Chapter 1
A/N: With apologies to Jane Austen, Philip Barry, and Donald Ogden Nash, I have hijacked a variety of their plots and conglomerated them together in order to present to you readers a "P&P/Philadelphia Story" hybrid. I do, indeed, hope you enjoy this.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that London's tabloid newspapers are the most notorious scandalmongers in the world, especially when it comes to members of parliament and footballers in juicy scandals. However, when MPs and footballers are not running about getting themselves into trouble, the tabloids will find other ways in which to keep circulation high. In such cases as these, they will settle for social news of London's best and beautiful, in this case the impending marriage of one Elizabeth Bennet, daughter of former Labour MP of Hertfordshire Thomas Bennet, to one George Wickham, former aspiring footballer with great potential until a torn-ACL ended his career with the Regent's Park Regimentals.
What more, this particular Elizabeth Bennet was famous in her own right. A playwright with some critical success in the fringe theatre, she was hoping to soon see one of her plays produced in London's glittering West End. And although she hated when this bit of information was attached to her name as though it were intrinsically part of who she was, she was also the ex-wife of one C.K. William Darcy, handsome, rich, and aristocratic philanthropist of the smoldering variety.
However smoldering though, she was glad to be rid of him, especially after she discovered his involvement in the breaking-up her sister Jane with his friend, Charles Bingley. It did not matter that Jane and Charles had resolved things in the interim, it took a lot of pride and conceit to do what he did, and she could not tolerate such a fault, especially in someone she was married to. It was disgusting.
But that was all the past. Elizabeth was to marry wonderful, charming, modest George Wickham this weekend, and C.K. William Darcy would be nothing more than a faint memory and a scratched out entry in the family tree.
"Papa? How do you smell omelet?" Elizabeth scratched her head with the pencil.
Mr. Bennet looked up from his book for a moment. "O-M-L-E-T, my dear."
"Funny," she muttered, wrinkling her nose, "I thought there was another 'l'."
"Lizzie, you're a writer. Shouldn't you know how to spell properly?" asked her younger sister, Kitty.
"That's what editors are for. Spelling doesn't count when you write, just as long as you put the words in the right spots."
Elizabeth moved on to the next clue (six across, "hairless dog"), but was really watching Kitty as she crossed the room to where the table full of wedding gifts were already unwrapped and displayed. Kitty lifted up a silver wash basin sitting on the corner of the table next to the ceramic aroma-therapy set and a crystal rendition of Michelangelo's La Pieta. She frowned and looked at Elizabeth with the most exasperated face.
"This is bloody awful."
"Don't say 'bloody,' Kitty," trilled Mrs. Bennet as she swept into the parlor. "It absolutely necessarily-'ruddy'-but only if absolutely necessary."
"Well I also think it's ruddy awful that Lizzie won't invite Lydia to the wedding," Kitty said petulantly. "To think--her own sister! Not invited!"
Elizabeth put down the crossword and gave up all pretense of trying to solve the rest of it. She snorted derisively. "Oh yes, Lydia. How could I not invite her to the wedding after she ran away from home with that Tory intern who used her to get information about father so he could slandering him out of parliament? Never mind her behavior during that whole time. Traipsing all around London spending as much money as she could possibly could on the most worthless things."
"I thought the gilded imitation rhinoceros head was very interesting," Kitty said indignantly.
Elizabeth snorted again. "I can only imagine what she's up to now. But let's forget the past. Tomorrow is a new start to all of this. I think we all need a little brightness in our lives. I think I am deserving of a little happiness now, especially after having to live through marriage with Will." She crossed the room to look at the silver basin Kitty had been so disdainful of. She peered into it and smiled at her reflection. "I'm very lucky, aren't I? George is such an angel. So charming as well! And is he handsome or is he not?"
"I like William."
"Really, Kitty?" Elizabeth challenged, rising from her seat. "Then why don't you postpone the wedding?"
Kitty's interest was piqued. Her face did something the equivalent of a person standing on their very tippy-toes on a chair to peek over into their neighbor's yard. "How do I do that?"
"Get mad-cow disease." Elizabeth tossed her crossword puzzle on the couch.
"Now, Lizzie," Mrs. Bennet scolded, "don't go around putting ideas into her head."
"Oh, don't worry about Kitty, Mama." Elizabeth shot Kitty a amused smile. "You'll have to excuse me now. I have to meet George for coffees and tiramisu at Soho House. Kitty, meet me in the car if you still want to go."
When Elizabeth disappeared out of the room, Kitty crossed over quickly to her mother.
