The Darcy Connection (27 page)

Bartholomew Bruton and Mr. Pyke passed in the hall. They greeted one another without enthusiasm; Mr. Pyke banked at Bruton's and so must be accorded the courtesy due to a client, and Mr. Pyke, for his part, didn't care for the young Mr. Bruton, who looked too much the gentleman in his well-cut green coat and, besides, had that sardonic glint in his eye. Why wasn't he sitting over some ledgers, what was he doing making calls in Aubrey Square at this time of the morning?

Mr. Pyke went on his way, and the footman attempted to usher Bartholomew up the stairs to where Lady Grandpoint was receiving callers in the drawing room.

Mr. Bruton had other ideas. “Just one moment,” he said, and opened the door to the parlour in which Eliza was striding up and down, clearly in a great passion.

She whirled round as the door opened, her fists clenched, the fury draining from her face as she saw Mr. Bruton standing there.

“I am sorry if I intrude. I heard voices—” He looked questioningly around the room. “My apologies, you are alone. I thought there was some altercation, you sounded distressed.”

“Angry, Mr. Bruton, angry rather than distressed. I lost my temper and was shouting at the door, which just closed behind the most obnoxious man in London.”

Bartholomew came into the room. “Mr. Pyke,” he said. He closed the door and took her hands in his. “My dear, what has happened? You look ill, you should sit down.”

“Pray, do not speak so kindly to me, or I shall be overcome, and I hate a weeping female.”

“My shoulder is at your disposal should you care to cry upon it.” He watched her, his heart in his eyes, as she struggled to compose herself. “What has Mr. Pyke done or said to cause you such anguish?”

“He proposed to me.”

Bartholomew raised his eyebrows. “Ah, and I know from my own experience that you do not care for proposals.” He could not keep the dryness from his voice; was this how she felt when he had proposed to her?

The colour rushed back into Eliza's cheeks. “I did not mean—Oh, that was quite different.”

“I trust you refused Mr. Pyke's offer? Rebuffed as I was, I should take it hard if Mr. Pyke were to have succeeded in gaining your affections where I was so abruptly rejected.”

“Do not be absurd. Accept Mr. Pyke? I had sooner marry the linkboy out in the square there!”

“Well, Pyke proposed, and you refused him. I am glad to hear it, but what is there in that to make you so angry?” He drew up a chair for her. “Sit down, and you will feel better.”

“No, I am too angry to sit still. It is not just the proposal, although his manner—Ugh, he is a veritable weasel, that man. No, it is that he threatened me, and…and”—her voice was suddenly forlorn—“I am in such a fix, and I can't see a way out of it. I cannot marry him, and if I do not agree to do so, he will ruin my father.”

“Ruin your father?” Bartholomew was taken aback at this stark statement. “Forgive me, how is that possible?”

“I can tell you, since you already know my secret. It is those wretched articles. He has found out that I am the author, and he says that if I will not marry him, he will inform the archbishop and everyone else in London that I wrote them, and worse, that my father knew of it, and condoned my literary efforts.”

“And, your father being a bishop, this would not be good for his prospects.”

“Prospects! Mr. Pyke says he would have to resign, and I can believe it, for you may be sure he would slant it in such a way as to put the worst possible construction on everything. I do not know what to do.”

“How did he find out that you were the author? I assure you, I have not breathed a word.”

“No, I know you have not. Nor has Mr. Portal, and the only other people who know are my cousin and my sister. I confess, I did suspect for a moment that Charlotte—it seems dreadful to say so, and I was quite wrong. Only it appears that Lord Montblaine, who is to marry my sister, encourages Mr. Pyke in his intention to make me his wife.”

“I have heard of the engagement, of course, and I have come to offer my felicitations to Miss Collins. My mama will be calling on Lady Grandpoint later on today, I came early so as to avoid—”

He hesitated, and Eliza looked at him with a quizzical expression. “Avoid?”

“My mother and I are somewhat at loggerheads just at the moment,” he said stiffly. “It is a personal matter, however, I do not want to run into her just now.”

“Well,” said Eliza, attempting a smile, “you had best be off upstairs, to fulfil your social obligations.”

“Oh, I don't give a fig for that,” said Bartholomew. “Who, then, revealed your secret to the Reverend Mr. Pyke if it was not Miss Collins?”

“No one. He ferreted it out for himself, using bribery and wheedling his way into information that he had no right to. He is the most despicable creature alive!”

He was still holding her hands. Eliza knew she should withdraw them, but his clasp was strong and warm and gave her a kind of confidence. Now that she had given vent to her indignation at Mr. Pyke and his perfidy, she became aware that her heart was thumping, and not from temper, but from the close presence of Mr. Bruton.

It was as though she were seeing him for the first time, and everything about him, the set of his shoulders, his firm mouth, the brilliance of his eyes, his air of vigour and assurance and intelligence, filled her with a sensation that she could not fathom.

Their eyes met, and she quickly looked away. There was a pause before he said, in a slightly unsteady voice, “So Mr. Pyke is a blackmailer. He has left you with an ultimatum, I assume.”

