An (Un)believably Artful Theft (Love’s Little Helpers #4)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

G eorgiana felt miserable. She had wanted to leave London, had thought that if they accepted Mr. Bingley’s invitation, everything would go back to normal, to the way it was before. But they had been in Hertfordshire for three days, and everything was a mess.

Fitzwilliam was trying too hard to make her happy, and her guilt was unbearable. She did not deserve such an attentive brother—not after what she had nearly done. Not once had Fitzwilliam uttered a cross word to her. He was all concern and understanding. It was a dagger to her heart!

She tried to appease him as well as she could. She sat at the instrument and practiced the pieces he brought her, but she found no joy in playing. She smiled brightly and thanked him sincerely for the powders and brushes he purchased for her. Uninspired and not knowing what else to do with them, she painted some flowers on an old table. He brought her books and fashion plates, and she flipped through them, trying unsuccessfully to find something that would lift the tremendous guilt and uncertainty his attentiveness heaped on her.

Her brother pulled the shade aside, and her companion, Mrs. Annesley, pointed at the view visible through the carriage window. Georgiana looked to see what they smiled about when all she saw were sodden fields and gray clouds.

It was her fault they were here. Surely, normalcy would return if only they could go home. Why could they not go back to Pemberley? She sucked in her breath and clasped her hands together to hold her tears in. She would not cry!

“Do you want a puppy?” Fitzwilliam asked. His expression was so sincere, so desperate and eager to please her.

She felt tears pour like fat raindrops down her cheeks and hid her face behind the handkerchief clutched in her palm, pretending to laugh. Once her tight throat loosened its chokehold enough for her to speak, she said as gaily as she could, “I love puppies.”

“Then we shall get one.” He looked through the window, already beginning his search. She knew he would stop the carriage and adopt the sorriest-looking mongrel if she expressed the slightest interest in it. That was the sort of brother he was. The best .

Georgiana’s throat squeezed again. Her brother was a man of action. He always kept his word, even if it came at great inconvenience to himself. She never heard him complain, nor did he make her feel like an imposition… which only made her feel even more wretched for disappointing him as badly as she had. To attempt to elope with George Wickham! Oh, how she wished they could return to Pemberley! George would not dare show his face there. She prayed she never saw that man again!

Although she had hinted at her desire to return to Pemberley several times, for some reason her brother had not understood them. Aunt Matlock said that even the most astute of men were inept at understanding hints. She had encouraged Georgiana to state her wish plainly. Perhaps she ought to give her aunt’s suggestion a try. Watching her brother carefully for his reaction, she said, “I would much rather select a puppy from the kennels at Pemberley.”

He took a deep breath, but his expression was unreadable. She could not understand why he seemed intent on lingering in London when he preferred the quiet of the countryside. Of course, he had a great deal of business to tend to. He was always away, too often busy.

Her worst fear was that he would see George again—all the more reason to return to Pemberley! George would provoke him, as he had a talent for doing, and Fitzwilliam would demand satisfaction. When he had sat down at the breakfast table with a bruised eye and split lip three days before, she had nearly given in to hysterics until Richard had reassured her that he was responsible for her brother’s state.

The claim had calmed her at the moment, but now it troubled her. Had they fallen to blows over her? It might be silly to assume the blame when she knew they frequently sparred together at the boxing club, but she could not ignore the thought. Nor could she ignore the bold, vibrant purple hue under Fitzwilliam’s eye.

He caught her looking at him before she could avert her gaze. Gingerly, he pressed his fingers against his cheek and smiled at her. “Is it really so noticeable?”

“Not at all,” she lied.

He gave her an incredulous look.

“It is better today than it was yesterday.” Another lie.

“I am bruised, not blind, Georgie.”

“Mr. Bingley says the color is just the thing for a new waistcoat.”

He drew his brows together. “Bingley would find a trait to praise in the devil.”

“He is hard-working.”

Fitzwilliam laughed. “Who? Bingley? Or the devil?”

