“Did he name the officer?” Darcy asked.
“Fitz-something. Fitzgerald? No—that is not it. I am sorry—I have long forgotten. At the time, my attention was absorbed by utterances he made of a more personal nature.”
Darcy looked once more at Sir Laurence. The gentleman Darcy would have welcomed into his family had dispassionately stolen the life of one of its members. Even now, the baronet left the Cobb with an outward air of dignity that belied the dark soul within.
Elizabeth slipped her hand into Darcy’s. “At last, you have your answer—we know for certain it was Sir Laurence who killed your cousin. Why do you look so troubled?”
“I am contemplating how much of Sir Laurence’s beguiling was his doing, and how much was mine. I believe I allowed his title and fortune to blind me to his true character.”
“He is well practiced at deceit.”
“I thought I was well practiced at unmasking it.”
Thirty-Seven
“While we were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared.”
After their time beside the sea, London felt cramped and noisy to Darcy. Its streets seemed too level, its buildings too numerous, its air too close. Though their town house was, as ever, an oasis of peace amidst the urban din, he was glad their time in the city would be of short duration. Soon they could return home to Pemberley, stopping en route to deliver Gerard’s sea chest to Riveton Hall—the final destination of its long journey.
First, however, Darcy was obliged to testify against Mr. Elliot and Sir Laurence in the Court of Admiralty. Artifacts had been found on both their properties—in the quarry caves at Sidmouth and in Sir Laurence’s art collection at Thornberry. When the evidence was combined with the testimony of Captain St. Clair, Admiral Croft, Darcy, and others, it was expected that the trials would be resolved fairly quickly. The numerous courts-martial for the corrupt naval officers would continue much longer.
Captain St. Clair called upon them nearly every evening. The Darcys had him to dinner more than once; in turn, they had dined at the home of St. Clair’s London sister, with whom he was staying. In his company and under his tutelage, Georgiana’s interest in things nautical had blossomed. She proved an apt and eager pupil, soon conversant in the jargon of man-o’-wars and seventy-fours, and she took particular pleasure in hearing him describe life aboard ship and the lands across the Atlantic where he had spent so much of his career. He, in turn, seemed as taken with her intellect, her conversation, and her gentle manner as he had been with her appearance on the evening he had first seen her. After years of hearing little in the way of music beyond fiddle tunes and sea ballads sung by men’s voices, he took particular pleasure in listening to her perform on the harp and piano, and he was delighted to be able to speak with her in languages he had acquired in his travels.
Now that the naval officer was free to represent himself honestly, Darcy found that he liked the young captain quite well—well enough that when he discovered his sister reading the
They talked—about Mr. Wickham and Sir Laurence, about trust broken and judgment deceived. They forgave each other—and most important, forgave themselves—for their perceived failure to recognize such determined scoundrels until nearly too late. They shuddered at what might have been, and looked forward to what might be.
“Sir Laurence is a criminal, and I am grateful to have escaped the future I thought I wanted,” Georgiana said, “but I did learn something from him. The more I reflect upon my conversations with him, the more I realize how much they were about him—his interests, his tastes, his opinions—and how little about me. I think he had decided to acquire a wife, and I answered his criteria. Had we wed, I would have become simply another object in his collection. Next time, I shall hold out for a man who expresses at least passing curiosity about what I think, and feel, and want.”
“What is it that you want, Georgiana?”
“Purpose, foremost—something more meaningful than endless balls and dinners and theatre parties. Variety—of places and people and activity. And a home of my own.” She paused. “I believe it is time I left Pemberley to you and Elizabeth and your children.”
They were in no hurry for her to go. “Pemberley is your home as long as you want it.”
“I know it is. But I would like to be mistress of my own. It does not have to be a grand home, just mine—and my husband’s, of course.”
Darcy smiled. “I am glad to hear you intend to let him share it, whoever the poor fellow may be.”
“You should indeed feel sorry for him, as my previous failures have increased my requirements. I want a man of integrity and principle, whom I can respect and admire, who respects and appreciates me in turn, and who makes me feel safe, happy, and loved.” She paused. “In short, I want what Elizabeth has.”
He smiled again at her praise, but said very seriously, “That is what I want for you, too.”
She picked up the
He laughed and put his arm around her. She rested her head against him, as she had when she was small. She was more than ten years his junior, and they had lost their mother on the day she was born. He had been protecting Georgiana her entire life; it would take just such a man to persuade him to relinquish that role.
“He is in a dangerous profession,” Darcy said. Though they had not spoken directly of St. Clair throughout their discussion, there was no need to identify the “he” by name. “I would not want to see your heart broken like Miss Wright’s.”
“I have given this much consideration,” she replied. “Nobody lives in perfect safety, and we are at peace now, which makes his profession less dangerous than it was. But even should war come again—it is a risk I am willing to take.”
They had been in town a fortnight when a captain in full dress uniform came to call. He entered their drawing room a striking figure. Gold lace edged the collar, lapels, pockets, and tails of his dark blue coat; an additional two rows of gold distinction lace striped his cuffs. The insignia of his two epaulettes—a crown over a silver anchor with a rope twined round it—marked him as a captain of seniority; the symbol also adorned the gilt buttons of his coat and breeches. Another anchor—sans crown—graced the gold and ivory hilt of his sword. His tall bicorne hat easily added another foot to his height—and to the aura of authority he projected.
This was a commander whose presence instilled courage, an officer whose conduct exemplified honor, a leader whose integrity inspired trust.
A man who, judging from the glow in her eyes, Georgiana would follow anywhere.
“Captain St. Clair.” Her lips pursed as she tried to greet him with an appearance of dignity that matched his, and to restrain the smile that wanted to spread across her countenance. But the image he presented proved too great a force for her to disguise its effect on her, and her eyes betrayed the pride and happiness she took in seeing him at last able to publicly assume the rank to which merit had raised him years ago.
“Good evening, Miss Darcy.” He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
“The tailor has finally finished your new uniform, I see.”
“Do you approve it?”
The smile would not be checked any longer. “It will do.”
“I have come direct from the Admiralty,” he said. “The board has appointed me captain of the
“There is no one more deserving of that ship.” Her smile spread farther. “Your own command at last! Where will you be stationed?”
“I am under orders to the West Indies, to retrieve the remaining cache of gold.”
