Chapter 8

Sarah walked into the reading room at No 33 Leadenhall Street with eager interest, searching for a male reading a novel with red leather bindings. Mrs Figg trailed her like a little dark cloud, as she, after all, had worn the veil herself as a visible sign of her disapproval. It was not overly difficult to spot her target, tucked away at a small table in a semi-private corner, for the majority of the library’s clientele seemed to be of the female sex. The reading room was not the quiet place she had imagined, but quite obviously a popular meeting spot, with groups of two, three, or four women chattering eagerly round the many tables and discussing anything and everything except literature. By contrast, the man with the novel was…unexpected. Taking a deep breath, she approached.

“Mr Smith?” she asked.

“You do not look anything like I thought you would,” she said, once they were all seated. “I imagined Mr Pennywithers’s agent would be another servant. But you, Mr Smith, could be any gentleman of leisure.”

“I am happy to look respectable he said. “I am a friend to Pennywithers, nothing more.”

“A reliable friend,” she added. There was a little pause.

He nodded. “I assure you that every word you speak is confidential. I am a man who, one might say, keeps secrets for a living—not in any irregular sense, but as a trustworthy businessman whose clients depend upon him. Now. Tell me why you wished to speak to Pennywithers.”

Sarah took a deep breath. As she had written to Georgiana, explaining the situation without revealing her identity would be difficult. Georgiana had left the decision of whether or not to trust Pennywithers in her hands. Mr Smith had not revealed his own true name, she noticed.

“My friend is a young lady, the only sister of an influential gentleman of wealth and property. In the past several months, there have been rumours swirling about him. Nothing much at first, more speculative than anything, appearing in broadsheets or the occasional society column. More recently, the gossip has become less salubrious, darker.” From her reticule, she withdrew a few recent columns clipped from London papers. She handed them to ‘Mr Smith’.

He took them silently, giving a low murmur. “Ramshackle accusations, to be certain. Would your friend’s brother happen to be Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire?”

She was startled at how easily he had seen it, but he hastened to explain.

“Each was certainly careful enough to avoid a libel suit, but when you put them all together, it is plain of whom they speak. Mr Darcy is well enough known, but the earl of Matlock, his esteemed uncle, is a firebrand in the London political scene. His informal but renowned monikers are mentioned in conjunction with these tales, making it a simple enough deduction.”

It meant Georgiana was correct. Someone was attempting, quite boldly, to defame Mr Darcy.

“Not being political myself, I did not see it quite so clearly as you did,” Sarah replied. “I hope he sues them for libel, but even so, the damage is already happening.”

“He would have difficulty. As I said, each publication was careful. It is the sheer volume of these veiled accusations which cause the problem. Still, I do not know what you wish of Mr Pennywithers. There are, literally, hundreds of newspapers and broadsheets. Pennywithers has no influence upon what they publish.”

“Mr Pennywithers has become far more believable than ten or even a hundred of these fly-by-night slander-sheets. A few pointed words from him rejecting these tales would go far to cast doubt upon the miscreants who publish otherwise. We could provide him with many stories of Mr Darcy’s generosity, his goodness, his care for his properties and those who reside upon them.”

“Unfortunately, I am certain that Mr Pennywithers has never met Mr Darcy; thus, he would be unable publicly to either add or detract from his reputation.”

“An invitation to Mr Pennywithers to see it all for himself might be issued. The grouse season is nearly upon us.”

She nearly held her breath as Mr Smith appeared to consider. Georgiana—and Sarah, for that matter—had assumed that any scribbler worth his salt would jump at an opportunity to actually visit Pemberley, and that perhaps the refined valet might give up his master’s name for an invitation to the upcoming house party. She was less certain now, and almost unsurprised when he refused.

“That is unfortunately impossible. Pennywithers’s identity is a non-negotiable secret, as is that of his master.”

“I understand. However, if you would agree to come to Pemberley, as Mr Pennywithers’s trusted agent—” But she was not given a chance to finish her sentence.

“My dear young lady, perhaps you have not thought this through. You are speaking of having an invited guest who was there for the express purpose of reporting upon Mr Darcy! He can never have agreed to it!”

“Well, no,” Sarah said, trying to use her most reasonable tone. “Nevertheless, anyone who visits Pemberley and experiences its hospitality could easily see it is not a hotbed of lawlessness, with clouds of corruption swirling, but instead the very pinnacle of respectability. All you would have to do is observe what is about you, and provide Mr Pennywithers with your point of view.”

“It is out of the question. I can promise you that Mr Pennywithers shall not enter into this war of words. No matter what he hears, he shall remain silent.”

“Silence can be damning as well!” Sarah protested.

“And yet, has not Mr Darcy remained silent? The whole thing smacks of some sort of political rivalry, and could go far deeper than we can see here from our less informed viewpoints. I notice it is his sister who is trying to care for his reputation, however clumsily. I must assume that he is taking the higher road of ignoring his detractors, and she would likely do well to follow his example.”

