The Darcy Connection (16 page)

“In my line of business! I'll have you know that we at Bruton's are not in the habit of accommodating rogues and scoundrels. Not knowingly, at any rate,” Bartholomew added, thinking of various members of the nobility who banked with them.

“Yes, and that's because you bankers have an eye for wickedness, you have to sort the sheep from the goats, the wolves from the foxes—I might know a card-sharper when I meet one, but George Warren isn't a card-sharper.” Freddie looked thoughtful. “That's to say I don't know that he is, never played cards with him, but he's such a scrub, he might be up to any kind of trick. However, it ain't cards or shady dealings on the exchange that bothers me, it's why he's bent on fixing his interest with Miss Collins.”

“Really, Freddie, use your sense, form your own opinion, can't you? He may simply want to ingratiate himself with his uncle. Is the marquis aware that he forms one of Miss Collins's court?”

“No, that's one thing I have noticed. Warren takes good care not to hang around Miss Collins when his uncle is present. You'd think all the old tabbies would be quick to tell him that Warren is getting assiduous in his attentions, but of course, Montblaine won't listen to them. He doesn't move among ordinary mortals, and certainly never listens to gossip or chitchat.”

Bartholomew rose, and placed his hat back on his head. “I have business to attend to. And next time I find myself in the company of Miss Collins and Warren, I shall observe them closely, I can't promise more than that.”

“That's all I ask,” said his lordship. He grasped his friend's hand. “Thank you, Bartholomew, I knew you wouldn't let a fellow down.” With which confident words, he sauntered off down the Strand, leaving Bartholomew looking at his retreating back. He would keep to his word, but since he had no plans to attend any of the social events where he might meet any of the players in this drama, Freddie would have to solve his problems for himself. He didn't want to see his friend married to Miss Collins, but Lady Desmond would take care to thwart him in that, and the interfering, controlling Miss Eliza would find her efforts to promote the match would count for nothing against that foe.

Oh, to hell with Freddie and Miss Collins, and Warren and the whole crew; he wanted nothing to do with any of them. Nor did he want to spend any more tedious evenings having to be civil to Jane.

He was in a thoroughly bad temper by the time he got back to the bank, and gave Mr. Leverson such a hard time as to make that gentleman enquire of his acquaintances whether all was well with Bruton's bank, since young Mr. Bruton seemed so uncommonly severe and unsmiling.

Lady Warren sent a note round to George, a triumphant note. She had for years cultivated Lord Montblaine, well aware that she stood to become a marchioness when he moved on to the next world—an event she eagerly awaited, although the man was odiously fit, never a cough leading on to an inflammation of the lungs, such as might carry the halest of men off, never a hint of gout or apoplexy.

His lordship treated her with the cold courtesy that was normal with him, but he did make use of her services on such occasions as he wanted to entertain a party at his country seat. She would act as hostess, revelling in every stone and silk hanging of the immense house that she hoped one day to be mistress of.

To be supplanted by a clergyman's daughter—a bishop was no more than that, after all—was not to be tolerated. So she received with pleasure Lord Montblaine's imperious command that she assemble a party for a long weekend at the end of the month, and her scheming mind at once set to work.

He appended a list of guests to be invited; she might also invite those of her acquaintance as she considered would be acceptable to those named.

“Naturally,” she said to George, “that includes you. And this is your chance, there you will be, day and night in that pile, with all the corridors and hidden places. If you cannot take advantage of Miss Collins, then I despair of you. She is attracted by you, I am sure of it, and you know, these reserved young women are often the very ones to abandon all sense of discretion when their fancy is finally caught. Her passions may well overcome her head, it is up to you that they do.”

“I see Miss Eliza Collins's name is there,” said George, putting up his quizzing glass and running an eye down the list. “I've only met her the once, and I didn't take to her, she fancies herself a wit, to make up for her lack of beauty, I suppose. And her ladyship, that is a great nuisance, the woman is an oppressive guardian.”

“She will have her guard down there, we are not to be such a large party, I shall see to that. She loves to play at cards, I will draw her off, as the hunting men would say, to leave you with a clear field. As to the sister, she is of no consequence, she will find herself so overawed by her surroundings that she will probably retire with the headache.”

“I see he asks you to invite his banker, Mr. Bruton,” said George Warren. “Hardly a suitable guest for Montblaine, unless he comes in by the tradesman's entrance. And forsooth, Lady Sarah and that odious fellow Bartholomew Bruton as well, who needs taking down a peg or two if ever any man does.”