“He has given me until this afternoon to consider what I am about; in other words, to see reason and accept his offer of marriage. His proposal,” she said bitterly, “has the blessing not only of his cousin, the noble marquis, but also of my great-aunt. He even took it upon himself to write to my father, can you comprehend such behaviour? I am sure he held out the promise of great things to Papa, and he, not being always as…as sensible as he might be, no doubt believed every lying word Mr. Pyke wrote.”

“So Mr. Pyke will be back later for an answer?”

“Yes, only I will not be here. I can see nothing for it but to return as fast as I can to Yorkshire, to attempt to explain everything to my father. Only—” Her voice faltered.

“Only your father will advise you to accept Mr. Pyke. A rising clergyman, with the archbishop's ear, a relation of your brother-in-law to be, it could seem a most suitable match to a man who did not know the individual in question.”

“Exactly,” she said, grateful for his quick understanding. “Perhaps I can make Mama understand how I feel about Mr. Pyke, but I am not sure that she will quite appreciate how disagreeable he is.”

Not when Mrs. Collins had herself accepted her father purely for the sake of an establishment; Eliza had no illusions on that score. She didn't blame her mother for the decision she had made—what right had she to do so?—only she herself was not going to go down that path.

Mr. Bruton appeared lost in thought. “Do not return to York-shire. It would cause a deal of comment, just now, with Miss Collins's engagement and so forth, and I assume your parents will be coming to London in the near future.”

“Not if Mr. Pyke carries out his threat.”

“He won't,” said Mr. Bruton with sudden assurance. “When you see him again, ask him what is in the black box he has lodged in Bruton's bank.”

“Black box? What black box?”

“I can say nothing more. It may not work; on the other hand, it may mean that you are rid of the man for good.”

Surely Mr. Bruton would be at the Wyttons'? As Eliza dressed for the evening, she sang to herself, causing Annie to comment on her high spirits, “It's a pleasure to hear you so chirpy, Miss.”

Chirpy, what a word! Like a London sparrow, and, yes, she was happier than she had been for weeks. Now she longed to see Bartholomew Bruton again, to report on the success of his stratagem, to tease the truth out of him, and, yes, simply to be with him.

The carriage was brought round. Charlotte, who was calling in at the Wyttons' before going on to the theatre with Lord Montblaine, was already waiting in the hall, in great beauty, and wearing the sensational diamond necklace which the marquis had given her as an engagement present. Looking at her, Eliza felt a sudden pang, not of envy, but of a kind of sadness that Charlotte was moving away from her. Soon she would be the Marchioness of Montblaine, one of the highest-ranking peeresses in the kingdom, living a life which Eliza could hardly imagine.

Lady Grandpoint had gleefully spoken of how rich Charlotte would be, and gloated over the exceedingly generous settlements. Then there would be jewels, carriages, furs, a magnificent trousseau of silks and satins, of gowns from Paris. “What a change in station, what a difference from your life in Yorkshire it will be,” she exclaimed.

Eliza thought all that rather vulgar, but refrained from saying so. She wished she could tell if Charlotte were happy; looking at her serene, remote face, it was impossible to judge what was going on beneath that impenetrable reserve, and Charlotte resolutely changed the subject if Eliza tried to talk about her engagement.

Charlotte's brief presence at the Wyttons' was little more than a courtesy. “She will soon be quite above our touch,” Camilla whispered to Eliza after greeting her cousins and admiring Charlotte's diamonds. She clearly found the idea amusing, and Eliza knew that Camilla had no wish to move in the exalted circles where Charlotte would make her married life.

Charlotte went away after a little while, and the gathering of old friends grew noisier and livelier. Still no Bartholomew Bruton; Eliza had been so sure he would be present. She longed to ask Camilla if he were expected, but that would be too particular. Then, when she had almost given up hope, he entered the room, looking quickly round, looking for her, Eliza felt sure. She was talking to Pagoda Portal, but cast Mr. Bruton a swift, complicit smile, which caused Mr. Portal to raise his brows and, with exquisite tact, move away so that Mr. Bruton might approach.

They sat together on a sofa, the sounds and scents of London coming to them through the window, the perfume of the climbing rose in the Wyttons' garden mingling with the acrid smell of smoke and stable aromas from the mews behind. Here at the back of the house, the habitual town noise of wagons and carriages was muted, but voices hung on the air from other houses in the terrace. Swallows swooped in the twilight sky, and the raucous sounds of a couple of crossing sweepers arguing over a coin rent the still air.

Eliza kept her voice down, making it huskier than usual, and brimming over with laughter. “Mr. Pyke was rolled up, Mr. Bruton, you never saw anything like it. He went away with his tail between his legs, quite confounded and so anxious to be out of my presence! Pray, does discretion dictate that you cannot reveal to me the contents of his black box? I confess, I do long to know.”

