Page 42 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
“Indeed.” Darcy took a long draught of his brandy. “What would you counsel me to do?”
“Perhaps you might make enquiries. Discover who submitted the story.”
“Or I might remove to Pemberley,” Darcy said suddenly, the idea crystallising as he spoke. “Take Georgiana away from London entirely. Away from… complications.”
Away from the Bennets. Away from the constant reminders of Elizabeth’s existence. Away from Georgiana’s growing friendship with Lydia, which could only lead to further entanglements he was powerless to prevent.
“Run away?” Bingley looked surprised. “That seems rather unlike you, Darcy.”
“It would be a strategic retreat,” Darcy corrected, though the words tasted of cowardice even to him. “Allow this nonsense to die a natural death whilst we are safely removed from its influence.”
Bingley nodded, though he appeared unconvinced. “Perhaps you speak truly.”
***
The following morning proved Darcy most spectacularly mistaken.
He had arranged to meet his uncle, Lord Matlock, at White’s for their customary monthly discussion of family affairs. The moment he stepped through the club’s doors, he was quite besieged by congratulations.
“Darcy, old fellow! About time you took a wife!”
“When shall we hear wedding bells?”
“Quite a conquest, this Miss B. Heard she is a diamond of the first water.”
By the time he reached the private dining room where his uncle awaited, Darcy’s jaw ached from forced civility and his patience had worn thin as parchment.
“Well, well,” Lord Matlock declared, rising to embrace his nephew with evident amusement. “The talk of all London, are we? I confess myself quite surprised. You have never been one to court the scandal sheets.”
“Uncle, I assure you—”
“Sit, sit.” Lord Matlock gestured to the chair across from him, his eyes fairly dancing with mirth. “Tell me of this mysterious Miss B. Are you going to make an honest woman of her?”
Darcy sank into his chair and accepted the offered brandy with gratitude. “There is no Miss B. At least, not in the mannerthe papers suggest. Someone has taken it upon themselves to manufacture a romance that does not exist.”
Lord Matlock’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Indeed? How very peculiar. Have you any notion who might perpetrate such mischief?”
“I harbour suspicions but possess no proof.”
“Well, my boy, I regret to be the bearer of unwelcome tidings, but proof may signify less than perception.” Lord Matlock leaned forward, his lips puckered. “Half of London has perused that paper by now. If you do not produce this Miss B and announce your engagement presently, the speculation will grow most unseemly. And if there truly is a Miss B—whoever she may be—her reputation shall suffer for your delay.”
“You cannot seriously counsel that I marry someone to satisfy the gossipmongers. There is but one lady who would volunteer to the task—in fact, she already imagines herself Miss B—and she is unthinkable.”
“I counsel that you consider your options with great care. Scandal spreads like wildfire through a dry wood, and once it takes proper hold…” Lord Matlock shrugged eloquently. “Find yourself a suitable Miss B and marry her. It would resolve all your difficulties.”
Darcy nearly choked upon his brandy. “Marry a complete stranger?”
“Not a stranger, precisely. Someone appropriate. Someone whose family would benefit from the connection as much as yours would benefit from ending this speculation.” His uncle’s eyes glinted with purpose. “I am certain we could arrange something mutually advantageous.”
The remainder of the day passed in similar fashion. Everywhere Darcy ventured, people offered congratulations, winked with knowing significance, or made pointed observations about the benefits of matrimony. By evening, his head throbbed and his temper had worn as thin as silk.
He returned home to discover Caroline in the drawing room, arranged upon the sofa in a pose of dramatic suffering, with smelling salts positioned within easy reach.
“Oh, Mr Darcy!” she cried upon seeing him, her voice carrying the tremulous quality of a gothic heroine. “It has been dreadful. The looks I received when I ventured forth today. The whispers behind fans. Everyone expects… everyone assumes…”
“Caroline, perhaps you should retire early this evening,” Georgiana suggested with gentle firmness. “You appear quite overwrought.”
“Overwrought? My dear Georgiana, my entire future trembles in the balance!” Caroline pressed the back of her hand to her forehead with practised grace. “What gentleman shall have me now? My reputation is compromised beyond redemption unless…”
