The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (16 page)

Caroline, who was getting ready for bed, turned over in disbelief. “How did this come about?”

“I spoke to him.”

“You—spoke to the prince?
When?
”

“He cornered me on the balcony. About midway through the night, just after I'd met the Earl of Maddox.”

“What—what was the prince like?”

He shrugged.

“He requested your services?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I mean, not to insult you, dear, but it is not as if he does not have his own royal physicians—”

Something—maybe now that he was in bed and recovering—was making him relaxed enough to say, “I am going to tell you something that you cannot ever—
ever
—tell anyone. I am serious. Not Mrs. Hurst or Mr. Hurst, even if he's unconscious drunk, or Charles or Mrs. Bingley—”

“Daniel, I understand. Out with it.”

He smiled. Maybe he was still, despite everything, a little drunk. “He requested me for the removal of five stitches on his breast. A surface wound, really, but it looked bad.”

“He asked this of you because—”

“—I put them in,” he said. “Earlier this week.”

Even with her quick wit, Caroline needed time to process this information. “You treated the Prince of Wales, and you didn't tell me?”

“I didn't know he was the prince at the time.”

“Are you daft? How did you
not know
?”

“How was I to know? He was not properly attired, nor did he introduce himself, and I've only seen the prince in newspaper
etchings. And the light quality was poor. So, no, I did not know who he was. I just figured he was nobility by the way he talked and the fact that he paid me extravagantly for the small work that I did. Honestly, people get so worked up over such a small amount of blood.”

“Daniel,” she said in total disbelief. “You are telling me that you treated the prince—”

“—Yes—”

“—And you didn't know who he was.”

“I've already clarified why, I believe.”

“You've not clarified a thing! Where on earth would you treat His Royal Highness for a cut? Where were his guards? His doctors? His carriage?”

Maddox groaned and straightened his glasses. “Now, this is the part of the story that is both treasonous and will not reflect well on my occupation. So for the initial reason, you cannot tell anyone. Seriously. You promise?”

“God, I promise… yes, already.”

“Caroline, I'm serious—”

“I know. And you're only dragging it out now.”

She was right, and he knew it. “Fine. I met the man who I learned this very night was the future ruler of England in a house of prostitution. He had been stabbed by his courtesan, who was attempting to renegotiate her price.”

Caroline, who was never at a loss for words, stared at him for a full thirty seconds—he counted—until she responded, “That's the worst lie you've ever told me.”

“Good that it isn't a lie, then,” he said, awaiting the eruption.

It came soon enough.

“What
in the hell
were you doing in a—a
house of prostitution
?”

He put a pillow over his head.

“Daniel? Daniel Stewart Maddox, I demand an answer!”

He was so ready for her reaction that he was almost relieved to hear her being angry with him. It was a strange sensation indeed. “I am a doctor, Caroline. More accurately, I am a surgeon as well, and for many years I was in need of money and went wherever I was called without any judgments made. So, because of my habit of discretion, it seems I am, sadly, quite favored by these particular… houses. And they pay me very well, so I go.”

“But you've never—”

“Oh God, no. Even if I was a bachelor and I was the type… those women are all horribly diseased. I know because they describe their symptoms to me in great detail every time I pass, hoping for a cure that doesn't exist. But no, the patients I treat are men who've had too much to drink or have had heart attacks or have been stabbed.”

“—Which would include the prince.”

“As has been established, yes.”

“And she thought she was going to get away with it?”

Since her righteous anger seemed now somewhat abated, he removed the pillow. “I suppose she imagined he would not report the incident in the interest of avoiding scandal. So either she was secretly killed, or she is very much alive.”

“You did not—ask who he was?”

“No. It is not what I do.”

He had a pounding headache from all of it, and he relaxed for a moment as Caroline fell into a contemplative silence, swallowing all of the scandalous and horrible information he'd thrown at her. Finally she said, “So—the invitation—?”

“—Was undoubtedly so he could see me again and judge me to be a discreet man. Which, it seems I was, because he requested my services. That, or he intends to have me killed when I go to him on Tuesday. Either one.”

“You realize where this could lead?”

“My head on a spike?”

She turned back to him. “No. A royal commission.”

He'd been too panicked to think of that. “It's just stitches. He probably wants me to remove them so that his own surgeon doesn't ask questions.”

“Still. It is not beyond the realm of possibility. And a nicer vision than your head removed.”

“Most things are.”

She fell onto him, giggling. “The prince… in a whorehouse… and I can never tell anyone!”

“No, you cannot. But I suppose, it is a rather juicy tidbit.”

“That is putting it mildly,” she said. “You are no judge of gossip.”

At this, he had to laugh. “A terrible fault indeed.”

“The Prince of Wales! In a Bawdy house!”

“And stabbed by the very doxy who was with him!”

“And you did not recognize him!”

“Did I mention he was drunk, too?”

Caroline laughed into his shoulder. It was a wonderful feeling.

“Well, if he does have me jumped and quartered, at least I will die knowing we laughed about it the week before.”

As expediency was key, the Darcys—all three of them—did not sit idle at the inn but began the long road south. There were
places, they quickly discovered, where the spring showers had made the road so muddy that the wagon barely went faster than a man. At those places, Grégoire got out and walked alongside the path, soaking most of his robe but stubbornly refusing to return to the carriage.

