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

Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

D arcy kept his eyes fixed on the letter he had been writing. Since Miss Elizabeth had set foot in the room, he had been unable to form a coherent thought. He gripped his pen, willing his mind to behave, but he seemed more likely to break the utensil than write a coherent sentence. And now he had to sit in place for an hour while she stared at him. He could feel her eyes upon him, studying him. If only he was sitting farther from the fire, farther from her.

He looked up and saw her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, which made him recall the jolts of liquid energy she had sent through him with every rub of her forehead against his cheeks and nuzzle at his neck. He had read about spontaneous combustion and thought it unproved nonsense, but now he was a believer. Eyes on the paper, Darcy.

His behavior earlier had been foolish. The ride through the rain could not be helped; any gentleman would have offered the same assistance. However, it had not been necessary for him to hold her as long as he had once they arrived at Netherfield Park. He had not needed to stand at her side near the kitchen stove as long as he had. Darcy told himself that he was concerned over her safety. That was true, but there was more to it than that. He had been unable to help Wickham—God knew he had tried!—but he had found Miss Elizabeth, who had allowed him to help her. She had clung to him trustingly until he convinced himself to release his hold around her, a struggle that should have been easier than it was.

The trouble was that he liked Miss Elizabeth. He remembered the softness of her in his arms, her fingernails poking his chest where she held onto his cravat, the smell of wildflowers in her wet hair. He would not abuse the trust the circumstances had required her to bestow upon him. It evoked a sense of responsibility toward her, a protectiveness that frightened Darcy with its ferocity.

The dogs left the room. Darcy dearly wished he could get up and leave with them.

He turned his attention to the page again and had trouble remembering to whom he had been writing. Ah, the sailor. Darcy wished to thank the man personally for taking care of Wickham until the end. His kindness might have been bought with the promise of a reward, but it was kindness all the same and deserved a proper expression of gratitude. It was not an appropriate letter to write with an audience observing, though, so he pulled a fresh piece of paper on top of it.

He ought to write to Mrs. Reynolds. She would know how best to impart the news at Pemberley. Again, the topic was too personal to draft whilst being watched.

There was the man at Sotheby’s. Darcy must find the painting, especially now that Wickham was gone. He glanced at Georgiana, who leaned over her sketchbook, a soft smile playing on her lips as her hand moved over the paper. She had always loved to draw. Darcy had secured her the best masters, as their father had done. How could he spoil her contentment with this dreadful news? How was he supposed to tell her that the man she loved no longer lived? That with his passing, her reputation was safe?

It was a guilt-ridden thought, but there it was. For all the pain and harm Wickham had caused Darcy and his family over the years, the reality of his death made Darcy sad. And yet, he could not deny the relief he also felt knowing that he was free of the man… once he secured the painting. Only then would he be truly free.

The mantel clock chimed the hour. Bingley and Richard, who were impatient without some activity of their own, eagerly pronounced the contest finished. Darcy was grateful as well; he had been sitting with his thoughts for too long. Rising from his chair, he joined Richard and Bingley, as did Hurst.

Flipping the contestant’s papers over without looking at the contents, Mrs. Hurst collected them and held them behind her back as she approached the gentlemen.

She pulled one sketch forward and presented it to them. “Here is the first one,” she announced.

It was Georgiana’s. Darcy knew it.

Judging from the way Richard beamed at the page, he knew it, too. “That is it! I have no need to see the others. This is the winner for me,” he pronounced, taking the sketch and holding it up for all to see and appreciate.

The ladies did their best to control their reactions so as not to give away the artist, but Georgiana was too subdued and pink-cheeked and her companions too gracious in their praise.

Mrs. Hurst presented another. “Here is the second of the three.” She pulled out the page, a haughty smirk on her face as she held it out for them.

Darcy had to admit that the drawing was indeed very well done. The dimensions and proportions were as accurate as his own reflection in a mirror. The shading and use of contrast was excellent for the short time they had taken to create their drawings.

It was a reminder of how unfair this competition was. Miss Elizabeth had none of the advantages his sister and Miss Bingley had. Her work would look like that of a child in comparison, yet she sat confidently in her chair, not in the least perturbed at the latter’s attempt to scoff at her lack of accomplishments. No matter how poorly Miss Elizabeth drew, Darcy would find something to praise. He could not allow her to be humiliated.

