Lady Penrod’s heart stopped beating as she tried to comprehend what was being said. For several minutes, the only noise in the room was the mantel clock, her attention drifting as she considered the dual thrill and horror that the regent was even remotely aware of her existence. “I was unaware that they had married.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert’s shrill screech rang out again. “Both my husband and I would look most kindly upon a rethinking of the custody situation. Lady Catherine has assured us that her solicitors would be most willing to meet with yours to discuss a rearrangement that would be advantageous to all parties concerned.”

Lady Penrod gripped her chair arms during the ear-shattering experience. Once or twice, she opened her mouth to speak but then retreated in fear. Finally she whispered to Lady Catherine, “May I speak?”

Catherine nodded coldly.

“Please forgive my forwardness, but what possible interest would you have in this matter?” Her voice was barely audible.

Mrs. Fitzherbert raised her quizzing glass and stared, dumbstruck, for several moments. “Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam is a decorated war hero and a dear friend to our family. The colonel has honorably received your daughter-in-law in marriage and will be able to provide a most satisfactory home for the child, a child, I might add, who is only five years old and needs his mother. We would strongly recommend your immediate reassessment.”

Lady Penrod’s ears were ringing. That tone could not be natural, surely. She looked at Lady Catherine and then at the colonel, neither of whom looked as affected as she was by the pitch and tenor of that hideous voice. Her hands were shaking, and she longed to stick a finger in her ear and vigorously shake things around. “Forgive me, truly; until this moment I was unaware they had married. I thought…” The two old dragons returning her gaze stared at her blankly. “Well, I am certain that you know what I thought.” She whispered in confidence, not wishing to offend the colonel. Finally, she made a furtive little motion to stand.

Mrs. Fitzherbert gave her a look that could stop a clock. “You would not stand in our presence, would you?” Her voice clearly registered her astonishment.

“No, no. Of course not.” She sat again at the edge of her seat. “You see, my grandson is a baronet. He should be raised in this house, by people of his class and rank. Amanda is…is… an American. Would they be up to the task, do you think?” There, she could not make the problem plainer. Lady Penrod stared at them both as if this was all the explanation that was needed. The chit could not possibly be up to the task of raising an English gentleman.

Lady Catherine struggled to stand, a faint burgundy color rising up her chest into her neck and slowly spreading across her cheeks. She was furious—no, she was beyond furious. She was enraged. Mrs. Fitzherbert placed a steadying hand on her back, while she herself hid her twitching grin behind her fan. Knowing her friend’s immense pride, she wondered briefly if Catherine would soon explode.

“Are you insinuating that my nephew, I repeat, my nephew…the son of an earl, the nephew of an earl, the grandnephew of a duke, would be unequal to the task of raising a… a… baronet?!” Fitzwilliam’s chin dropped down to his chest, and he attempted to disguise a short bark of laughter which he could no longer suppress, while Mrs. Fitzherbert’s fan rose to completely cover her face, as she too struggled for composure.

Catherine began to choke and cough. She reached back to clutch the armrest of the settee from which she had just risen, her little feet alternately slipping out from beneath her. Mrs. Fitzherbert grabbed one of her arms while the colonel quickly came forward to grab the other. He slapped her on her back once or twice, causing Catherine to turn an angry glare momentarily toward him. She finally plopped back down into her seat, her face flushed and blotched.

“But she is a papist!” Lady Penrod flinched, immediately realizing her mistake.

Mrs. Fitzherbert turned slowly to their hostess. “How dare you. We are stunned at your ignorance, madam, at your bigotry. Are you even remotely aware of the families involved here? We hope you realize, madam, that although titles cannot be refused— Lady Penrod—they can be revoked!” Mrs. Fitzherbert was shrieking in fury. Dogs blocks away began to take notice. The chandelier quivered.

“Whereas our dear colonel may very well inherit the earldom if his brother does not marry and produce an heir, your grandson may be considered too young, or your family too unworthy, of his current title. There are many scenarios that could take place with very little effort on our part. But mark me, madam, we will make that effort.”

Lady Penrod gasped, and her face went completely white.

“We also were considered unworthy, if you remember, perhaps not due to our heritage but because of our religion.” Mrs. Fitzherbert’s voice rang out clear as a bell. “We do not intend to see another good woman be tortured by small minds if we are able to assist her!”

Lady Penrod was destroyed.

Their mission clearly accomplished, Lady Catherine and Mrs. Fitzherbert rose as one, Catherine smoothing both her skirt and her bodice, returning her little feathered hat to an upright position from its resting place over her ear.

Mrs. Fitzherbert continued. “It is suggested that you contact your solicitors and discuss this situation with them. We will await your decision, say, within forty-eight hours. If you decide to be more reasonable, we shall leave you our solicitor’s card so that yours may be in contact immediately. Think hard on this, madam.”

She had saved the best for last. Looking down her long nose at the shaking woman before her, she cast a cold stare up and down the woman’s body. “Mark my words, madam. We have the power to turn society against you.” Her voice was clear, hard, and deliberate.

“Never doubt for a moment that we will not,” added the now inexplicably alert Lady Catherine.

Turning to Lady Catherine, Mrs. Fitzherbert nodded, then they both turned to Richard. “Colonel, will you assist us back to the carriage? We are feeling quite distressed. Quite dissatisfied. When we next speak with our husband, he will be quite displeased!”