Bartholomew's mouth twitched, and he had answering laughter in his voice as he told her, “Miss Eliza, I do not know! I have not been privy to that secret. For all I know, it contains a lock of his grandmother's hair and a pair of silver tongs!”

Eliza stared at him, then her laugh rang out, drawing all eyes to where they were sitting. “A joke, Miss Eliza?” said Mr. Portal in his genial way. “May we share it?”

“Oh dear, it is not a joke, just something so absurd!”

What an enchanted evening it had been, Eliza said to herself as she tumbled into bed hours later, radiant with happiness, knowing that Mr. Bruton was going to call upon her tomorrow, no, it was already today. He was going to renew his proposal, she was sure of it, and this time she would have no hesitation in accepting it, she could not imagine any greater joy than to be his wife.

Bartholomew was almost as exultant as he walked home from Harte Street. As he approached the front door, a figure came out of the shadows and greeted him with a whoop of delight. “Hoped I'd catch you, can I come in for a glass of wine with you?”

“Freddie, it's late.”

“And you have to be at the bank tomorrow. I know, I know. You're getting staid, old fellow, is this the man who used to paint the town red with me?”

“Your memory is at fault. That was one of your more raffish friends, I dare say. Come in, then, or you'll wake the household, and I don't suppose you'll care to have a peal rung over you by my mother.”

“Aunt Sarah? Good God, no,” said Freddie, moderating his voice. “Saw her this evening, can't say she was awfully friendly. Deep in disapproving conversation with my mother, all because I danced two dances with Maria.”

“Maria?”

Bartholomew opened the door into his sitting room and told his man to bring more candles and the decanter. “Then you can take yourself off to bed, I shan't need you again. Now, Freddie, who is this Maria?”

“Isn't it a wonderful name? There's only one Maria, it's Miss Diggory, of course. Did you ever see such sparkling eyes, such a glowing complexion?”

Bartholomew regarded his friend with a mixture of affection and exasperation. “Not again, Freddie. How fickle you are.”

“Fickle!”

“It's only a week or so since you were languishing all over London, eating your heart out for Miss Collins.”

“Miss Collins,” said Freddie with disgust. “That was nothing, it was a madness. She's an icicle, and I wish Montblaine joy of her, it'll be like going to bed with something carved out of the icehouse, if you ask me.”

“I think you do Miss Collins an injustice there,” said Bartholomew, recalling that young lady's passionate embrace with Mr. Warren. “Anyhow, aren't you cradle snatching? How old is Miss Diggory?”

“She is sixteen,” Freddie said with dignity. “And she is the greatest fun! She says the drollest things and is an accomplished mimic, I had to whisk her away before she started on my respected parent, who I must say sat there glaring at her with her most parrot-faced expression.”

He tossed off his glass of wine and held it out for Bartholomew to refill.

“I must say, you're looking pretty lively yourself. Dined well, good company?”

“Yes,” said Bartholomew abstractedly. “Yes, good company. I was at the Wyttons'.”

“I suppose the Collins sisters were there. My word, they are a pair. Maria is a great friend of Miss Eliza's, you know, but she's in a mighty cross state with her, since she has written three notes to her, and never a reply. She thinks perhaps Lady Grandpoint made sure Eliza never saw them, which surprised me, until Maria explained that Miss Eliza and her brother, Anthony, have an understanding which her ladyship don't care for, and she doesn't want Miss Eliza to have any contact with the Diggorys. She warned them off, in fact, in the most high-handed manner. However, her ladyship is on a losing wicket there.” Freddie sat up, looking solemn. “Bart, prepare to hear something shocking, for Maria told me—”

“Spare me the gossip, Freddie, I beg of you. I'm not interested in Miss Diggory's tittle-tattle.”

“You should be, for it's scandalous, and if Miss Collins knew what her sister had been up to, she would have the vapours, I should think.” Freddie's voice took on a confidential note. “It turns out that it's rather more than an understanding, that in fact, Miss Eliza and Mr. Diggory are actually engaged.”

“What!”

Freddie nodded. “Yes, a secret engagement. Contracted before the Collinses left Yorkshire. It seems Diggory
père
and
mère
didn't approve of the connection, and that's why Miss Eliza came to London—originally, Lady Grandpoint had only invited Miss Collins to be her guest in town. She wants Eliza to marry that energetic clergyman who's such a bore. Only now Sir Roger and Lady Diggory have had a change of heart, so we may expect another announcement any day. There, I told you it was a shocking story. Ha, you are amazed.”

Bartholomew said nothing, and Freddie, heedless of the stricken expression on his friend's face, rattled on, “Of course, you seemed rather taken with Miss Eliza at one time. My mother quizzed me about it, there's a bit of talk to that effect going about town. She asked me if you had serious intentions. I turned it off, well, I could hardly say that you would like to bed the wench, but social niceties being what they are, that wasn't possible. So I simply said that to my certain knowledge you didn't want to marry anyone.”

“How dare you—”

Freddie wasn't listening. “Mind you, you'd better steer clear of Mr. Diggory, for he's got wind of it, Maria says, and is out for your blood.”