Bartholomew Bruton had ruthlessly turned down Warren's application for a loan when he was in difficulties the year before, even though the king himself had requested that Bruton's help his crony. “We are not obliged to pander to kings,” Bartholomew had said, and his father concurred. The king banked with Hoare's, and they, in Mr. Bruton's opinion, were welcome to him.

“Never forget,” said Lady Warren, “that through Lady Sarah he is related to half the House of Lords, although not, thankfully, to us. Bartholomew Bruton is very well connected on that side of the family, and when he marries that Grainger girl—good heavens, to think of the wealth of that young couple. It makes me feel quite ill—then he will take a step further up in the world. I dare say his lordship has some business to conduct to do with the estate. When a man is as rich and grand as Montblaine, you know, he can be eccentric in his acquaintance.”

“When I become Montblaine, I shall make sure no bankers cross the threshold of the abbey, you can take my word for that. Who else? Mr. and Mrs. Wytton.” George let his glass drop and it dangled on its silk ribbon. “Damn me, my uncle must be serious about that wretched girl. I would hardly be surprised to see the bishop's name written here. His only reason for inviting the Wyttons must be the Darcy connection, since they are the only respectable family Miss Collins can boast of.”

“If you can call any of those Darcy girls respectable, married women or not,” Lady Warren said sourly. “There is no one on that list I would have chosen to invite, but you see he gives me carte blanche, apart from those, and so I can make sure that at least some of our particular friends are among the guests.”

Alexander Wytton received Lord Montblaine's invitation with ill-concealed fury. “I will not accept, I will not go. What, spend four or five days in that monstrous house? I think not. We have a perfectly good abbey of our own to go home to, should we want to leave London. What the devil does he want to invite us for in any case? I hardly know the noble marquis, and what I do know of him hardly makes me want to further the acquaintance. No, no, write a civil reply to Lady Warren, what a dreadful woman she is, saying that we regret and so forth.”

Camilla tucked her arm into his. “Consider, my love, we are being asked for a reason. Not so that you can discuss ancient Egyptian kings with Montblaine—although does he not have some fine antiquities?—but because Charlotte is our cousin.”

“You are out there, surely,” said Wytton. “It will come to nothing, mark my words. The odds are lengthening, now that George Warren is back in England.”

“George Warren? What has he to do with it? Does he plan to murder his uncle or perhaps do away with Charlotte, in order to safeguard his inheritance?”

Wytton looked down at his wife, his face softening. “How extravagant you are in your suppositions; have you been reading another of Griffy's racy novels? The buzz at Pinks is that Miss Collins is inclined to enjoy George Warren's company rather more than is suitable for a young woman likely to embark on matrimony with the uncle.”

“George Warren! You are joking, Charlotte cannot like him, it is all nonsense.”

“Have you seen much of Charlotte recently?”

“No, for Lady Grandpoint moves in different circles, and although I have asked her here more than once since she first came, she is always otherwise engaged. Good heavens, what you tell me fills me with alarm. George Warren!”

“A dangerous man, as we know.”

And he and Camilla exchanged a long, thoughtful look, for Warren had brought nothing but trouble to her family. The enmity was an old one; his stepmother had never forgiven Camilla's mother, the then Elizabeth Bennet, for marrying the rich and handsome Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, the more so since she, as Caroline Bingley, had had every intention of marrying him herself. That it had been a passionate love match mattered nothing to her, she wouldn't have cared if Mr. Darcy had had the temper of Poseidon and the morals of a Turk, she would have married him for his money, estate, and position. Her brother had at the same time married Elizabeth's sister, Jane Bennet, which tied up the bows of her hatred for the family.

“He cannot be carrying his vengeful spirit so far as to attack Charlotte merely because she is a cousin—and not a close cousin of yours, my love,” Alexander finally said.

“That will be the cream on the dish, the extra piquancy; no, he is protecting his own interests here, I am sure of it. I think we must certainly go, for if what you say is true, we need to keep an eye on Warren, apart from lending our support to our cousin. I wonder that Eliza has not mentioned it to me.”

“Eliza does not move in the same circles as Charlotte, and she may be unaware of Warren's friendship with her sister, she may not have heard the comments that have been made about it. Lady Grandpoint and the dreadful bishop were perhaps unwise to let Eliza come to London and then not permit her to share in the social delights laid out for Charlotte, for she is quick on the uptake and would soon have taken Warren's measure.”

Eliza called upon Camilla that morning, and was delighted to find Henrietta Rowan and Mr. Portal sitting in her drawing room. Camilla greeted her cousin affectionately, and then, when Eliza was seated, asked some very direct questions.

“I do not scruple to speak in front of Pagoda and Mrs. Rowan, Eliza, for they are old friends, whose advice may be valuable, and I know they are both the soul of discretion. What I have to say relates to Charlotte: Alexander tells me that George Warren is paying her a lot of attention, and that she is inclined to favour him.”