Encouraged to continue, she teased, “If you are not cautious, you will be asked to pose for the next edition of La Belle Assemblée . Not only is your eye an enviable hue, but it lends your appearance a certain rough charm… or so says Miss Bingley. ”

He glowered at the name, which pleased Georgiana immensely. She did not think Miss Bingley stood a chance of capturing her brother’s attention, but that did not prevent the lady from attempting the impossible. Since their arrival, she had done little but draw attention to Fitzwilliam’s roughened appearance, calling it dashing, distinguished, and heroic . Georgiana suspected that Miss Bingley’s constant compliments and numerous attempts to discover how he had come to possess such markings were the reasons he had suggested a spontaneous excursion into Meryton that morning.

They fell silent again, and Georgiana mourned the loss of their easy banter. If only she could turn back time and restore things to the way they had been!

Again, Fitzwilliam tried to cheer her. “The fields are the same green as your coat.”

“They remind me of Pemberley.” Her voice choked and her chin trembled. She hated to sound weak when her brother was everything strong and steady, but it had been nearly five months since the disaster that was Ramsgate. Instead of feeling better every day, she felt much worse. Something needed to change. “When can we return home?”

“Are you not content here?” His tone was soft, comforting. It broke her heart.

“I do not mean to sound ungrateful. Mr. Bingley is everything a gracious host ought to be, and his sisters are most attentive…” She bit her lip and twisted her fingers in her lap. “But… do you think that… perhaps… after a reasonable time… we might… return to Pemberley?”

He did not reply quickly enough for her to hope. Instead, he seemed torn. She could not understand why. If keeping her from Pemberley was a punishment, she deserved it, but she knew her brother too well to believe him capable of it. Or did she?

Fitzwilliam was away so often. Most of the time, she did not even know where he had gone. He wrote diligently, but he never communicated anything of real import. Their conversations had changed, too. What had once flowed easily was now stilted and restrained.

She held her breath and pressed her eyes closed to hold back her tears.

Blast Richard and his infernal interference! Darcy should be scouring the countryside, visiting every gentleman’s home until he found Georgiana’s painting. Only then could he take her home, where she could be happy.

For weeks, she had been hinting at her wish. He had pretended to be too stupid to comprehend her, but now that she asked point-blank to go to Pemberley with a tremble in her tone and tears in her eyes, he could not so easily deny her.

Winter was fast approaching with its early darkness, harsh rain, and freezing temperatures. They would need to depart from Hertfordshire in no later than a month’s time if they were to travel without incident. What guarantee did he have that he could secure her painting in that short time when he had been unable to find it in the last five months? It was impossible!

He saw the moment she gave up hope. Her shoulders slumped, and she squeezed her eyes shut as though she thought he could not see her cry inside. Just like when she was little and he would play hide-and-seek with her. She would stand in the middle of the room and squeeze her eyes shut, firmly believing that if she could not see him, he could not see her.

An overwhelming desperation—much larger than the despair which had prompted the offer of a puppy—seized Darcy. “Of course. Once we quit Netherfield Park, we shall return to Pemberley.”

Her eyes flew open. “When?”

“In one month.”

Georgiana bounced and clapped, her glee too great to contain.

Darcy’s stomach churned. Dear Lord, what had he done? First a puppy, and now Pemberley! He was a fool! One month to find her painting, and he was trapped at Netherfield Park. It was a hopeless quest. And yet, he had to do it. He could not fail his sister again.

Blast Richard! Blast Wickham! He cursed everything and everyone hindering his sister’s happiness. Most of all, he cursed himself.

He heard Georgiana’s voice chattering excitedly, witnessed her spirits lighten, and he managed to return her smile.

Mrs. Annesley nodded her approval. “Yes, there is a great deal of planning to do, so let us make the most of our time here.” She gestured at the view through the pane. “Is it not charming?”

They rolled past cottages with puffing chimneys, bright sashes hanging in the windows lending color where the flower boxes were bare.

“It reminds me of Lambton,” Georgiana declared with all the confidence of one soon to return home and thus free to appreciate her current surroundings.

Darcy stifled a groan. One measly month.

The carriage slowed to a gentle stop, and the footman opened the door, holding an umbrella they did not presently need. In fact, in that moment, the heavens parted as if to express its approval, welcoming them to Meryton with a radiant bath of sunlight. It was the kind of light that inspired one to believe something wonderful was about to transpire. So long as that something wonderful involved finding the painting!

Alighting from the carriage, Darcy held out his hand to assist Georgiana.

