by Jennifer Joy
Fitzwilliam Darcy, Traitor
A Pride & Prejudice Variation
Jennifer Joy
"Fitzwilliam Darcy, Traitor: A Pride & Prejudice Variation"
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Jennifer Joy.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Jennifer Joy
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Twitter: @JenJoywrites
Email: [email protected]
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Copyright © 2018 Jennifer Joy
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1-944795-18-4
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Thank You!
About the Author
Other Books by Jennifer Joy
Prologue
“That is your greatest flaw, Darcy. You are too often right,” Richard said.
Fitzwilliam Darcy inspected his cousin.
Richard's eyes were clear. His military uniform was brushed and neat — as befitted a colonel in His Majesty’s Army. His walk was steady and confident. There was nothing in his outward appearance to indicate he had taken leave of his senses, though his speech suggested it.
Darcy pointed out the obvious. “Being right is hardly a flaw.”
“It is when you are never wrong,” Richard insisted.
Darcy walked faster, the shops lining Pall Mall receding in the distance. Why had he brought Richard along? He was a nuisance. “I refuse to honor your riddle with a reply or encourage you to speak of my flaw.” At all times, Darcy behaved with the utmost discretion and propriety. If anyone knew the lengths to which he went to live above reproach, it was Richard.
"Your flaw? Do you flatter yourself that you only have one?"
Darcy shot Richard a look meant to silence him. It did not work.
"At first, I thought it was your complete lack of sympathy, but I believe the true problem stems from your infallibility. And then there is your resentment—"
"I will own I am resentful, but I do not lack sympathy."
Richard deepened his voice, mocking Darcy, "My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever." Holding up a finger, he resumed his normal tone, "You prove my point, Darcy. You have little sympathy for others and none at all for yourself. And drop your shoulders, man. You look like a miffed miss. I am doing you a favor in pointing out the flaws in your character, so you can make the needed adjustments. I am saving you time and extended heartache. See how helpful I am? You ought to thank me. It is not every day you encounter such honesty and wisdom in one devilishly handsome man."
"You are as handsome as you are wise.”
Richard clutched his chest. “Ah, the cut direct. I refuse to be insulted. What do you say to that?”
Darcy sighed. He was in no mood for humor, but he would indulge his cousin. “How do your men endure you?”
Richard guffawed. “Better than you do. They are good men. Very wise.”
“Then I am certain they would agree with me. No wise man would call being right a flaw.”
"I should think you would prefer to be happy at home rather than right … and stuck with me in London. Like a bur on my backside." Richard's grin never wavered.
“You flatter yourself, Rich. Nobody in their right mind would come near your backside, and according to you, I am always right.”
“Often. Not always. The difference is vast, and your ability to claim one over the more humble other is telling.”
Good Lord, Richard was impossible today. What had Darcy done to deserve this circuitous denigration of his character? “I suppose you aim to accuse me of pride next?” he asked.
“Why should I when you have just spared me the trouble?” Richard jabbed Darcy in the shoulder with his elbow. “That you would admit one of your own faults shows there is hope for you yet,” he added with a grin that made Darcy wish he could cast manners aside and throttle his cousin in the middle of busy St. James’ Square.
“Insolence does not become you.” Darcy contented himself with a withering glare, which Richard ignored.
Darcy grimaced. Why did he even bother? He lengthened his stride. The sooner they arrived at the club, the better.
Richard prattled on heedlessly. “A bit of humor makes it infinitely easier to accept one’s own faults and those of others. You are too serious for your own good, Darcy, and would benefit a good deal from a healthy dose of laughter.”
“When I discover a fault, it becomes my responsibility to root it out. I do not laugh over it, and I despise those who do.”
“More is the pity. You will have no peace at all until you accept that you make mistakes just like the rest of us mortals.”
"You speak of peace when it was your mother who—" Anguish suffocated Darcy, choking the words in his throat.
Richard raised his eyebrows. "You were the one who sent for her. What did you expect?"
For Georgiana’s smile to be restored. For Darcy’s sweet sister’s innocent wonder to be repaired. For the confidence she had once possessed to be returned…. Darcy’s chest tightened. He prayed he would never see Wickham again, for his restraint toward the devil was exhausted. The rake had done more damage than Richard understood. The fiend had stolen a part of Georgie she might never recover.
The Portland stones of White's shone in the autumn sun, and Darcy all but ran to the refuge.