Eliza was so astonished she nearly dropped the glass of lemonade she was about to drink from. She put it down on the little table beside her and stared at Camilla. George Warren. She frowned. “I have met him but once, a dark, not unhandsome man, with a rather contemptuous air of being above his company—that was, me. He kept looking past me to see if there were someone more interesting to speak to, and we barely exchanged a dozen words. He danced with Charlotte, but she favour him? I do not think so.”

“That's all very well, but you are not often in your sister's company at these parties and balls she attends, you have your own circle of friends, I believe,” said Mrs. Rowan. “I have seen Miss Collins with Mr. Warren, and I would say he was strongly attracted to her, at least he gives the appearance of being attracted to her.”

“That is nothing,” said Eliza, “she has many admirers. If she favours any of them, I would say it was Lord Rosely, and there is no harm in that, in fact—”

“In fact, you would like to see her married to Rosely,” said Pagoda. “Well, you know your sister best; I am not sure they would suit. However, the point is, what are Miss Collins's feelings towards Warren? You are her sister, has she not spoken to you about him? When you are in your chambers, preparing for bed, do you not talk over the evening's events together?”

“No,” said Eliza.

She had barely spoken to Charlotte these last two weeks or so. Her sister's life was so full, she came in so late, long after Eliza, yawning her head off, had retired, and Lady Grandpoint, careful to cherish her goddaughter's looks, insisted that she have breakfast in their room and rise late, to get the hours of sleep she needed.

“Charlotte is not the kind of person to open her heart to anyone, except perhaps my mother,” said Eliza. “We are not close in that way. She seems happy, as far as I can tell.”

She fell silent, thinking hard about Charlotte. Yes, she was happy. Within that calm exterior, there was a certain radiance to her, a serenity that had not been there before. Was she in love, or merely enjoying her successful London season? For herself, being in love made her happy and lively and overflowing with good-will; she could see nothing of that in Charlotte. “We are so different in temperament, that it is hard for me to say. Charlotte never has been in love, and so I cannot judge what her feelings are at present.”

“I dislike and despise George Warren,” said Camilla decidedly. “I would not trust him an inch. However, women, some women, do find him attractive.”

“Good heavens, and you think Charlotte and this man have formed an attachment? You alarm me.”

“There is the title to be considered,” said Pagoda Portal bluntly. “He will inherit a barony, although I am not sure whether the estate will be encumbered with mortgages and so on. And then, his father is heir presumptive to Montblaine. Warren inherited a pretty little estate not long ago, but he has not the money to put that in order. I do not see why he should be hanging out for anything but a rich wife. I do not believe for a moment that he would let his feelings overcome his hard-headedness.”

Eliza bit her lip. “I wish Charlotte would be more forthcoming, or, failing that, that she would accept the hand of Lord Rosely, who I'm sure must have proposed to her by now. That would see off Mr. Warren.”

“What of her even more noble and distinguished suitor?” enquired Mrs. Rowan.

Eliza looked puzzled for a moment. “You mean Lord Montblaine. Oh, Charlotte cannot care for him, he is too old, too austere, and I am quite sure we are not grand enough for him. I know Lady Grandpoint cherishes hopes of him, but I think she is out there, I think it is all pie in the sky.”

“Has she not been invited to Montblaine for the forthcoming weekend?” asked Camilla. “For we received an invitation this morning, courtesy of Lady Warren, and have been racking our brains to decide why we should have been so favoured, not being at all well acquainted with Lord Montblaine, and certainly not on Lady Warren's usual guest list. We came to the conclusion we must have been asked on Charlotte's account, being her only close family in London apart from you and the Grandpoints.”

“Invited to Montblaine? Lord Montblaine's house? I know nothing of it, and I am sure Lady Grandpoint would have mentioned it were it so.”

“Have you seen her ladyship this morning?”

“No, I have not, for I rose early, and left the house before she was awake, I had to go…I had some errands to perform.”

“Such as visiting the offices of Mr. Mostyn at the
London Magazine
?” said Pagoda Portal, quizzing her through his glass.

Eliza's lemonade this time did take a tumble. A maid was summoned, the spilt liquid mopped up, and there was Mr. Portal laughing at her discomfiture. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said, becoming at once more serious when he saw her distress.

Eliza was aghast. She had gone alone, in a hackney cab, to call upon the editor of the
London Magazine,
and had taken the greatest care to be discreet, dressing plain and wearing a hat that shaded her face. How was it possible that she had been seen and recognised? And if by Mr. Portal, then by whom else?