Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

"I fear I may have caused us a wrinkle."

Fitzwilliam had presented himself in Darcy's dressing room, having arrived at the house at an early hour the next morning. He leant against the door frame, giving his cousin a piercing look.

"What wrinkle?" Darcy enquired as he donned the waistcoat his man handed him and buttoned it. He had lost weight, it seemed, for it did not fit as snugly as usual.

"This wager of ours. I made the mistake of telling my brother about it."

"Wager?" Darcy asked. "The carriage, you mean?"

"Oh, no, I misspoke. Not a wager as much as a…well, never mind what we call it—that both you and I wish to woo the same lady." Fitzwilliam appeared at ease, though to Darcy it seemed his words were glib.

Suitably attired, Darcy dismissed his man and turned to fully face his cousin. "Regardless, surely we may count on his discretion?"

"When can we ever count on Saye for discretion?"

Darcy heaved a sigh of disgust as they exited his dressing room and walked towards the front stair. "As he does not know her, nor anyone connected to her?—"

Fitzwilliam shook his head. "No, but he will himself be connected to her once he is her brother."

"Saye will undoubtedly delight in a nearer connexion to Bingley," Darcy replied sarcastically. Saye's dislike of Bingley's puppyish enthusiasm was well-known to both of them. "How do your mother and father like it? Have you told them of your scheme?"

They had arrived in the vestibule, and Darcy mentioned the possibility of looking in at their club. As such a scheme was agreeable to his cousin, they both departed.

"Naturally my family had their own plans and wishes for who would be my wife," Fitzwilliam acknowledged. "Ladies whose families would bring some political advantage or who had a sizeable fortune to bring to the marriage. But I told them straightaway that none of the ladies they liked would suit me. Fortunately, they still have Saye's marriage to preoccupy them."

"Saye's marriage?"

"Should he ever happen upon a woman who can tolerate him for longer than a dance."

The club was relatively empty, given the early hour. Darcy would not have expected Saye to be present—his eldest cousin often said that nothing of importance ever happened before two in the afternoon—but there he was, seated at a prominent table.

"The Great Master of Pemberley," Saye intoned theatrically as they approached him. "Locked in a battle of the heart against the second son of the Earl of Matlock. Will it be tall, handsome, and scandalously wealthy who prevails, or fat-witted but amiable?"

Fitzwilliam chuckled and gave his brother a little shove before sitting.

"What is that scent you are wearing?" Saye enquired of Darcy as he took a seat opposite him.

"Do you dislike it?"

Saye was busily wafting the air between them towards his nose. Wrinkling his brow, he said, "Oakmoss, to be sure…the faintest touch of amber, perhaps a cinnamon top note? Who blends this for you?"

"It is derived from Houbigant's creations."

"Is it new?"

Darcy sighed heavily. "What does it matter?"

"I think you ought to be differently scented when you next meet your lady. You do not wish the smell of rejection to be yet lingering."

"A valid point, though I should prefer that you not bandy it about so loudly here in the middle of our club," Darcy replied glumly. "That said, it does remind me of a request I have for you."

"Of course."

Saye was on intimate terms with a notorious smuggler called Gertie Birdsell. For exorbitant prices, Gertie ensured that Saye had as much champagne, brandy, tobacco, lace, and fine-milled French soap as he desired. The entire family was aghast that Saye did business with such a criminal, but that only made Saye like Gertie more.

Darcy positively loathed being involved in any such doings, but it had occurred to him that gifts for some of the ladies of Meryton—those who had hosted him, fed him in their homes—might raise the public opinion of him. And if that opinion happened to work its way back to Elizabeth…even better. Without looking at his cousin, Darcy described what he wished for and in what quantities.

"Easy enough," Saye replied. "Twenty pounds should do it, but give me an extra ten just in case."

"Thirty pounds!" Darcy exclaimed. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Fine French goods do not come cheaply, and one must account for the risk to life and limb poor Gertie must face daily. You know he is Prinny's cousin?"

"No, he is not," Darcy replied flatly. Gertie's lineage grew more exalted every time Saye spoke of it.

"He absolutely is, and I can prove it unequivocally."

"I am not certain such libertine connexions can be to his credit, in truth, but I do not really care. I shall send Fields over later with the sum. Just arrange it for me," Darcy replied sharply.

"What on earth do you need so much soap for?" Fitzwilliam asked.

"Gifts."

"Greasing up the mothers, are you?" Saye nodded approvingly. "Well done, my boy. I am going to bet you a hundred pounds that you will win Miss Elizabeth Bennet." He extended his hand towards his cousin to shake on it.

"You want me to bet against myself?"

"Well, who do you think will get her?"

Darcy frowned, but before he could say anything, there was Mr Alfred Hurst poking his nose in. "What's the game, men?"

"Nothing," Darcy hastened to say. "No game."

"Darcy and Fitzwilliam both want the same woman," Saye informed him. "Darcy will not bet, but perhaps you will?"

Hurst's eyes lit up, and he rubbed his hands together with glee. Uninvited, he sat, putting his chin in hand to peer at both Darcy and Fitzwilliam carefully. "And the lady is…?"