Richard knew nothing of his faults. Darcy had followed his instincts to Ramsgate. He had been right. But he had been late. So nearly too late. Darcy could not afford to let his guard down for Georgiana's sake. She depended on him, and he could not bear to see her suffer more than she had at the hand of Wickham.
They entered the gentlemen's club, breezing past the group of dandies vying for position in front of the bow window overlooking the street.
Unlike that lot, Darcy did not want attention. His sole purpose was to pass the time in the most agreeable manner he could imagine until Bingley, or “that pleasant fellow,” as Richard’s mother had called him, was ready to depart for the estate he had let in Hertfordshire.
Darcy recalled her words clearly. “I do not know how you came to befriend such a pleasant fellow as Mr. Bin
gley, but I am glad of it. You stand to benefit from his association more than he could possibly benefit from yours,” she had said.
He had known better than to argue with his aunt. She had descended on Pemberley like a storm after a battle, with no respect for the carnage left in Wickham’s wake. And she had won.
As Richard had so ineloquently pointed out, here Darcy was. On his way to the country where he knew nobody — nor did he wish to meet anyone — when he would much rather be at home with Georgiana. Blast that traitor, Wickham!
Richard interrupted his thoughts. “Darcy, if you persist in this growling, I shall sell tickets and make my fortune. The public would pay a shiny shilling to see a snarly, live werewolf dressed as a gentleman. I have never seen you in such an ill humor.”
An ill humor Richard only prodded and provoked. Once again, Darcy regretted bringing him along. But they were inside the club, and his favorite billiard table was available — the one nearest the window overlooking the courtyard.
The smack of the ivory balls and the satisfying thud they made when they hit the leather pocket threatened to improve Darcy’s mood. If he did not look too closely out of the window, he could even pretend he was at home. Georgiana would be practicing at her pianoforte. Her skills rivaled those of their mother. She had been a true proficient, but Georgiana added a passion for music that no amount of training and skill could equal.
For a few glorious moments, Darcy forgot his troubles. He was simply a man decimating his cousin at a game of billiards.
And then the music stopped. Someone must have been playing nearby. It had not been Georgiana. She had not played her instrument for months. Darcy had tried everything he could think of only to be further than ever from making her world right. If only he knew what to do, he would move heaven and earth for his sister to smile again.
A pack of gentlemen entered the room, sniffing for an innocent sheep to fleece.
Richard nodded politely at the newcomers while Darcy returned his attention to his own table. He did not wish to invite their company.
“You are abominably rude, Darcy,” Richard mumbled.
Darcy struck a ball into a pocket. “I am in no condition to converse politely, nor do I desire anyone to suffer from my ill-humor.”
Richard sneered. “You mean anyone besides me? Have you no other friends with whom I might share the burden — I apologize, I should say the honor — of suffering my surly cousin’s companionship?”
"If I am so difficult to be around, you are free to depart. I do not lack for friends in town."
An undignified snort escaped Richard. "You do not let people know you enough to make true friends. You are infamous for giving a horrible first impression. Only the bravest and most persistent endure to see past your haughty exterior to get a glimpse of the honorable man within."
"You make me sound like an ogre." Georgiana had been dreadfully afraid of the monsters as a child. Darcy had often sat in front of the doors of her armoire until she fell asleep, until she was old enough to know those were not the monsters to fear.
If Darcy sought consolation, Richard was bound to disappoint him.
"It is difficult for a man to befriend a gentleman who believes himself infallible. He would sooner delight in seeing you fall off your pedestal than rejoice in your company. Mark my words, Darcy, society is not your friend."
Darcy snapped, "I did not ask you to join me. You are not obligated to stay."
Would that Richard would leave. He was exceptionally tiresome today.
“And go against my mother’s direct order? I am not so foolish as to provoke her ire,” Richard said, adding under his breath, “though she would reduce a colonel in His Majesty’s Army to the role of a nursemaid.”
That was it. Darcy had reached the end of his patience. He attacked the red object balls with all the pent-up frustration of a man unjustly accused and abused, ignoring his infuriating cousin along with the growing population crowding the room.
Darcy’s efforts were for naught.
Waiters moved between tables, seeing to the comfort of the gentlemen lounging in chairs and leaning against leather-tipped cues. What had been a quiet haven minutes ago was now occupied by at least two dozen idle men with no respect for Darcy’s wish for privacy.
He did not like crowds of people — especially this crowd: Gentlemen whose families had cultivated close friendships and strong ties to the Crown for their own selfish advantage.
