The Darcys and the Bingleys

by Marsha Altman

  “I confess, I’m a whiskey man myself,” Kincaid said. “It’s my only nationalist indulgence. We will remain in confidence of this, of course.”

  “Of course,” Darcy said, “though you will not find Mr. Bingley the Anglophile you may believe him to be.”

  “My concern is of course with Caroline, primarily. You must know her habits,” he said. “Not to be beat around the bush, but you were once her suitor.”

  “That would imply that I was pursuing her. But I had not your courage,” he answered.

  “You are being humble. There is no need, Darcy, if we are to be brothers, if Charles would come around. I cannot account for it.”

  “Nor I,” Darcy said, which was actually reasonably honest.

  “The point is, I am aware that it was considered a suitable match by . . . her family—and Caroline herself.”

  “Oh, yes.” Fine, if Kincaid was going to be flippant, so would he. “And Bingley would marry my sister, and our families would be so ridiculously connected that no one would be sure who could marry whom after several generations. But life often turns out differently. And besides, had I not . . . to be blunt about it . . . not further engaged Miss Bingley in pursuit, then we would not be sitting here, and you would have to find another beauty.”

  “Then I am a lucky man indeed.”

  Darcy took a long drink. “Indeed.” He was trying to imagine what this man’s scheme was, because there had to be one. What would he possibly see in Caroline Bingley? All he could think of in her defence was that she had a nice brother. Perhaps he was being a bit cruel, but what was warranting this rather thorough investigation of this man, anyway?

  “I will confess something to you, Darcy, if you would have it.”

  Darcy raised an eyebrow. “If you are so inclined.”

  “I know very well that my sudden appearance and pursuit of Caroline must all seem a bit hasty and alarming. Perhaps that is why her brother is so reluctant to grant his consent. I know I have not proven my worth yet, have no reputation, et cetera . . . but three long years in Australia in the desert searching for gold with the natives can really put a man in want of good company.” He stuttered, “I don’t mean female company, to be crude about it—sophisticated female company. And you must admit, Caroline is a sophisticated woman.”

  “The very model of it,” Darcy found himself saying. “I believe she knows . . . four languages. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “She surpassed me in this endeavour. My French is barely tolerable, and my Latin has disappeared entirely over the years. If those are her requirements for a husband, I have no idea what she saw in me.”

  “I am not such a scholar either,” Kincaid admitted, “but I do know French, which is all the rage in Scotland of course, practically a second language among the nobility . . . and some Italian. And I confess to having picked up quite a bit of the ‘Aboriginal’ language—lot of good it will do me here, though.”

  Darcy had to assume he meant the Australian native tongue. “Perhaps you could write a book of your observations of the culture and language.”

  “Perhaps. It would be a pursuit. I am so accustomed to being overworked that I haven’t the faintest idea of what to do with my time now. But I suppose Caroline will keep me busy for long enough,” he said with a sly smile that made Darcy’s stomach churn. Caroline was a beautiful woman, but she looked too much like her brother. He had always tried to ignore the occasional creeping thought that relations with her would be too much like engaging with a female Bingley. “But I am too crude for a gentlemen’s club.” Kincaid slapped Darcy on the shoulder. “Too long in the wilds of the Outback.”

  “Well, if you want proper English society, you’ve found it,” Darcy said, raising his mug. “Cheers.”

  Their glasses clinked. “Cheers.”

  ***

  Darcy was changed and back at Bingley’s on his usual early schedule for dinner. There was nothing complicated about his dinner dress, but he had spent some time in his room pacing and pondering while the manservant gave him a queer look. James Kincaid did not appear to be an overly complicated man and, in fact, gave every indication that he should be worth liking. Darcy could not account for his uneasiness at all, but he was fairly confident in his own instincts and certainly if he shared them with the usually unobservant Bingley. Whether Kincaid was deeply in love with Miss Bingley was still a question on the table, but he certainly presented himself as someone who cared about her enough to marry her.

