Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “I believe you mean it is a lonesome combination, Colonel.” Their dance over, they returned to formal propriety. As he led her towards the refreshments, people gawked, stepping out of their way as they approached. From the corner of his eye, Fitzwilliam saw Darcy regarding him seriously across the room. Charles and Caroline Bingley still fluttered about him like moths. On his arm, Cal’s grip tightened, pulling his attention away from Darcy.

  Blast.

  Brigadier General Harrington, Bloody Benedict himself, stood holding two cups of lemonade. One he passed to Cal, who accepted it silently. The other he kept for himself, lifting it to his face and taking a sip, his eyes never leaving Fitzwilliam’s.

  “Fitzwilliam,” Harrington drawled. Pale and slight, looking delicate even in his red coat. But for all this, he knew Harrington to be a dangerous man, intelligent and ambitious. Fitzwilliam’s own good nature had given him a talent for liking everyone he met, with two exceptions. One was the man looking smugly at him. The other was George Wickham.

  “Brigadier General.” Fitzwilliam gave the most perfunctory bows, fuming that Harrington would greet him over the woman he was supposedly courting. Harrington gave him a cool, measured gaze before finally, finally turning his attentions back to Calliope.

  “Miss Campbell. I did not think you fond of dancing.”

  “I enjoy it very much but am seldom asked, sir.” As she said this, she took a sip of her lemonade, smiling into her cup. Harrington did not see it but Fitzwilliam did.

  “Then you must grant me the next set.”

  Fitzwilliam’s hands balled into fists. Officious prig.

  “I am afraid Mr. Darcy has already been promised the second set, and Mr. Bingley the third.”

  “The supper set, then.”

  “Oh, dear. I am afraid that one is—”

  “How odd, Miss Campbell, that after a season of being seldom asked that your dance card should now be suddenly full.”

  How odd that you have not bothered to ask her to dance until you see her dancing with others!

  “Indeed, I cannot account for it at all,” she said, sounding mystified. He knew Harrington did not believe that equivocation for a moment. The awkward silence was made only slightly less by the arrival of Darcy, come to claim his dance. She handed her lemonade cup to Fitzwilliam, giving him a sly smile as she took Darcy’s arm. He watched her go, admiring her graceful stride, silently thankful that this dance was a more sedate quadrille. He did not think he could bear to see her waltz with his taller, handsomer cousin.

  “Ahem.” Fitzwilliam looked over at Harrington like the man was something stuck to his boot.

  “I know your game, Colonel.” Fitzwilliam doubted that. “A second son cannot live on a soldier’s wage forever. But I must warn you, I have already begun negotiations with the girl’s father.”

  Inwardly, Fitzwilliam seethed. The girl, indeed. Outwardly, he put on his laziest, most infuriating smile.

  “Is that so? She made no mention of it to me.” And then, never breaking Harrington’s stare, lifted Calliope’s cup to his lips and drank.

  * * *

  “I do believe that peacock is following us,” Fitzwilliam said as they ambled through Kew Gardens, the vibrant blossoms nodding gently in a light summer breeze.

  “Which one?” Calliope answered dryly. Fitzwilliam turned to see the monstrously large bird following with a proud strut, chest puffed out, tail feathers extended into an enormous, ornate fan on greens and blues. Some distance behind the fowl, a man followed in what, to Fitzwilliam’s eyes, was a comical imitation of the bird. Harrington, no doubt coming to seek Calliope out in some gesture of courtship.

  Damn, but the man was persistent. Fitzwilliam shot him a glare as Calliope called out to her sisters not to get too far ahead. Reluctant as he had been to have the young Miss Campbells accompany them, he could not begrudge the delight on the faces of Clio, so quiet and shy, and the vivacious Thalia, only fifteen with a bit of her eldest sister’s boldness. Neither girl was as handsome as Cal, but he felt a curious fondness for the girls. He supposed because she doted on them so, he felt naturally inclined to like what she liked.

  Disturbed by the thought, he pushed it away and spoke to Cal in a low voice. “Has he been to see your father?”