Before long, the betting book was brought in and laid on the center of a table.
Darcy scowled.
Richard’s aspect cheered. “Finally, some worthy entertainment. I wonder over which folly they will wager thousands today?”
“They are self-serving fools,” Darcy said under his breath.
Richard’s smile disappeared. “Take care. Do not forget who those men are. Royalists, the lot.”
Darcy did not need Richard to tell him who they were.
One gentleman, the worst of the bunch, stood in the center of the group. The Marquess of Malbrooke had benefited from the timely death of his father to pay off his many debts. Had Wickham been born into wealth and privilege, he and the marquess would have been intimate friends. They were cut from the same cloth — handsome and charming enough to woo unsuspecting ladies away from their respectability; wealthy and influential enough to abuse others while avoiding the consequences of their selfish actions.
“That makes their extravagance even more inexcusable,” Darcy mumbled. He had strong opinions on the subject, but he was not so foolish as to voice them aloud for the Prince Regent’s personal friends to overhear.
Darcy tightened his jaw and bit his lips together, striking the cue ball with such a force it came perilously close to flying over the edge of the table.
“Easy,” Richard warned.
The marquess raised the quill pen over the book, commanding his devotee’s attention. They elbowed each other for a better view of the betting book, their eyes darting about and their feet shifting in eager anticipation — like hounds at a hunt.
They disgusted Darcy. “Let us go to the coffee room,” he suggested.
Richard looked disappointed, but he obliged Darcy’s whim without complaint.
They placed their cues on the table but had not passed the window before the marquess spoke.
His tone was smooth, the look in his eye sly — like a viper hiding in the grass. “Miss Watson enjoyed her first successful season. She is without a doubt the most handsome of the young ladies to make their debut this year. And yet, she remains unattached.”
The men closed around him, leaning forward and rubbing their hands.
It did not take long for their comments to deteriorate.
“It would do any gentleman credit to be seen with Miss Watson on his arm.”
“Do you suppose she is overly shy?”
“What do you aim to do about it?”
Darcy’s feet refused to budge. He stood at the edge of the group, unable to move even when Richard tugged on his arm.
The vulgar taunts continued.
“She needs a gentleman to guide her!”
“I wager Malbrooke means to act the gallant lover and tutor her!”
Their bawdy laughter made Darcy’s skin prickle. His pulse throbbed in his ears, and his whole body lit on fire. How dare they — so-called “gentlemen” of the highest circles — speak of an innocent, young lady in such a fashion. As if her life was no more important than the stupid wager they were certain to make over her. Had Georgie been part of a bet?
Richard grabbed Darcy’s arm. “I think it best for us to depart. Now.” He tightened his grip, tugging on Darcy as he stepped forward.
Darcy shook off his cousin’s warning. He was not going anywhere. He could not. An image of his own little sister flashed in his mind’s eye. Her shoulders thin and bony because she would not eat. Her eyes lackluster. Wickham had been so close….
Darcy clenched his fingers into fists lest he give in to his u
rge to strangle the rakes before him.
Richard tugged on his arm again, more forcefully.
Releasing his hold with a firm pull, Darcy whispered to him, “Miss Watson is a gentle lady, much like Georgiana. They attended the same finishing school.”
At that, Richard gave up with a sigh, as Darcy knew he would. Richard was honorable, unlike the scheming men working themselves into a passion before them.
Darcy and Richard stepped closer to the pack, their arms crossed tightly over their chests, their frowns firmly in place.
“Ah! Even Mr. Darcy is not immune to the young lady’s charm. Do you wish to place a bet? Who will be the first gentleman to make love to Miss Watson?” Marquess Malbrooke teased.
The man deserved to be drawn and quartered.
Darcy chose his words carefully. The marquess had the ear of the Prince Regent, who was known to act in favor of his friends. “It is not my custom to assist in the ruination of a young lady. Miss Watson is from a respected family, and you would do best not to make sport of her reputation,” he warned, his voice firm, though his body shook in his exertion of restraint.
Marquess Malbrooke shifted his weight to one foot, resting his hip against the billiard table and raising a hand effeminately. “Is that a threat, Mr. Darcy? Surely you did not rebuke me in front of this group of gentlemen when you know me to be a favorite of the Prince Regent.”
Darcy felt Richard tense beside him.
“Of course not, Marquess Malbrooke,” Richard said. “However, we beseech you to turn your attention elsewhere — perhaps in such quarters where the attention of an important member of the peerage, such as yourself, would be invited.”