  He could only point a finger in one direction, vague as it was. As much as he wanted to know Kincaid, Kincaid wanted to know him. Fencing and drinking with him had told him that. He was as suspicious of Darcy’s sudden presence as Darcy was of him, and he wanted desperately to be liked by this mysterious relative who had even once been Miss Bingley’s ideal match (and might very well still be). Everything in his fencing moves said, I can match you. I can play this game.

  It unnerved Darcy that it was a game at all.

  On his way to the Bingley townhouse, Darcy made a mental inventory of the things that still needed investigating: Kincaid’s finances, his plans for the future, what Bingley was thinking, what Miss Bingley was thinking. Was he actually going to have to talk to her? About this? Surely Bingley could handle that.

  Georgiana had another engagement and had not joined him. Only Mrs. Hurst was in the parlour, and he had no desire to make any discussion with her, so he went looking for Bingley instead. He was a regular-enough fixture to make his own way about the place without anyone hassling him. He was about halfway up the stairs when he saw a flash of orange hair from the person on the second-story landing, but it was not Charles Bingley. Partially to avoid her and partially because he found himself rather enjoying his sudden career in sleuthing, he ducked behind the stairwell as she descended.

  “Mr. Hurst is—?”

  “Doing well, actually.”

  “So you—”

  “—will be finished with the treatments soon. Not that I can cure him, but I can certainly get him out of this flare. And then I’ll be out of your way.”

  He could see the two of them, now at the bottom of the stairs, as she curtseyed. “Daniel.”

  “Caroline.”

  He walked off and out the door in a nervous shuffle, leaving Miss Bingley to stand in place for some time before disappearing back up the stairs. It was only in relative safety that Darcy emerged from his hiding space only to find yet another Bingley coming down the stairs; this was the one he wanted. “May I speak with you?”

  “Darcy, you’re here! Of course.” They quickly retired to his study. “I see you survived your match with the earl. I hope you weren’t too harsh on him. In other words, I hope he’s still alive.”

  “Please!” Darcy said, shutting the door behind him. “The only man I’ve stabbed—that was completely by accident. The tip broke. And it was just a flesh wound.”

  “So you kept insisting,” Bingley said. “I do, however, seem to recall him calling you by a very particular nickname shortly before the match—”

  “Bingley.”

  “Fine.” Bingley took up his seat at the grand desk, leaning back into it. “My father used to sit at this desk and lecture me.”

  “On what?”

  “Oh, everything a man who is to inherit a fortune ought to know. Surely your father did the same?”

  “He did,” Darcy admitted, leaning on the fireplace. “It was very odd to take his place, even with the ample warning I had. The very first thing I did in his seat was pay off Wickham—using his check.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bingley said. He was playing with the globe again, just an idle spin of it. “I often wonder if my father sat in here and worried about his daughters’ marriage prospects.”

  “I have no doubt. I worry about Georgiana incessantly.”

  “Not about her prospects—just if she’ll ever find one you’ll approve of. When she turns thirty, you may have to lower your standards.” He didn’t g
ive Darcy time for his cheeky reply. “You have some news.”

  “First, a question, a rather simple one—almost unrelated. How long has Dr. Maddox been in your employ?”

  “I suppose we could pretend he is in Mr. Hurst’s employ, but somehow I imagine his bill will turn up on my books when I inspect them more carefully. I don’t know—can’t be more than a month. Why do you ask?”

  “And he is here every day?”

  “Yes, he insists that Mr. Hurst have some soak, and of course my brother insists that the poor doctor stand there the whole time, as if something would go wrong while soaking one’s foot in some salt water. But I suppose if you don’t want to be working in the cholera wards, you will put up with whatever your wealthy patients want.” Bingley frowned. “Are you looking for a doctor for your employ?”

  “Perhaps.” For some reason, he felt compelled to lie or at least disguise the truth of his concerns. There would be time for that. Kincaid was more pressing. “No matter. I am going to make some inquiries tomorrow into Lord Kincaid’s fortune.”

