Page 54 of A November to Remember

“Do tell, my lord!” Mrs Bennet’s and Mrs Philips’s eyes rounded in unison.

“It concerns the most imposing oak tree on the estate,” Robert murmured, lowering his voice for emphasis. “The very proud one from the North. The one that previously declared the local plants merely... acceptable.”

Mrs Bennet exchanged a look with her sister. “I suspected as such. But are you certain, my lord? The oak tree is prickly! He hates Hertfordshire soil!”

“The oak tree,” Lord Keathley said, his eyes dancing with wicked delight, “has developed a fascination with a certain headstrong, wild rosebush.”

Mrs Philips squeaked, clapping both hands over her mouth to muffle the sound.

“My Liz...?” Mrs Bennet forgot the cipher momentarily. “The oak tree hated the rosebush, preferring a wallpaper!”

“Not any more, madam.” He grinned, leaning back and crossing his legs. “The oak tree now prefers to stand near the rosebush. It is completely uprooted.”

Mrs Long’s eyes darted wildly between the three of them, her teacup rattling against her saucer. “What oak tree? Is someone planting a hedge?”

The colonel swallowed his cake and reached for a buttered scone. “The rosebush wore a plain grey leaf, madam, and the oak tree forgot how to breathe when she walked into the field.”

Mrs Bennet clutched her heart, her vision swimming with bright colours. Two! Two estates! Ten thousand a year, five thousand a year, a possible viscountcy, and a Colonel! Her head spun. She needed smelling salts. She needed a very large glass of Madeira. She needed to order fifty ells of white silk immediately.

“I do not understand a single word of this,” Mrs Long huffed, crossing her arms defensively. “I thought we were discussing Mr Bingley.”

The viscount turned to her, his expression one of tragic urgency. “Mrs Long. My dear, flawlessly discreet Mrs Long. I must confess something to you.” He leaned close, his voice thick with fabricated panic. “This horticultural talk is merely a distraction. A ruse. I used it to hide my true desperate purpose for coming here today.”

Mrs Long’s eyes lit up with the thrill of exclusive scandal. “A desperate purpose?”

“Yes.” Viscount Keathley sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “It concerns the Duchess of Barwick. The one whom Miss Bingley mistook for a servant and sent to the coal scuttle. You remember her?”

Mrs Long gasped. “I have not breathed a word of it to anyone!”

“I know you have not. You are a strongbox, madam. A locked iron strongbox,” he praised her, taking her free hand in his. “Which is why I need your help. The Duchess is arriving in Hertfordshire. Secretly. She is travelling incognito under an assumed name—Mrs Culprit—and she urgently requires three yards of puce ribbon from the haberdashery to repair a ruined hem. It must be puce, Mrs Long. And she refuses to buy it from anyone who does not possess impeccable taste.”

“Puce?” Mrs Long whispered reverently.

“It is a matter of absolute tactical necessity,” the colonel stated, nodding gravely around his scone. “The Prince Regent himself is involved. He is very sensitive to puce.”

“The Prince!” Mrs Long leapt to her feet, her mallow ribbons trembling with civic duty and the thrill of being entrusted with royal haberdashery. “I must go to the shop at once and ascertain whether they have it in stock! Puce ribbon! For Mrs Culprit!”

“Go, madam,” the viscount urged, standing and leading her to the door. “Do not let anyone know your true purpose. Walk quickly, for the sake of the Crown!”

Mrs Long scurried out of the parlour, colliding with Betsy in the hall before the door slammed shut behind her.

The viscount turned back to the room, dusting his hands together with a satisfied smile.

“Right,” he said, claiming the vacated second-best chair and selecting a slice of cinnamon cake. “The eavesdropper is banished. Now, Mrs Bennet, we have two weddings to plan, and your second daughter is proving to be a hazard to my cousin’s sanity.”

Mrs Bennet sank back against the sofa cushions, fanning herself so rapidly the lace trim became a blur.

“My lord,” she began, deciding the moment had come for unfettered honesty. “If we are to arrange such glorious matches, I must lay my cards on the mahogany. We have no money.”

The viscount paused, a bite of cake hovering before his mouth. “None?”

“A thousand pounds for each girl upon my death, and not a penny more,” Mrs Bennet confessed, the tragic injustice of the entail washing over her. “Furthermore, my brother Gardiner is in trade. In Cheapside. He works with ledgers and warehouses. Mr Philips is an attorney. My girls have no grand connections, no titles, and no dowries. And your cousin Mr Darcy is known to be the proudest man in England.”

The colonel swallowed a huge bite of seed cake and reached for a buttered scone. “Bingley has enough money to buy his own island, madam, and Darcy owns half of Derbyshire. They do not need your thousand pounds.”

“But the trade connections!” Mrs Philips wrung her hands. “The Cheapside uncle!”

“Bingley’s father made his fortune in trade,” Viscount Keathley informed them. “He bought his respectability last week, relatively speaking. As for Darcy, his grandfather was a terrible gambler who once lost a hunting lodge in a game of piquet. We all have relatives we hide, Mrs Bennet. I myself have a brother who breathes and eats. He is an embarrassment to us all.”