“He is a man,” Mrs Figg pointed out to Sarah, not very helpfully. “Men never want to get to the bottom of anything. They are happy to overlook what they refuse to see, lest they put themselves to any inconvenience.”

Sarah opened her mouth to argue, feeling futility and bitter disappointment. “If you could only consider?—”

“Uncle? Whatever are you doing here? I did not know you enjoyed novels!”

A pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed young lady, accompanied by an even prettier, pink-cheeked, golden-haired version of herself, approached their table, looking with some wonder at the red leather-bound book on it. Mr Smith did not look pleased to see either intruder.

To Sarah’s astonishment, she recognised the brunette. “Miss Bennet?” she exclaimed. “Bonjour! Comment faites-vous?

Miss Bennet’s eyes widened. “Miss Bentley! Quelle surprise! C’est un plaisir de vous voir! Uncle, I did not know you had made the acquaintance of Miss Bentley! She was one of my favourite students at Miss Grey’s Academy. Indeed, after her departure, I found the position insupportable, and could not remain.”

Sarah laughed. “You mean, without me to mangle the French language, you lost all sources of amusement?”

“You were in fact an excellent student, and not nearly as prone to ‘mangling’ as your peers.” A look of dawning comprehension appeared on her expressive features. “Oh dear, have I interrupted a client’s meeting, Uncle? I apologise if so, and will be on my way. But first please, Miss Bentley, may I make my sister known to you?”

“Of course you may!”

Introductions to the fair, soft-spoken Miss Jane Bennet followed, while their uncle glowered and Mrs Figg appeared, for once, amused.

“You must now excuse my interruption,” said her former French mistress, her eyes merry, “Pardonnez-moi, s’il vous plait.”

“Miss Bennet,” Sarah said, “Would you and your sister like to come for tea tomorrow at The Pillows—my home in Mayfair? I can provide you with the direction.” She was not immune to the glare Mr Smith turned upon her, but she managed to overlook it as she removed a card and pencil from her reticule, hastily scribbling upon it.

“Please, Miss Bentley, I am no longer your instructor, but only Miss Elizabeth…my sister is the ‘Miss Bennet’ of us. We would love to join you for tea. How kind of you to invite us!”

“I will see you tomorrow then, about four o’clock,” Sarah returned, and after receiving their assurances of happy expectation, the young ladies quickly departed.

Mr Smith, his eyes narrowed, scowled. “Do not think that this discussion is over, Miss Bentley. I have a great deal of influence over my nieces, enough that I might reject any invitation that could be issued.”

“It is only tea.”

“I pray that is all. I hope you are not so bold as to invite them elsewhere, with an intent to use them for your own purposes.”

“Why should you object?” Sarah answered coolly, though her heart beat hard. “Think of it: your nieces could receive entrée to an elegant house party in Derbyshire, able to meet with and befriend those of a circle they would otherwise never encounter. If they were to inform you of their observations, and you were to relay those observations to Pennywithers, how is that different from any other social situation he reports on? He could be anybody, and might, in the course of his career, report from Pemberley regardless. This peculiar situation happens to be an opportunity for them, sir!”

She had made a point, she saw. Plainly, he cared deeply for his young relations. His frown fell away as he momentarily closed his eyes.

“Their father is—was a gentleman,” he said finally, “of a modest but prosperous estate in Hertfordshire. He died some fifteen months ago. The estate was entailed upon a cousin, who promptly married one of their younger sisters, but their own portion is small. They reside with me, a solicitor and man of business who lives in Cheapside, and attending a single house party, however elegant, will change nothing.”

“Nevertheless,” Sarah said, gently, “they are women of good birth and exceptional manner, whom I should happily befriend. Neither Miss Darcy nor I are darlings of society. We could, however, be excellent and influential friends.”

“You cannot know—none of us can know who Mr Darcy’s enemies are. I would not embroil them in possible unseemliness.”

“They would not be embroiled in anything. Whoever are his detractors, they have confined themselves to a war of words in London papers. Would Mr Pennywithers trust the opinions of your nieces as to whether any information provided was accurate or not? That is all we wish.” Sarah looked earnestly at Mr Smith. “Their names would not be associated with the Darcys. They would attend, accompanying me, as my dear friends and companions, to a small house party at Pemberley, several counties away. Two or three weeks in the country—a summer holiday.”

“Who are the other guests, might I ask?”

“Lord and Lady Matlock will attend, I have been told, and their eldest son, Viscount Ridley, with his wife and children. Whatever you might say about his politics, there cannot be any question regarding the Matlock character. The earl is one of the most respected men in England.”

Mr Smith scrubbed his face with his hands. Sarah could almost sympathise with his conundrum, and was thankful Mrs Figg remained blessedly silent.

“If Elizabeth and Jane come for tea tomorrow at The Pillows, you will know that I have lost the argument,” he said at last, and hastily took his leave.