Mrs. Hurst pulled out the last sketch, her eyes widening and her hand faltering as she saw it for the first time. Her victorious smile faded into a bewildered frown before she finally turned the sketch around for them to see. Darcy prepared himself. Quickly, flatly, she said, “And this is the last.” She practically shoved it at Bingley to take, which he did.

“It is spot on! I swear I expect this drawing to open his mouth and speak to me.” Bingley held it up for all to see.

Richard’s jaw dropped.

Darcy could not take his eyes off the page. The image did not wear Darcy’s expression as Miss Elizabeth was sketching but instead bore a more favorable one. His lips were not upturned, but he was smiling. There was a glint in his eyes and the slightest tilt to his mouth. In a flash of memory, he was running up the stairs to his bedchamber to change out of his sopping clothing, happily enduring the chastisement of his valet, and entering the front parlor to greet Miss Elizabeth as though she had not seen him bathing her muddy dog in dripping wet shirtsleeves rolled past his elbows. His chest warmed at their shared secret, and he smiled.

“That is the winner, right there,” declared Hurst. “It is as alive as Darcy himself.” Bingley was quick to agree, adding with a clearing of his throat after his sisters shot piercing looks his way that the others were equally lovely.

Stiff-spined, Miss Bingley turned to the contest winner. “You did not tell me you knew how to draw.”

“You did not ask.”

“I must know the name of your art master.”

Miss Elizabeth smiled saucily. “No one of import in your circles, I assure you.”

“Come, Miss Eliza, now is not the time to be coy. I must know!”

“My father taught me.” Miss Elizabeth’s expression softened at the memory. Darcy was astonished to learn that the gentleman had taught any of his daughters anything at all. From the little he knew of him, Mr. Bennet took little interest in their education. That must not have always been the case. Miss Bingley frowned. She would never stoop so low as to procure lessons from the father of her rival.

Archie returned to the room then, sporting a white feather in his mustache. Miss Bingley, no doubt seeking to extract herself from the awkward situation in which she had placed herself, seized upon the opportunity to draw the conversation away from her defeat. Plucking the feather free, she asked, “Did the dogs go out of doors?”

“I should hope not in this weather,” answered her brother. “He is not wet.”

Remy entered the room, several white feathers stuck in his curly fur, a bird in his mouth .

Mrs. Hurst squealed. “Get that vile thing out of here!”

Red-faced and red-eyed, Miss Bingley pointed at Remy. “You! You ruined my new bonnet!”

The dog knew when he was in trouble and wisely quit the room before she could seek her retaliation. He fled, taking his prize with him, Archie close on his heels. The lady followed them at a brisk pace. “My door was closed, I am certain of it!” As her dog was the source of the trouble, Miss Elizabeth chased after Miss Bingley. Bingley followed, too, no doubt eager to witness what was to come. Darcy was next, and Hurst brought up the rear.

The group filed up the stairs and down the hall to the door of Miss Bingley’s bedchambers. The door gaped open, allowing Darcy to see inside, where feathers floated in the air as the dogs resumed their game. Richard turned away, his body shaking with the effort to contain his merriment. Bingley laughed aloud, as did Hurst.

“I shall have a replacement sent to you as soon as it can be arranged,” Miss Elizabeth offered, wringing her hands in front of her. “Remy is a bird dog, but I have never known him to damage anything. He is far too gentle.”

“He would never kill a bird, but a bird that is already dead is fair game!” clamored Hurst, smacking Bingley on the back and renewing their laughter.

The maid began collecting the feathers as quickly as she could, all the while insisting that she had closed the door behind her before taking her meal in the kitchen. “You must have left it open! How else would this ingrate get in?” Miss Bingley shrilled.

Archie sat in front of the door, eyes half closed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Unwilling to witness a maid lose her place over a misunderstanding, Darcy nodded at the satisfied dog. “There is your culprit.”

Miss Bingley looked furiously at Archie and then turned on her brother. “I never want to see your stupid dog again! Either you get rid of him or I shall leave and return to London!”

Hurst clapped Bingley on the back again, “I would keep the dog if it did not mean that she would go to my house in London!”

Miss Elizabeth slipped inside the room, intending to help the maid clean the mess.

Miss Bingley addressed her, her voice shaking. “Do not touch my things! You have done quite enough already.”

Grabbing Remy by the collar, Miss Elizabeth tugged him out of the bedchamber and down the hall to Miss Bennet’s room. She immediately decided that they would depart for Longbourn that same afternoon.