  “So you doubt it exists?”

  “I’m glad I’m not the first one who has thought of that!”

  “Of course not, but it would be rather impolite of me to request records. That would make his marriage to my sister look like some kind of business transaction.”

  “Unless both families are penniless, all marriages are on some level a business transaction. Money was exchanged, no matter how reluctant we were to receive it and how insignificant it was. Lord Kincaid, Earl of _____shire, is to receive a small fortune upon marrying Miss Bingley, and that should not be forgotten until note is paid.”

  “I doubt my sister could live very long on twenty thousand pounds,” Bingley said. “This of course means that if he is a fortune hunter, he is the worst kind. But we have no proof of this. Why are we so eager to suspect?”

  Darcy shrugged with indignation. “You dragged me down here, Bingley! You tell me!”

  “We are both going on brotherly instincts, then.”

  “Until the truth is made plain, yes. There is also the matter that neither of them is particularly in love.”

  “Caroline seems suited with the match. And she never seemed to me the type to be ‘in love’ with any man. She would have readily become your mistress, and yet she still made all kinds of snobby comments at your expense.”

  “This is true,” though, he added privately, quite incendiary from the usually tolerant Bingley. Maybe his role as head of his family was wearing on him, especially with the enigma that was the unconfirmably rich Lord Kincaid.

  “Well, I will go to the Gardiners tomorrow and learn what I can of Australia, begin looking into his actual prospects,” Darcy assured him. “And then we will have our answer.”

  “Darcy, I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “They were your instincts that brought me here. I am merely doing the legwork so you can remain above suspicion.” He mock-bowed to Bingley. “At your service.”

  “And I am grateful, so grateful.” Something had put Bingley in a sad mood, and if Darcy had to guess, it was worry, for Bingley did care a great deal for his sister and would not see her ill married, no matter how well she sabotaged a marriage with her own personality. But that was not something Darcy could intrude upon anymore than Bingley could give him advice about dealing with Georgiana, so he bowed again more politely and left the room.

  Back in the hallway, Darcy was greeted by the newly arrived Lord Kincaid, who was more formal with Miss Bingley by his side. They were a reasonable couple—not glowing as he remembered Bingley and Jane, but Bingley and Jane were the exception to the norm. He vaguely recalled being described as somewhat inscrutable and inexpressive at his own place at the altar, so he was not wont to point fingers, and they were happy with each other. Why should he not, with no great sin uncovered, bless this couple? Even if they relied on her wealth, they could ride on Bingley’s coattails as easily as the Hursts did. Darcy and Kincaid would be sparring partners and maybe get drunk together occasionally. Was it such a terrible concept? Caroline’s prospects were almost gone, and here was a suitable match, to minor aristocracy, even if it was Scottish. Darcy did not even have to be involved, and instead he was to play the private investigator into this man’s affairs apparently. So Caroline was not deep in the bonds of love; most couples weren’t, and he could not imagine her acting like a lovesick girl anyway.

  In fact, the only time he had ever heard any feeling in her voice that was not sarcasm or false modesty but genuine emotion was the half hour before, as Dr. Maddox took his leave.

  Chapter 4

  North and South

  Darcy was up early as usual, and his coffee was hot and ready for him. He was already dressed for his excursion when Georgiana, usually a later sleeper, appeared in travelling winter clothes. “If you would permit me, I wish to accompany you.”

  “I have other business first—before the Gardiners—banks and the like. I am to call on them for lunch, if you wish to meet up there.”

  “Brother,” she said, taking his arm in the way she did when she really wanted something. “Balls and shopping are only so exciting, and you know it. If there is to be an exciting mystery to be solved, I demand to be part of it.”

  “It may not be so exciting. It may involve bank records and talking to stewards.”