“He's as bad as you are,” Elizabeth said with a grin that Darcy tried hard to ignore.

At last the carriage came to a stop entirely, the wheels stuck in mud. Grégoire assured Darcy that they were approaching a drier region, but Darcy remained displeased. Elizabeth had her own concerns, but she held them back, focusing instead on Grégoire, standing alone on the hillside overlooking the valley. When she approached, he put his cowl over his head.

“Come now,” she said. “I am your sister-in-law. And I'm a mess from traveling—hardly a vision of loveliness.”

After a moment he relented and pulled back his hood. Elizabeth couldn't help but notice this was their first moment alone together, as Darcy was on the other side of the carriage, yelling at the teamster in his broken French. Despite the physical resemblance between the brothers, Grégoire was all humility, his gaze often averted, his posture uncomfortable. Or no, maybe he was the same as Darcy, she thought, but without the stout English upbringing. Darcy was uncomfortable around people, despite his attempts to hide it (which quite often made it more obvious), but Grégoire made no such attempts. Whether that was due to the modesty of a monk or the general Darcy lineage was impossible to discern. So she looked out at the countryside, which was quite beautiful, and not at him, which seemed to put him at ease, as he could do the same.

“So,” she said at last, “you are named after your father.”
Grégoire, after all, was the French translation of Gregory, unmistakably similar to Geoffrey.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe that was his intention, to name all his sons so, but he was obligated to do otherwise with Monsieur Darcy.”

“Yes, Darcy is named after the Fitzwilliam family,” she said. “He has a cousin named Colonel Fitzwilliam. That would have led to some confusion if Darcy hadn't shunned his baptismal name.” She held back a laugh. “There's a long, silly story behind it. No actual animosity. He and Colonel Fitzwilliam are great friends as well as cousins.”

“I thought it might be a custom, as you are calling him Darcy and he insists I call him that,” Grégoire said. “I am not familiar with English customs. I only know that Father managed to name two of his sons similarly.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “You are mistaken. You are thinking of his—your—sister, Georgiana.”

“No, Father said he had three sons.” He turned, actually looked at her after the silence, and noticed her shock. “Have mercy on me. I assumed you were aware.”

“You are sure?”

“That is what I remember. Though, I was a child, so my memory may not be clear. But—he did say his wife named Georgiana after him, out of spite.”

She did not want to imagine what had occurred in the private chambers of Darcy's parents when Mr. Darcy's liaisons had come out with obvious evidence and exceptionally bad timing. Elizabeth could only think of one person who bore a similar name to Georgiana, someone whom Mr. Darcy had kept close, provided for, and left a living for… “Do not tell Darcy!”

“I am sorry—have I slandered Father?”

“No—no, he has done quite enough of that himself,” she said. “But—if it is—oh, God.” Had two brothers married two sisters? “Do not tell him. Please, I beg of you. Not yet, if he is ever to know at all.”

“I apologize if our existence is so disconcerting—”

“No, no, it is not you, though that was a bit of a shock, but you…” she struggled to find her words, too busy with the gravity of his own, however unknown. “You are blameless. I cannot think of a man who has led a more blameless life.”

“I am a poor sinner like any man.”

“Not like this!” she said, unintentionally raising her voice and making sure that Darcy had not returned his attention to them. Surely he would, soon enough, now that the wagon was almost free. “I will explain it all, but please promise me you will not say a word!”

She grabbed his arms as she said this and almost shook him, and in such a stunned state as he was when she did this, he could only answer, “I promise.”

“Thank you.” With that, she ran off, leaving a stunned monk, and fell into Darcy's arms.

“Lizzy? Lizzy, what's wrong?” he begged. When she refused to answer, he gave a cold look to Grégoire, who shrugged unconvincingly. “What did he say to you, Lizzy?”

“Nothing. It is nothing. It was not what he said,” she said, wiping away tears. “I will tell you at a more appropriate time.”

“Of course,” he said, helping her back into the ready carriage, but not before a stern glance at his half-brother.

She wondered, however, if there would ever be an appropriate time.

DR. MADDOX SPENT MONDAY mainly in fittings for the proper attire of a royal servant. The haberdasher offered to trim back his hair so that the wig would fit properly. He had to put up a considerable resistance before the man relented and managed to get a wig to fit over his bushy bangs.

His reward, he supposed, was having Caroline see him the next morning in full dress on the way to the palace. She apparently had none of his fears, or if she did, she hid them well. She was the ambitious side of the marriage, and that suited him just fine, because it took some pressure off him. “Don't be nervous. It's not as if you haven't seen him before.”

“Twice now.” But his hands would not stop shaking.

“He must like you.”

“He will not like having stitches removed. That I cannot promise will endear me to him.”

“You worry too much,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “You're the best surgeon in Britain.”

“A mild exaggeration,” he said. “I love you.”

“You sound so positively grave when you say it like that,” she replied, and saw him off. His trip was relatively short, but he had to be led through the monstrous grounds of Carlton House, his black bag signifying his identity as yet another anonymous servant of the crown. No one paid him any heed or even inquired as to his name. He was merely made to sit and wait for some time on what was undoubtedly the most expensive chair he had ever sat on in his life. He was called and brought into what seemed to be the dressing chambers of the prince, who was dressed but for his ornamentals and his waistcoat.