"She's so mean about William," she said crossly.
"He was rather mean to her too, dear. And to poor Jane." Mrs. Bennet sighed dramatically. "Thank goodness Charles came to his senses and married her finally. I don't think Jane could have found a better match-300,000 pounds a year! Well, there's William. He's much more wealthy, but yes, he was rather mean to Lizzie."
"Did he really sock her?"
"Please, Kitty."
"I don't believe it myself. He would never hit her. He'd hit himself first. And I'd rather think she's sock him first, though, but it was all over the papers."
"What, darling?" Mrs. Bennet began to arrange a vase of lilies.
"The papers were all full of 'innuendo.'"
"Of what?"
"Of 'innuendo.' 'Cruelty and drunkenness,' it said. Or something like that."
Mr. Bennet smiled knowingly from behind his book. "More like pride and prejudice, I would say." He stood up now, novel still in hand. He moved to the table of gifts and lifted up the most popular item of the day. He held up the silver basin to the light of the window. "My, this is bloody awful. Is this person still invited to the wedding, or is it too late to send this back?"
Kitty persisted. "Papa?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Lizzie--she's sort of, well you know, hard, isn't she? Especially since Jane got married and left for South America. And the whole thing with William. She used to be more playful, and a lot, well, less sharp around the edges."
"I wouldn't say that, my child. Elizabeth sets exceptionally high standards for herself, that's all. And other people aren't always quite apt to live up to them."
Kitty sighed. "It's probably because when people try to live up to her standards they start to get altitude sickness."
Mr. Bennet chuckled. "Perhaps."
"Well don't you think it's ruddy awful that Lizzie won't even invite her own sister to her wedding?"
"I most certainly do!" Mrs. Bennet said, throwing her head back with a little indignation. In the process, she tore off the head of one of the lilies.
"You would, my dear," Mr. Bennet said to his wife. "You would."
Chapter 2
With disclaimers to Barry, Ogden, and of course, Austen. A continuation of a peculiar "Pride and Prejudice" and "The Philadelphia Story" hybrid story.
A sleek, silver BMW pulled up on Greek Street just outside Soho House. Elizabeth stepped out first, then followed by Kitty, who looked around wearily. She often felt a little strange visiting here, being only 18 years old. It wasn't so much that she wasn't rich enough or posh enough, but she always had the feeling she would fit in better at a club with loud DJs, flashing lights, and young adults in tiny tops and tight denim trousers. Not a social club with leather couches and servers in crisp white linens.
Elizabeth told Hill, the driver, to be off, and that they'd call on the mobile when they were ready to leave. "You know, if you don't want to be here, Kitty, you can go off to Leicester Square and mock the tourists. I know you enjoy that immensely."
Kitty shrugged, then thought better of her apprehensions. She was actually more particular to staring at the tourists who stared at the street performers who painted themselves up and dressed up like statues, anyway, and even that got a bit tired at times. It was Lydia who liked to do the mocking.
"Nah, I'll come in, Lizzie. You never know, Colin Firth might be here today, and I wouldn't want to miss that." She made a noise of appreciation, which made Elizabeth laugh out loud.
They wound their way upstairs, but George wasn't yet anywhere in sight. Instead, they saw someone else they knew (and no, it was not Colin Firth). Their cousin, whom they called "Cousin Willie," was slumped in a tan leather armchair and deeply engrossed in some type of reading material.
Elizabeth and Kitty looked at each other, sighing. They weren't great fans of their cousin, but family was family. They approached, good intentions in their hearts.
Elizabeth came up on his right and was about to say something when instead, she snatched the magazine out of his hand. "What is this filth you're reading, cousin?" She held it up between thumb and forefinger as though it were a dirty magazine. Cousin Willie jumped in surprise, squealing a little bit like a pig.
Kitty, seeing the cover, exclaimed, "Oh, I love Top! magazine. It's got pictures of everything." She grabbed it from her sister's hands. "Oooh, Robbie Williams is on the cover of this week's issue. Ding dong!" She waggled her eyebrows and began leafing through it.
Cousin Willie looked absolutely scandalized. He looked around, hoping no one had been witness to the behavior of his cousins.
A moment later, Elizabeth spotted the man she was looking for. George at last appeared on the scene. He emerged through a doorway looking much too pleased with himself. Seeing Elizabeth (she had waved and whistled to get his attention), he made a beeline to her, kissing her on the cheek when he arrived. Pushing him away for a moment, she gave him the once over, examining his clothes, which, much to her chagrin, looked precisely like what a bad boy footballer would be caught wearing outside of a seedy Liverpool night spot.