  The corners of her lovely mouth turned down. “Like clockwork. Thankfully, Father is too intrigued by your presence to speed things along with Harrington. An old and venerable family such as yours may outweigh Harrington.”

  Fitzwilliam would say a prayer of thanks for that, at least.

  “I am afraid it will take a proper scandal to dissuade him. You might have to make love to me in the middle of St. James’ to scare the man off,” she said with a giggle.

  Hot, greedy need gripped him at her words. It had been a subject he had pondered far too often of late. Imagining such a thing with Calliope, as he did with alarming frequency, more often than not made him feel like a man dying of thirst in the desert. The fact that he did not pause, nor miss a step, or appear in any way out of sorts by this brash statement was pure heroism on his part. He thought he deserved a medal for not throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off right then and there. Instead, he laughed roughly.

  “I assure you, I would not allow that. Were I to make love to you, Cal, it would be an act of worship such as would shock the pagans themselves.”

  He was gratified to see her face pink, her throat working to swallow.

  “The things you say,” she teased. “You are quite shocking.”

  “I know better than to think I can shock you. But play the coquette if you like, Goddess.”

  She sighed, but Fitzwilliam fancied he could see it behind her eyes, the same raw yearning he felt, sensitive as new skin over an old wound.

  “I have told you not to pretend when it is just you and I.”

  He turned, took her hand and, in full view of everyone, planted a reverent, lingering kiss on the back of her hand, clad only in light lace gloves.

  “Now what,” he said, still holding her hand close to his lips, “would give you the idea that I am pretending?”

  * * *

  Of all the bloody…

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Brigadier General Harrington peered down his nose from atop his mount. Only way the pup could do it without a ladder, he thought with grim satisfaction.

  “Brigadier General.” Fitzwilliam saluted dutifully. However, much he disliked Harrington, the man was still a first-rate officer.

  Harrington dismounted in a fluid, agile motion that surprised Fitzwilliam. Now standing on his own two feet, the man had to look up to meet his eye.

  “A word.”

  Fitzwilliam followed from the training yards, where his men had just been dismissed, to the cool, dark confines of the officers’ mess, where the brigadier general had a small office that smelled strongly of pipe tobacco and parchment.

  Harrington seated himself. He did not invite Fitzwilliam to sit but sat peering at him with cold, gray eyes over steepled fingers.

  “I saw that you recently attended the summer exhibition,” Harrington drawled.

  “I did.” He had, of course, escorted Calliope to Somerset House, where half the ton watched them studying paintings and statuary, giggling like the conspirators they were at well-placed fig leaves.

  “And Kew Gardens before that.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Lady Snowley tells me she saw you escorting two of the Campbell girls to Vauxhall last month.”

  “Lady Snowley sees much and comments often,” Fitzwilliam said with mild amusement.

  “I will be plain,” Harrington snapped. Fitzwilliam nodded, showing all due deference to his superior. Inwardly, he was inventing new curses for the man.

  “I do not like your attentions to Miss Campbell. I do not like you. You are a spoiled, second son from a wealthy—or rather formerly wealthy—family. Your elder brother has made your family a laughingstock with his expensive tastes and a fondness for the card
tables. However, his transgressions pale in comparison to yours: the unapologetic rake with a talent for flirting and known penchant for visiting certain widows and has never, to my knowledge nor anyone else’s, paid court to a lady. Have I forgotten anything?”

  “I look very well in blue,” Fitzwilliam said from behind clenched teeth. If this man were not his superior officer, he would have planted him a facer or called him out. Harrington’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

  “Always so self-assured. I have suspected, since Lady Barton’s fete, that you have designs on Miss Campbell’s dowry, which you will no doubt spend as greedily as that dissolute brother of yours.”

  “And you are so fond of the lady?” Fitzwilliam seethed.

  “Fond? No, I would not necessarily say that. She is agreeable enough, though a bit too sharp and in need of a firm hand. But all that matters little. We need not get on so long as she gives me sons, and that process, I believe I shall rather like. She would not be mismanaged with me, if that is your concern.”