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," Fitzwilliam said helpfully.

Darcy barely stopped himself from kicking him.

"Which one was that?" Hurst asked. Then, with a charmless waggle of his brow and a gesture towards his chest, he asked, "The, um, well-padded one, no doubt?"

"The one who stayed for above a week at Netherfield to nurse Miss Bennet," Darcy informed him with an annoyed sigh.

Hurst's brow wrinkled and he sat back in his chair with a thud. "But you hated one another."

Darcy closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. "I never hated her."

"But she must have hated you." Hurst pointed one finger at Darcy and shook it as he addressed the rest of the party. "Argued all the time, they did. Could not even make sense of it half the time."

"Then your money is on my brother?" Saye asked.

"This is not a matter to wager upon like some boxing match or a horse race," Darcy protested.

"Love is absolutely a horse race, and if you think it is not, then you have been doing it wrong all along," Saye informed him loftily. "Shall I start a book on this, men?"

"What if," Fitzwilliam asked, "neither of us gets her?"

"Three outcomes, then. Even better."

"She did not suit my fancy," said Hurst, "but I say she was a fine filly. Good hair—and you know, the hair is the first sign of a woman who can birth easily."

"Old wives' tales," Saye said dismissively. "You in or what, Hurst?"

"Aye, and I shall put in a share for Bingley, too."

"Excellent!"

"You cannot do this," Darcy said. "I absolutely insist that you cease this nonsense at once. It is disrespectful to Miss Elizabeth and to her family. She should not have her future haggled over in this undignified manner."

"No one even knows who she is," Saye protested.

"But they will, will they not? If she comes to town as either my wife or his"—Darcy glared at Fitzwilliam—"they will understand it was she who was the object of all these wagers."

"And by that time, she will be either the daughter of an earl or Mrs Darcy, and no one will give a tinker's curse about some bets laid over her engagement," Fitzwilliam said.

"Come, Darcy. You know full well that the betting books are filled with things of this sort," Hurst added.

"This one is just more interesting because of the parties involved," Saye explained. "Cousin against cousin! A battle to the death!"

"Hardly a battle to the death," Darcy muttered, though in truth the idea of Elizabeth married to Fitzwilliam did feel, at times, like it might kill him.

"When do we go, then?" Saye asked. "I should prefer to wait until after Lady Bainwright's ball."

Darcy and Fitzwilliam exchanged a look. It was dashed awkward—Bingley had been all but forced to offer Fitzwilliam an invitation to the wedding festivities, but Saye? Saye had no right cause to be there.

Happily, Fitzwilliam claimed a brother's privilege and spoke plainly. "You are not acquainted with the bride or her family, and have no reasonable expectation of an invitation."

Saye pressed a hand against his chest, feigning shock and outrage. "I know Bingley, do I not?"

"Bingley will not mind," Hurst offered. "You could bring twelve friends and he would be delighted."

"You dislike him," Darcy reminded Saye.

"I have no idea why you say that. Bingley can be a charming lad."

"I say it because you do not recognise him. You delight in very nearly cutting him every time you see him."

That made Hurst laugh.

"I should not say I delight in it," Saye replied. "I undertake it as my duty such that the distinction of rank may be preserved."

"And thus—why would he invite you to attend his wedding? A wedding in a place of no consequence where you would mix with people of little distinction."

"Because," Saye replied, drawing the word out, "I want to. Not only that, I am needed. Who else can oversee this contest? Someone must be there to ensure that fairness and honour are upheld."

Darcy rubbed a hand across his forehead. The headache which had been plaguing him since that night in the parsonage, when Elizabeth rejected him so scathingly, was making itself known with greater insistence. "It is neither my place, nor Fitzwilliam's or Hurst's, to issue an invitation to you."

"I do not need your invitation." On their looks, he insisted, "I do not! As the old proverb goes—everyone loves a viscount."

"What proverb is that, exactly?" Fitzwilliam asked with a laugh.

"None that I have ever heard of," Darcy grumbled. He wished he was as easy as Fitzwilliam, and could sit and listen to Saye's rattles and nonsense with a chuckle. Alas, he could not—not with the prospect of losing Elizabeth hanging over his head.

"Nothing is better than a viscount at the party. All the enjoyment of rank and wealth with few of the responsibilities of an earldom. A merry lot are we, and always welcome wherever we go," Saye informed them all with a royal flourish of his hand. "And that is just what Bingley wrote in reply to my note where I informed him that he would honour me greatly by inviting me to attend. It is all settled already, so your views on the matter are quite unnecessary."

It seemed there was nothing Darcy could do to stop this—not the contest, not the wagers, not even Saye inviting himself to a place he had no right to be, and would likely despise once he got there.

What a hypocrite I am , he mused, watching as Saye waved over the servant to bring fresh drinks. Taking Elizabeth to task for the misbehaviour of her family when I am attached to people equally indecorous and, like her, can do nothing for it .

Darcy stood up so abruptly it nearly sent his chair tumbling, causing his cousins and Hurst to stop talking and stare at him. "Monday, first light," he said tersely before taking his leave of them.