"You look like something right out of a shop window," she told him in consternation.
"With about as much personality as a mannequin, too," Kitty muttered underneath her breath as she read the latest on the cast of 'Eastenders.' Elizabeth kicked her reproachfully.
George, not noticing this at all, had his entire attention drawn away by Kitty's magazine. "Is this Top! magazine?" he asked excitedly. He tore it from Kitty's grasp and began flipping through it for gossip. "Mary-"
"I'm Kitty," she replied angrily, trying to grab the magazine back.
"Fine, fine, Kitty." He waved his hands around dismissively. Is there anything in here about our impending marriage?"
"What?" Elizabeth cried, stepping back in surprise. "What do you mean by that, George?"
George stopped long enough to respond. "Well Elizabeth, darling, I thought that you, being of one of the oldest and most prestigious families in London, and me being fairly important myself-"
Elizabeth snapped back. "Of all the rubbish! What kind of filthy idea-coming into a private house with a camera, and uninvited!"
"Liz. Darling." George took her by the hand. He tried to tickle her to illicit a smile, or at least a non-angry response. "Come on, love, it's not that terrible, is it? Worse they can say is that we're the next 'Posh and Becks.' And that's not so bad. They're a bit like a second tier of royal couple in Britain."
"The next what?" Cousin Willie interjected out of his dreamy stupor-he had been staring at one of the crisp-linen waitresses.
"He means Posh Spice and David Beckham," Kitty said without looking up from the magazine. "But I think Lizzie can sing much better than Posh. I mean, did you hear her last album? Oy!"
Elizabeth didn't budge on her position though. She stepped away from George and sighed. George tried to work the charm again, but to no avail.
Kitty looked at Elizabeth, then at George. A smile tugged at her lips. "I'm hungry for some tiramisu. Are you going to order, Lizzie?"
On Thursday, earlier that week...
Richard and Charlotte advanced down the hallway, whizzing by framed covers of Top! magazine featuring all of London's beautiful B-list starlets, its second-rate popstars, its up-and-coming footballers, its popular MPs, and of course, their major scandals. Richard Fitzwilliam took long, purposeful strides, raging all the while. Charlotte Lucas, although with much shorter legs than he, walked at a brisk, but calm pace besides him.
"I'm not going to do it, Charlotte! I'm going to tell Catherine DeBourgh very plainly and simply I'm a writer. I'm not a gossip columnist. I'm going to tell her just that...Let her fire me! I'll start writing short stories again - that's what I should be doing anyway. I'm going to tell her just that."
Further winding down the over-decorated Victorian hallways ("I always get the feeling that an elderly woman with many cats would live here quite happily," Charlotte said once, "although it doesn't have the same type of smell"), they at last reached Catherine DeBourgh's office door where Richard continued to fume. His nostrils flared in that way Charlotte always found quite endearing, but she figured this was not the time to tell him so. She placed a reassuring hand on his forearm. He continued to mutter something about "utterly disrespectful!" and "ashamed to show my face again ever in the local pub."
"Where's the respect in not being able to pay the bills? Or not even having enough money to buy a pint when you're in the pub? We can hardly afford our flat in Notting Hill as it is. Money is money, at least to the moderately destitute."
He frowned at her.
She tilted her head and sighed. "Richard, I don't like it much either, but really, do you really want to get fired?"
He muttered a little bit more, but grudgingly opened the door into the office where the imperious "Lady Catherine," as she was called around the office, sat waiting.
"Fitzwilliam." She inclined her head in condescended in acknowledgment. "Lucas. You must be honored that I have called you here."
"Likewise." Charlotte gave her a dim smile.
Richard stared at his boss's pinched face and graying hair. Impeccably dressed in probably what was another Donna Karan designer suit (he blamed too much time around Maureen, the fashion columnist, for this knowledge), she should have looked the consummate professional, but to him, she looked like the fiend himself. Or rather, herself. Maybe that was the look she was going for, though. Hmm, he thought...Her hair was big enough to hide horns.
"Your assignment will be Top's! most sensational achievement to date-which, indeed, is a most impressive thing. Elizabeth Bennet née Darcy." She paused for dramatic effect. "The daughter of Thomas Bennet, former right-hand man of the Prime Minister, although he still denies it. Social trendsetter, and fashion icon of the London set with her sister Jane. A playwright. Married into one of the most respected families in England after a volatile, whirlwind courtship, then divorced in a rage. And always unapproachable by the press. I can see it now, 'The Untouchable Miss Bennet,' or 'A Wedding Day Inside London Society.'"
