Page 41 of Colour My World
“I have someone with whom to acquaint you.”
Darcy looked at the young lady. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a charming smile. Another perfect prospect.
A breath stirred against his ear, soft as memory.She is not here, his mother's voice murmured. He bore the young lady’s conversation until he could take his leave without giving offence.
He returned to Darcy House well past midnight, exhausted in body but restless in spirit. He had no patience for the empty compliments, the false smiles, the ceaseless parade of insipid conversation.
In the study, a small, wrapped box awaited upon his desk. Barty had been occupied elsewhere; this must have arrived by courier. Darcy sat eagerly and unwrapped it with care. Beneaththe paper, a velvet case cradled a newly commissioned locket—silver, understated, yet finely wrought.
He opened it.On the left side, his mother’s miniature smiled back at him. Lady Anne, rendered with exquisite precision. Opposite her, a likeness of Georgiana, captured only a year past, her features delicate, her expression luminous.
He stared, caught by the astonishing likeness between them. The same brow, the same tilt of the mouth, the same light shining from them. He traced the edge of the locket with his thumb.
“One day, Sister, when you marry, I shall place this in your hands.” Until then, it belonged near his heart—both of them did.
With steady hands, he slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket, close to where his pulse beat strongest. He stepped to the sideboard and poured himself a small libation, then returned, glass in hand, to his favourite chair.
He easily deflected Lady Catherine’s declarations, but his father’s pressure weighed heavier with each passing Season. Yet, in the dim solitude with only his mother’s journal for company, his thoughts returned to a promise he had made to a girl he had yet to meet.
He had searched for her, scrutinized every new heiress, but none had matched the vision his mother had planted in his mind.
A pair of mismatched eyes. Hair like a Derbyshire autumn. A laugh that touches one’s heart.
Had her last wish been whimsy?No. He would not believe that. It could not have been folly.
But as his fingers traced the leather-bound book, a whisper of memory stirred: his mother’s hand upon his cheek, her soft smile, the certainty in her voice.
“She exists.”
He wanted to believe his mother. Was he a fool to still do so?He massaged his temple with two fingers. “Where are you?”
He opened the Book and flipped the pages.
The world is full of painted smiles. Look beyond them.
Blood hummed in his ears. He would have sworn the page had been empty before. He traced the words with his fingertip. The ink gleamed faintly in the lamplight as though it had only just dried.
He sat back, heart pounding, the book cradled against his chest.
* * *
Southwark, October 1807
A dampened billet lay discarded on the ground.
See The Spectacle:
The True Rogue vs. Lord Fancyhands
Coin, blood, or honour—place your bets.
An emptied-out tavern yard, slick with mud and ale, had been transformed into a crude amphitheatre. Ropes hung slack between rough timber columns, dark with moisture and fraying where too many hands had gripped them. Crates, barrels, and splintered planks stood stacked waist-high, just enough to keep the fighters in, and the drunk and desperate out. Men at each midpoint heaved buckets of sawdust over the muck, one after another, trying in vain to soak up the worst of it. The crowd pressed close, shouting wagers and slurs with equal venom.
Darcy shivered, sweat cooling against his bare torso. The air stank of blood, earth, and exertion, the scent of men proving themselves not with words but with fists. Coins changed hands with open laughter and sharper whispers.
Across the ring stood The True Rogue, Ned Turner. Broad asa smithy door, with knuckles scarred from matches no referee dared call.
Darcy could have chosen a lesser opponent. He did not.