“Remy!” a feminine voice called forcefully behind him. He turned, half expecting to see a mischievous boy escaping from his overwrought nanny. “Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn!”

The significance of the name struck Darcy. He stood stunned, his mind reeling, until a flash of curly brown fur leaped in front of him and inside his carriage.

Recovering quickly, he reached inside, grabbed the intruder by the scruff of his collar, and pulled. “Out!” he exclaimed.

The dog looked up at him with large brown eyes brimming with adoration, his mouth open in what looked like a smile. His thick tail thwacked between the cushions and the ladies’ legs.

“Oh, Brother, I know you promised me a puppy, but I did not expect you to find one so soon! Look at his face! What a sweet boy!” Georgiana gushed. “See how pleased he is to make our acquaintance? Is he not delightful?!”

The moment Darcy released his hold on the trespasser, the dog twisted itself around, his hind end wiggling and his muzzle nestled between Georgiana’s knees, directing those heart-melting eyes at her.

A young lady halted to a stop at his side, her hair threatening to tumble out of its pins, eyes bright, cheeks red—from exercise, or embarrassment, or both. She bore none of the usual peculiarities of a bedraggled nanny in charge of a troublesome child. This was a woman who was impossible to ignore.

“My deepest apologies for my dog’s horrendous display of poor manners.” The bright-eyed maiden offered no justification, uttered no excuse. Just a simple apology, sincerely given.

Darcy was inclined to approve of her and excuse her beastly dog’s behavior. Still, he would not encourage her. He frowned and made himself look away.

Georgiana spoke. “Pray, do not trouble yourself on our account. He is a perfect gentleman and has kept his muddy paws to himself.”

He grimaced. His sister’s skirts might have been spared, but the carriage carpet had certainly not been.

The young lady’s voice rebounded with humor. “The coachman will not agree when he sees the mud on the carpet. Again, I must apologize. Remy, come!”

The dog, a curly haired retriever, looked at her askance, eyebrows furrowed as if to ask, Do I have to?

The young lady reached inside and tugged on his collar, tying a lead to it.

With an impressively loud sigh of resignation and an apologetic glance at the ladies that nearly broke through Darcy’s gruff affectation, Remy obeyed, making clear with every dawdling step away that he did so against his will.

Georgiana shoved her hand toward Darcy, graciously giving him something to do, and he helped her out of the carriage. He held up his arm, ready to guide her to the shops. Instead, she addressed the lady. “Remy is very friendly.”

The young lady turned to face them, brushing a rogue strand of hair off her shoulder as she did. She had a firm jaw softened by plump, wide lips that curled at the corners in a most beguiling manner. Her nose was thin and straight, and her eyes… Darcy stopped at he r eyes. They sparkled like the fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens.

“Exceedingly so! He believes everyone wishes to be his friend and welcomes his company… even strangers in fine carriages.” She bobbed a curtsy and tugged on the lead. “Come, Remy. We must go.”

Darcy bowed, wishing her gone. Her chaotic entrance into his life knocked him off balance, and he needed his senses about him to find Georgiana’s painting. Besides, the young lady looked to be in a hurry, and as they had not been introduced, it was not proper to engage in any further conversation. He should have kept his eyes diverted, but he chanced one more peek to ensure she had, indeed, departed.

“I wonder who she is,” Georgiana mused. He wondered the same but kept the thought to himself. She wrapped her arm around Darcy’s and shivered. “She seems to have taken the sun with her.”

Her observation might have been a mere poetic turn of phrase, but just as the sun had burst upon them moments before, it had made an equally sudden disappearance. He held his sister closer, lending her as much warmth as he could and taking the proffered umbrella from the footman to hold over their heads as the rain began to fall.

“Remy is a charming name for a dog, though I daresay I am partial to his namesake,” she continued.

Of all names! Rembrandt! Darcy had never been inclined to look for signs, and he was not about to start now. The Rembrandt painting, the dog’s name, the bright-eyed young lady who brought the sun with her and carried it away when she left… all incidents independent of each other. None of them would produce the stolen painting. The very thought was ridiculous.

Yet, while Darcy could deny any connection to the string of events which had led him to Meryton, he could not shake the sensation that something significant had transpired.