth.

  “Oh. You never said, Miss Bennet. One would think you would say that you had previously met my nephew. And how do you know one another?”

  “We met when I visited a friend who lives in Hertfordshire,” Darcy said. He didn’t look at her, for which the blushing Elizabeth was immensely grateful for. She hadn’t expected to be questioned about the acquaintance.

  “A friend in Hertfordshire?” Lady Catherine’s expression twisted and Elizabeth wondered whether it signaled her lack of knowledge of Darcy’s friends or her distaste for Elizabeth’s home county.

  “You may remember me mentioning my friend Charles Bingley at one point,” Darcy said. “He let an estate in the countryside, close to the Bennet family.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam perked up and turned to Elizabeth. “That is where I recognized the name, then. I saw the announcement in the paper. Congratulations to your family.” Turning to Lady Catherine, anticipating her even as she opened her mouth, he said, “Mr. Bingley married the eldest Miss Bennet at the end of last year. Is that right, Miss Bennet?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth managed. She attempted a smile. “He has promoted himself to my brother, much to my mother’s delight.”

  Lady Catherine raised a thin eyebrow. “Your mother cannot celebrate too quickly, naturally. She has four more daughters to put forward. Well.”

  Elizabeth’s smile curdled. “Of course, ma’am.”

  After supper, Colonel Fitzwilliam tasked Elizabeth with playing for the party, for which Elizabeth gratefully complied. It took her out as a potential conversational partner to Darcy, and it also allowed her to escape Lady Catherine’s tiring company.

  “You have a lovely grasp of these Irish reels
, Miss Bennet. It’s refreshing to hear when too often we come to Rosings and must only listen to each other for entertainment.”

  She smiled, enjoying his good humor and company. “You surely can find amusement in the company of your family.”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam waggled his brow. “Sometimes too much.”

  “What is it you are saying?” Lady Catherine called out across the room, Elizabeth’s laughter enough to distract her from lecturing Charlotte about draperies. She craned her neck and glared at them. “What has amused you? I wish to hear.”

  “We were merely discussing the benefits of family gatherings and the amusing moments a family may share.” Elizabeth shared a smile with Colonel Fitzwilliam when, satisfied by this answer, Lady Catherine turned her attention back to her other guests. Elizabeth’s gaze caught briefly upon Darcy and her finger slipped on the keys, producing a clunky sound.

  “Though, there will always exist the one person to bring us back to reality.”

  This time, Elizabeth couldn’t find it in her to laugh.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam proved to be a quality conversationalist with his good humor, storytelling, and self-deprecating wit. Elizabeth could almost forget that Darcy sat on the other side of the room, his face turned away from her as he seemingly paid attention to his aunt.

  She played for some time, her restless gaze shifting to Darcy constantly throughout the night. But she did not once catch him looking at her. Though this should have comforted her, a knot of disappointment formed in her chest. He had taken no opportunity to even acknowledge their relationship by look or word that night, except if ignoring her could be deemed an acknowledgement.

  She smiled at something Colonel Fitzwilliam said, wishing she was away to the parsonage and her quiet room. To ponder why she could still feel this hurt in her soul. She had wanted this, hadn’t she? She had wished for this since she first knew of the engagement So why did this confirmation that he did not love her feel like a knife slipped between her ribs?