"Or 'What the Dustman Heard Through the Chimney Sweep,'" Richard remarked. "Quote, unquote. Sorry, but no fox hunting loony is Finicky Finagled Fitzwilliam." He crossed his arms defiantly. "No thank you, quote, unquote. Close paragraph."
"Close job, close bank account," Charlotte said dryly. She leaned forward on the desk. "But Ms. DeBourgh, how can we possibly get into the Bennet's Chelsea townhouse, let alone allowed to attend the wedding?"
Richard grabbed Charlotte's upper arm. "Now dammit, Charlotte, we're not going to do this! It's degrading and undignified."
"So's an empty stomach, Richard," Charlotte said plainly. "Lady Cat-uh-Ms. DeBourgh, how do we get in?"
Lady Catherine smiled tightly at Charlotte, then turned to Richard and peered at him disdainfully from behind her glasses, down her long nose. "I'm glad you asked, Miss Lucas." She proceeded to press on her intercom button. "Anne, call the gentleman in," she told her assistant who wordlessly followed Lady Catherine's every command. There was a gentle buzzing noise and the door opened behind Richard and Charlotte.
A tall, professional-looking, and in Charlotte's opinion, very handsome man entered the room. From the way he carried himself, Charlotte was surprised that he wasn't dressed in a cool white linen suit, accompanied by a warm desert breeze, and a soundtrack of some obscure but funky tune from the 1970s. Instead he entered to silence, with stale office hair (and stale London office air at that), and in what were probably a Saville Row-cut suit and a clean white shirt with accompanying blue-checked tie. Charlotte repressed a whistle of appreciation threatening to ring out. It might be a bit embarrassing for her and for this man, and not to mention Richard, although he seemed too distracted to notice anything she did at this moment. He was just gawking as though he was being overwhelmed by too many things, or that no one was taking him seriously as he was taking himself then.
Catherine DeBourgh folded her hands together and smiled like a cat who had just caught a mouse. "I understand we understand each other, sir."
The man shifted uncomfortably for a moment, but regained his aristocratic air of confidence and superiority. "Quite."
"Who are you?" Richard blurted out rather rudely.
"Fitzwilliam," Lady Catherine said, "this gentleman, ah, used to work for us in our Argentinean branch. I believe he can be of great help to us."
"How so?" Richard eyed the man suspiciously. He looked back at his boss, his brow furrowed deep.
"Elizabeth Bennet's sister, Jane, is a British friendship ambassador down there, and her husband is an old friend of this gentleman here. So when you arrive at their home you two will simply be introduced as intimate friends of Jane's."
"Dear old Jane, is it? Does Miss Elizabeth Bennet know this gentleman at all?"
"You could say," the man said with what looked like a grim smile.
"You could," Charlotte said nonchalantly, dusting off her suit and looking up at him. "You could also say that you're C.K. William Darcy, and Elizabeth Bennet's first husband."
His face grew a little tight. "Yes, you might say that as well."
"Oh bloody, buggering bollocks!" Richard cried, losing all sorts of composure. "What goes on here?"
"I remember that honeymoon of yours rather well, Mr. William Darcy.," Charlotte continued. "You and Miss Bennet on a little sailboat on Loch Lomand in Scotland-the 'True Love,' wasn't it?"
Mr. C.K. William Darcy looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know that?"
Charlotte shrugged. "I was one of the photographers there. My camera was the only one you didn't smash. You were terribly nice about it all." She raised an eyebrow and looked at him intently. "You threw it into the lake instead."
William nodded in remembrance. "Yes, that is correct, now that you mention it." He shrugged. "Perhaps it was just me being particular, but I always rather thought that our honeymoon was our own business."
Charlotte tapped Richard on the shoulder, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye. "Incidentally, he paid for all the cameras. I even received a very nice note. I must say, the adieu was charity itself."
Richard stepped a little closer to William. "Always the gentleman, aren't you?"
Before William could respond, Charlotte said in a tired, singsong voice, "You take the high road and I'll take the low road. . ."
"And I'll be in Scotland afore ye," Richard chimed in, singing, and beginning to enjoy himself far too much. "But me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomand." He rounded off the end of the song with a little vibrato.
William looked utterly bemused by this all. He chuckled silently to himself, as indicated by the slight shake in his shoulders and the gleam in his brown eyes.
