Page 22 of A November to Remember

Richard did not flinch. He picked up his knife and turned it over in his large hand, waiting.

“I want her,” Robert confessed, his voice but a harsh whisper. “I want her for myself. And I am unsuitable. Worse, it turns out that somewhere under my corrupted exterior, I am bloody honourable. Bingley saw her first. Bingley loves her. Bingley is a good man.”

“I will not say that I feel vindicated.” Richard set the knife down. “And I will certainly not say that it is justice, after all your escapades in the boudoirs of the ton. I will only say this: if you do one single thing to steal Miss Bennet from Bingley, I shall call you out.”

Robert let his head fall back against the chair, staring blindly at the plaster ceiling. “I know. I know it. I shall not do anything. That is why I avoid her like the plague. If I look at her for too long, I forget Bingley exists. But I...”

He squeezed his eyes shut, the sentence dying in his throat.

Silence stretched between them. Robert sat still for a long while, forcing the image of gold hair from his mind, locking it away in a corner of his chest. He opened his eyes and levelled a sharp look at his brother.

“And what of you?” he asked, his voice resuming its customary drawl. “Tell me, Brother, since when do dirges help your digestion? I was under the impression that your digestion was assisted exclusively by another plate of roasted meat.”

Richard cleared his throat and reached quickly for the bread. “Music is soothing.”

“She was playing a lament for the apocalypse. Two younger sisters fled in terror. My ears bled, while you conducted the tempo with a sandwich.” Robert leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Explain yourself.”

Richard chewed a piece of crust with deliberation, his gaze fixed firmly on the windowpane. “She is practical.”

“She is odd.”

“She has something,” Richard admitted reluctantly, his shoulders dropping a fraction. He contemplated the remains of his beef, avoiding Robert’s eye. “I have not decided what it is yet, or what I might do about it. But I want to find out.”

A genuine, bewildered smile curved Robert’s lips. “Fascinating.”

“Darcy needs a push,” Richard said loudly, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation back to their cousin.

“A gentle push,” Robert agreed, accepting the pivot.

“A shove.” Richard lifted an eyebrow. “If the ground is uphill.”

“We shall adjust accordingly.” Robert waved a hand. “But there remains one question before I commit a single scheme to the field, and it is the only question that matters.” He met his brother’s eye. “He may fancy her. But is she worthy of him? Charming at twenty paces is easily done—I am charming, and I would make anyone a disastrous husband. What is she when no one of consequence is watching?”

Richard reclaimed the beef. “Then we need more intelligence. Proper reconnaissance. Character, temper, conduct under pressure. Whether it is the man she would take or the ten thousand a year.”

“Precisely.” Robert rose and straightened his cuffs, feeling the pleasant hum of a distraction assembling itself. “And it happens I know exactly where the county keeps its intelligence. Prepare your good boots, Brother. Tomorrow we travel to Meryton.”

“Is there food in this plan?”

“Richard. There is always food in my plans. It is the only way you will follow me into them.”

Chapter Five: The Unholy Alliance

October 28th, 1811

Meryton on a weekday morning was, in Robert’s professional opinion, a theatre without a curfew.

He guided his grey down the high street at a leisurely walk, taking inventory. Two officers of the militia loitered outside the haberdasher’s, exuding scarlet-coated self-importance before a cluster of giggling girls. A butcher’s boy ran past with a parcel of dubious provenance. Three matrons stood outside the circulating library, their heads bent together in the unmistakable formation of gossip in transit. The high street itself had all the metropolitan grandeur of a mud puddle, and Robert was prepared to treat it with the reverence of an emperor entering Rome.

His troubled heart adored it all.

“There.” Richard pointed. “The baker’s. A corporal I met at Lucas Lodge swore on his stripes that the Banbury cakes are superior to anything in London.”

“We are not here for pastry, Richard.”

“Yes, yes, we are here for reconnaissance.” Richard swung down from his horse with surprising lightness for a man of his tonnage. “The pastry is incidental. Almost.”

“The pastry is the pretext, Brother. Do at least attempt to remember which of us is the diversion.” Robert dismounted and handed both sets of reins to a boy who had appeared out of nowhere, wide-eyed at the crest on the saddlecloth. He flipped the lad a coin and turned to survey the street—and discovered the street surveying him back.