***

He leaned into the carriage and stared, dumbstruck, at the two old tabbies, both of whom were now laughing like schoolgirls. “Well, that was a bit of fun, I must say.” His aunt shook out the folds of her gown as she gasped for breath. “Heavens but that woman is a horrible snob. Imagine objecting to the girl because of her religion! La, what a small mind.”

“I do not believe what I just witnessed!” Standing in the open carriage door, he studied each woman carefully, a stunned look on his face. “I am appalled, shocked to my bones, in fact, by that blatant display of treachery and blackmail.” He shook his head. “It was absolutely magnificent, and I bow to the masters. I could kiss you both. Thank you, Mrs. Fitzherbert. I can never repay you for this.”

Lady Catherine and Mrs. Fitzherbert both beamed back at him, proud as peahens. “Nonsense, Colonel. We shall still have to wait and see. It is not a fait accompli by any means, you realize. Have no illusions that my husband would truly revoke the child’s title, please, but we can ensure that the woman’s life will become a social nightmare, as she now knows. No one in the ton, no one, would willingly move backward in status. One would rather face the black plague.

“And I truly do empathize with what your wife has gone through. Whatever I can do to help her, believe me, I will.” The look in her eyes softened, grew gentle as she spoke, remembering her heartbreak at having her marriage invalidated, her husband forced to marry another.

Fitzwilliam tucked the lap robe around his aunt and kissed her hand. “Richard, come, get into the carriage. Are you not returning with us?” Catherine looked at her nephew, her voice sounding disappointed.

The events he had just witnessed were the first real ray of hope he had experienced in over a month, and he looked away, trying to hide the emotions that threatened. “I will definitely come, but not now. I have some ends to tie up first and a bit of groveling to do with Wellington for my family’s future.”

“I know you will not fail me, Richard. You, more than so many others, understand honor and where your heart lies.”

He leaned into the carriage and took her hands. “Aunt Catherine…” He hesitated, not knowing how to say what was in his heart. With that, he took her into his great arms to hug her close. “Aunt Catherine,” he repeated hoarsely, “I can never thank you enough for what you have done today. How can I ever repay you both?”

This was her boy returning to her finally, the man she knew he could be, the man unafraid to show his love, gratitude, and devotion. Her hand patted his cheek, and she resumed her usual haughty demeanor. “Name two of your children after us, the girls, preferably. This will ensure that they will be greatly proficient in anything they undertake and that they will be considered diamonds of the first water for their beauty.”

He let out a bark of laughter and kissed her forehead. “Consider it done.”

She cupped his chin and smiled at him. “I will remind you of all this love and devotion at our next bataille, mon fils.”

Laughing, he kissed both of her hands.

He took Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand and kissed it gently, thanking her once again, then backed down from the carriage door and smiled up at them both. “Please tell my wife I will come to her as soon as I can. I will be there sometime tonight, though, I promise.” He stepped away, and the footman closed the door, the four horsemen who would ride on either side of the carriage bringing their mounts into position. Through the back window, he could see the two old friends as the carriage drove off, giggling and laughing over their great triumph.

Chapter 15

It was much later that evening by the time he finished speaking with Wellington, his aunt’s house already closed and in darkness, everyone abed. Fitzwilliam was waiting anxiously for Jamison to bring Amanda down into Catherine’s overly ornate family parlor. The night and the whiskey had gotten away from him while he and his general discussed old battles, the Ordnance Board, the future, and a hundred other topics. He kept delaying his leave-taking until the peer finally threw him out, muttering about how much more courage it seemed to take the soldier to face his little bride than it had taken him to face the army of Napoleon. A slightly inebriated colonel finally climbed into his borrowed carriage and called up to the driver to take him to Catherine’s.

As he waited, he looked about himself at the ostentation—the flamboyant, imported furnishings, the crystal and gilt, the priceless statues and artwork—all the incredible opulence that constantly surrounded his family and, especially, his aunt. He would never admit it to a soul, but he loved this gaudy old room.

For eleven years, he had experienced a life that the aristocracy could never imagine, and it had changed him. Commanding both viscounts and pig farmers, fighting alongside butchers and thieves, dining with emperors, sleeping with whores and countesses, he had come to realize that the Americans were right about one thing—there really was little difference between people.

He remembered the laughter and love between the soldiers and their women in camp—poor people who had nothing in life but each other. He certainly could not settle for less in his own life. He wanted the same tender love that any lowly cottager would. He needed the same sense of family and security taken for granted by any tavern keeper. There was only one woman for him, and if he had to wait a lifetime for her, he would do so. She was his heart and soul, his partner and closest friend, the first true love of his life, and the last.

He stopped before a portrait of his father and his father’s two sisters, Catherine and Anne. Catherine, as the eldest, was seated in the forefront, a countess already at twenty with the hauteur and superior look that had made her famous—fair-haired, porcelain-skinned, and incredibly beautiful. Behind her on her right was Anne Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s mother. Anne would have been nearly eighteen years old, with the dark hair and aristocratic beauty that Darcy inherited. He remembered her as a sweet and happy woman, gentle with the children and always deferring to her husband, often laughing as she hugged her son to her. Her warm eyes were softer and kinder than Catherine’s.