  Only once before in his life had Fitzwilliam felt such a violent rage rise up in him, when he learned of George Wickham’s treachery with young Georgiana Darcy, whom he shared guardianship of with her brother. Even that paled to the cold hatred now coursing through him. Harrington looked pleased with himself, knowing his words were having their desired effect. Fitzwilliam felt his fingers curl into a tight fist, knowing it was what the smug bastard wanted. Harrington wanted to be struck so that Fitzwilliam could be court-martialed and disgraced. He did not care. He would take a hundred court martials before he let Harrington touch one hair on Calliope’s head. He began to move towards the other man, seeing the triumph in his eyes and not caring…

  A sharp, urgent rap on the door saved him. He paused. The moment ticked by in heavy, palpable tension. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

  “Enter!” Harrington barked. A young cadet, barely old enough to wear a red coat, stumbled into the room, terrified by the fury on the brigadier general’s face.

  “What is it?” Harrington snapped at the lad.

  “Sir. ’Ere’s a gentleman askin’ to see ’im”—he pointed at Fitzwilliam. “I told ’im you was busy, sir, but ’e says it’s a matter a utmost urgency. ’Is name’s Darcy, sir.”

  Fitzwilliam said a silent prayer of thanks for his cousin. Solid, dependable, Darcy! Fitzwilliam had no idea what brought his cousin looking for him, but the timing of Darcy’s arrival had prevented Fitzwilliam from making a grave error. He had almost let Harrington win. He turned back to the brigadier general.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” he asked, all politeness. Oh, it cost him, that.

  Harrington flapped a hand at him as though swatting a fly. “You are dismissed. But do think on what I have said, Colonel.”

  “Oh, I assure you, I shall think of little else, sir.”

  * * *

  The shuffling thud of Darcy’s pacing was driving him to madness. It had been an exhausting couple of days, searching through the rottenest parts of London for Wickham and his purloined lady. Fitzwilliam felt dirty for even having been in Wickham’s presence, unsurprised to see the man unchanged. Showy and brash as a bantam cock, that one, absconding with Miss Elizabeth’s sister, no doubt to ruin any chance of Darcy’s future happiness.

  He felt a strange relief as Darcy had, days prior, recounted the tale of Elizabeth Bennet’s startling visit to Pemberley, glad that the lady had with time come to see Darcy’s hidden worth. It lay not in his wealth (though that helped) but in the strength of his character.

  “It is done now, Darcy.” Fitzwilliam attempted to placate his cousin. “Wickham will wed the girl, poor silly child that she is, and you shall be free to resume your acquaintance with her sister.”

  “She will not wish to see me,” Darcy said gravely. “I, who she confessed all to in a vulnerable moment. How she must blame me now for having listened!”

  Fitzwilliam sighed wearily. There was no talking to Darcy when he was like this. He would rather be back in his quarters—or somewhere with Calliope. The thought of her unflappable presence was a balm to his fatigued mind. He stood, pouring a glass of port wine for Darcy and another for himself. Nothing too strong, not after last time. He handed the drink to his cousin, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “All will be well, Darcy.”

  Darcy looked skeptical as he took the port from him. “What makes you so certain?”

  “I just am. Now do as your older cousin says and take your medicine like a good lad.”

  “My apologies, Fitzwilliam.”

  “No need for apologies. It has been a long day.”

  Darcy shook his head, one dark curl falling across his brow. Fitzwilliam knew women found that irresistible. How shocked they would all be when England’s most eligible bachelor married an obscure girl from the country, for Fitzwilliam had little doubt that Darcy would propose again. And they thought he was a scandal.

  “No, I mean...I am sorry for the things I said the last time you were here.”

  “You shall have to refresh my memory, I was utterly foxed that night.”

  “I implied that love was a great catastrophe. That it broke men like you and me. I could not have been more wrong. Love, even an unrequited love, has indeed transformed me but for the better.”

  Fitzwilliam’s thoughts flew to Cal once more. “Not to worry, Darcy,” he said, brightening. “There was not much room for improvement to begin with.”