  “All the same.” She twisted tighter around his arm and smiled at him. She must have known he could not resist that smile. Lizzy, it was her eyes; Georgiana, her smile.

  “Very well. We will be the constables,” he said.

  “Elizabeth will never forgive us for excluding her.”

  “I will write and tell her to join us if we discover anything truly exciting,” he said. “But I do doubt it.”

  It was a cold, clear day, and the London streets were, of course, disastrously muddy, but for their first mission, he had them descend from the carriage several blocks away before approaching the small offices on the corner. So small were they that the proprietor emerged to greet them even in the November cold. “What d’ya want?”

  “I am seeking to inquire about a property in this district,” Darcy said, tapping his cane into the mud with some authority. “I believe I have found a house most suitable to my needs, and I rarely see life in it, so I assume it is available. Would you be interested in showing it to me?”

  “Which one?”

  Darcy gestured. “The third on the left.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, good sir, but it is most recently taken by a gentleman from the north, a Scotsman.”

  “I see. And he intends to stay?” Residences were transitory at the beginning, before they became established, furnished, and passed down from generation and generation.

  “I don’ know, sir, but he paid out the year. More I can’t tell you. Wouldn’t be proper intrudin’ on a gent’s business.”

  “Of course not,” Darcy said, and slipped a sovereign into the man’s palm. “I merely seek to understand the best way one should pay for such a townhouse.”

  “Cash,” said the renter. “He paid in cash. Or so I was told by the owner of the block; if you want to talk to ’em—”

  “No, thank you. I believe I will be making my further inquiries through the proper channels.” He tipped his hat. “Good day to you, sir.”

  The man had no hat to tip, but he bowed rather grandly to the obviously wealthy gentleman before him, and the Darcys made their way back to the carriage.

  “What does that mean?” Georgiana asked as soon as they were back in the safety of their carriage. “Do you think it a large sum?”

  “Possibly. It could mean any number of things. The Gardiners, I’m sure, will be able to shed some light on the subject.”

  Before their luncheon appointment, they made three stops, all at different banks, inquiring to see if a certain Scottish earl had recently opened an account there. Banks were a bit more on the official side, and outright bribery and his own personal connections cou
ld only get Darcy far enough to tell that no, the earl had not opened accounts with these banks, but there were many banks in Town, and he could have gone to any one of them. With this tiny knowledge gained, a frustrated Darcy returned to his sister in the carriage, and they made for Cheapside.

  He had sent a message ahead, so the Gardiners were expecting them, and their children delightfully rushed to them at the door. Georgiana was more than obliging, kneeling to their level after her muddy coat was removed. Normally, the formidable Mr. Darcy would be more put off with young children climbing all over him, but the last year had endeared him more to the idea. “Mr. Gardiner. Mrs. Gardiner.”

  “So lovely to see you,” their hostess said.

  “Odd circumstances, though,” Mr. Gardiner said in that smirking way of his. Darcy had explained a bit in his letter, but only that he was looking into the credits of a suitor for someone in the family. Since they would have heard extensively from their sister had it been Mary or Kitty, and Georgiana was coming with him, it could really only be one person, and he guessed they had the ability to surmise that. “Shall we dine?”

  There was some talk of recent events, and they asked fervently how Jane was doing, and he replied that she was weathering things well, especially with Elizabeth by her side, and Geoffrey would be walking any day now.

  “Then you won’t know what to do with him,” said Mrs. Gardiner, clearly delightfully exasperated by her own children running to and fro.

  “I hardly know now.”

  Once Mrs. Gardiner bid Nurse to retire her children, they got down to business.

  “Australia, from what I’ve heard,” Mr. Gardiner explained, “is a risky venture. They say there is gold to be found there, but I’ve yet to see a man return with a fortune in it or any at all. It’s mainly thieves, ruffians, and natives—not a proper colony at all. But that, of course, says nothing of this earl’s success.”

  “What about his lodgings?”

  “You say he paid in cash? For a year on that street? It must have been a good sum.”