  “Is it that American?”

  Fitzwilliam held a hand out, suddenly solemn. “I beg you, Darcy. Do not call her that. Miss Campbell is more than just that American. ’Tis bad enough I have to hear it in every ballroom and museum in Town, I would not hear it from my own relations.”

  Darcy seemed surprised by this but bowed slightly. “You are entirely correct, Fitzwilliam. Miss Campbell seems an intelligent, worthy sort of girl.”

  Fitzwilliam nearly choked on his port. “Darcy, you are beginning to sound like Lady Catherine.”

  Darcy’s handsome features paled. “Good god. We had better switch to brandy after all.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  * * *

  Fitzwilliam wiped the sweat from his brow as he led his mount to the stables. He was bone-tired and thirsty from training exercises, overheated despite the autumn chill, and now made anxious by the square of ecru which had been handed to him by a young cadet only moments ago. It bore a name in looping, elegant script:

  * * *

  Lady Matlock

  * * *

  He understood the message clearly as if his mother had spoken in his ear. It was a summons. Making his way back to his quarters, Fitzwilliam wondered if his brother had at last driven the family into penury. He thought of Calliope Campbell and her ten thousand pounds before a sharp discomfort somewhere under his breastbone forced his thoughts from that subject.

  The summer had come and gone since their agreement, since that glorious waltz at Lady Barton’s fete. Outside of his family obligations and military duties, Fitzwilliam spent every moment he could paying court to Calliope Campbell, escorting her to the park, to Bond Street, drinking endless cups of tea in the sitting room of the house on Pelham Row. The gossips of the ton had certainly taken an interest. Unfortunately, this only seemed to encourage Harrington, who at least seemed to understand that he could not merely woo the girl’s father. Fitzwilliam began to worry the man might try to abscond with her and hie her off to Gretna Green. He could feel the brigadier general’s dogged pursuit like a hand hovering over his neck.

  His concern had little to do with the money. He truly wanted Calliope to have all the things she wanted. Adventure. Romance. That dance among the stars. While he might have begun in farce and on mercenary grounds, his feelings for the American heiress was that of heartfelt adoration, and a simmering passion that sometimes threatened to boil over. He thought she felt it too. There were meaningful looks when they were alone. Small gestures like a brush of the hand. The times when he
was at his most charming, the stubborn tilt of her chin that betrayed her discomposure. If only he could be certain it was true and not part of the ruse. He still felt daily frustration that she thought his admiration of her to be insincere, part of an act.

  Once he bathed and donned fresh clothes, he set out to his family’s house, where his family had only returned from Matlock. Fitzwilliam expected his mother wished to rake him over the coals over the news of Darcy’s betrothal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He had been expecting it. He was prepared to do battle for Darcy and Miss Elizabeth if need be, particularly after hearing of Lady Catherine’s most abominable treatment of Miss Elizabeth and her family. Perhaps he could do his family some credit.

  His mother was waiting for him in the sitting room, squinting at a newspaper when he entered.

  “Hullo, Mater. Alone again?” He bent to kiss her cheek, only to have her slap the newspaper across the crown of his head. He drew back, startled.

  “What the deuce was that for?”

  Her eyes narrowed, the same blue as his own. “I know what you are doing,” she said without preamble. She shook the paper at him. “We are not so destitute that you should have to court an...an…”

  “Yes?” he said coolly.

  “An American. A tradesman’s daughter.”

  “Technically, she is half-English, with an excellent dowry and many other pleasing...assets.”

  “Do not be vulgar with me. I am your mother!”

  Fitzwilliam sighed. “And…what if…”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I were courting Miss Campbell because I truly cared for her?”

  The countess looked like she had sooner believed he could fly. “Do you?” she finally asked.

  He felt his breath leave him in a rush. “I confess I do. I think I am well on my way to being in love with her.”

  He turned and strode to the window, jaw clenched in mute frustration. He could not, of course, tell his mother the whole of the truth. About their pact.