Charlotte appraised Richard, who had a slightly mad look on his face. "And for a moment there," she said dryly, "I was worried you were going to break out into a jig. Thank goodness for small favours."
"Now I'm sure that is all very interesting," Catherine DeBourgh said in an annoyed, loud voice, "but we have more important business to attend to. Darcy, what are the plans? Today is Thursday and the wedding is on Saturday." She pursed her thin lips. "They should spend tomorrow night as guests of the Bennets. Yes, I have believe that is the best way."
"Now wait a minute, just wait a minute!" Richard railed, flapping his arms in agitation. He squinted around the room suspiciously. "There's something dodgy going on here. If he," he said, pointing at Darcy ('Richard,' Charlotte hissed, 'didn't your mother ever teach you that it is impolite to point?'), "used to work for you, why is he going to help us-" Richard's eyes grew large and round like teacup saucers. "Oh, I get it now, sir. You're trying to get back at your ex-bride!"
William Darcy leveled his gaze at Richard. "As one gentleman to another, that may be exactly what I'm doing, if you wish to believe that to be my motive." He paused, looking at them. "I'll have my driver pick you up tomorrow in Notting Hill-by your flat, I presume. Ms. DeBourgh has given me the address. Now if you'll excuse me, I must go." He bowed politely. "Good day."
Darcy left abruptly, leaving Lady Catherine quite content and lost in her own scheming, and Richard and Charlotte standing there still, absorbing it all. Richard put his hands defiantly on his hips.
"Well how do you like that? He walks out on us just as though we were-"
Charlotte pulled something out of her purse. A little handkerchief her sister Maria had given her last Christmas. She offered it up to Richard. "Handkerchief, Richard?" He absentmindedly reached out and took it. "There's a little spit in your eye. It shows."
He started, but Charlotte only smiled and patted him reassuringly on the arm.
Chapter 3
Elizabeth lounged on the chaise in the parlor, daydreaming about this and that, hoping that an idea for a new play would pop into her head. A few ideas had come to her, but they were mostly underdeveloped. It's this wedding, she thought with a small smile. Not really a bad reason to be distracted though, she supposed.
She stretched out her legs, rolling her ankles until she heard little cracks. Closing her eyes, she leaned back. Her next thought came to her unbidden. She remembered how William used to come over and sit in front of her when she was lost in thought like this. The first time he had taken her by surprise. She remembered distinctly that she had been concocting the plot to one of her more successful plays, "Forgive Our Trespass." She had been half-asleep, thinking, and William had quietly sat on the ottoman in front of her. Elizabeth had felt his touch with some shock, his fingers warm in the little nook behind her ear and against her neck; his thumb stroking her cheek. Her eyes had flown open, but she hadn't jerked back.
It wasn't long before she was always aware of his nearness, accustomed to the familiarity of his touch and the delicious ache that always came with it.
Then Elizabeth heard a long whistle, and her eyes snapped wide open. Why had she been thinking about that? she wondered in horror. She heard the whistle again, and then heard herself saying, "No, it can't possibly be . . ."
"William! William! You're back!"
"Kitty, my girl! My own true love."
Elizabeth jumped up from her seat and sprinted around various tables and plants towards the hallway. She skidded on the hardwood floors and slammed into the wall. She clutched the moulding to one of the archways and stared, dumb struck. "No, he wouldn't dare. . ."
Kitty came scampering towards Elizabeth now, a triumphant smirk on her face. Elizabeth fought off the urge to throw a shoe at her sister.
"Papa! Mama!" she shouted. Then turning to Elizabeth, Kitty said with a straight face, "Lizzie, look who's here! It's William."
And indeed, there he was, just as handsome as in the newspapers and magazines (the only places where Elizabeth had seen his face these last few years), though perhaps a little less formally attired than in the spreads done for the big social parties and charity events. But Elizabeth had to admit, he looked smart in his crisp gray suit, although, she thought with a tinge of anger beginning to build up, just as proud as always.
"Well, hello," he said calmly, as though this should have been some sort of pleasant surprise.
"William Darcy, you go right back to where you came from, do you hear me?"
He smiled in that infuriatingly smug and conversely, charming way he had. "I can't. Kitty says that it's much too awful here without me."
Kitty smiled up adoringly at him, ignoring the look of sheer daggers Elizabeth was sending her way.
William took a cautious step closer to her. He eyed her appreciatively. "Why, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, you look positively a-glow! Much too nice for George. Those fine eyes can't simply be bestowed on any man."
Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest. "If you think you can just walk in here and tell me-"
Hearing the commotion, and guessing quite rightly that the voices did not belong to his wife (and thus making his entrance safe and possibly worth his while for some amusement), Mr. Bennet strolled into the room rather leisurely, a book in one hand. "William," he said with a little start, although not much surprise when he saw the owners of the shouting voices.
In the strange, mannered way he had, William promptly withdrew his attention from Elizabeth and turned to his ex-father-in-law. He bowed his head formally. "Sir."
"Jane tells me you've been visiting her and Bingley in South American these past few years. Not stirring up trouble in the Falklands, are you, William? I'm not sure if Britain is up for another war there." Mr. Bennet smiled amusedly to himself.
"No, sir. Unfortunately I've had other things to attend to in my time over in Argentina. With the occasional visit to Bingley and Jane's residence, of course."
"Of course. So, ah, well tell me, William, how is my eldest anyway?"
Elizabeth was gaping, a little astonished that William could set her off like that and then simply forget her momentarily in order to address her father. It quirked something strange in her stomach, and she wished she could attribute it to the tarts she had snuck from the kitchen, but she had the sinking suspicion (because this feeling was not altogether unfamiliar to her) was that this was yet another thing setting off old memories.
He had done this when he had first tried to court her. The emphasis on him courting, for she had been the very reluctant object. He'd show how abominably rude (well, she thought, blunt perhaps was the better word ...) he could be, then turn around and be the perfect gentleman to her father, sisters, and even her mother.
William's left hand lightly touched the spot over his heart, a fond smile effusing over his face. "Jane's fine. Heartbroken, of course not to be here-although we can't expect her to fly while pregnant with twins-but I suggested that I could take her place as Elizabeth's maid of honor but-"
Elizabeth found her voice and her courage. "Thanks for the offer, William, but I'd prefer my maid of honor not be a man, if that's all right with you."
A frown crossed the famous Darcy profile when the next thought came into his mind. "Perhaps George," he said a little too scathingly, "would like me to be his best man then?" William fought back the urge to say the obvious-that the best man at the wedding, and for that matter, at any place, would most certainly not and never be George Wickham, as hard as he may try, and as much as he might seem.
Elizabeth crossed her arms, her teeth set. She was about to give William a little more of her mind, but Mr. Bennet's well-timed cough prevented what would likely turn into an "incident" if allowed to further. After all, the famous Darcy/Bennet rows (during their engagement, Elizabeth had preferred to call them "debates") were what started the two of them on their rocky romance in the first place. And that had only ended in a blissful year of love and marriage, and then a stormy, tabloid's-dream of a society divorce.
"Ah, well," William restarted lamely, "yes." He turned again to look at Mr. Bennet. Then to Kitty who still looked quite puppy-doggish in admiration, and back to his ex-bride, Elizabeth. "Well," he said more cheerfully, "I'm sure you'll like the people Jane sent."
"People?" Elizabeth said loudly.
"That Jane sent, did you say?" Mr. Bennet asked.
William cleared his throat, all charm and manners again. "Yes. Miss Lucas and Mr. Fitzwilliam. You really ought to tell them which rooms they have. Separate if you wish, but I doubt they would have objections to sharing."
Kitty gawped, then she began grinning in a manner which her sister Mary would have seriously disapproved of. However Mary was still off at music school, so ha, Kitty thought. She stifled a giggle.
"William, have you fallen off your horse one too many times? Have the hounds been tripping up your stallion, or have your gardeners just gotten tired of you and have started digging giant divots in your property so you'll fall more often on your head?"
"You see," he began matter-of-factly, "it was Jane's idea. You know Jane-absolute angel. Well, they were awfully kind friends to her, and when they said that they would be in London-"
"You're lying, William Darcy. I can always tell."
"Can you, darling?" he challenged.
"Yes. You have this habit of-well, you were never really good at it-" Elizabeth stopped and started various times, and began to pace the room to collect her thoughts.
Mr. Bennet, highly amused by the antics of her favorite daughter and his favorite ex-son-in-law, had seated himself in one of the more comfortable armchairs in the room, and was watching quite contentedly. He motioned to Kitty to come and sit by him, more so that she would not be in the way.
The thought coming to her, Elizabeth drew herself up to full height and whipped her head around to face William. "You went to work after the divorce, didn't you?" she accused.
"Not immediately. First I tested several hundred bottles of wine. Some of it finer than others, I must say."
"But after that, you took a job. With whom?"
William cracked the knuckles in his index fingers. He stared at them for a second, then looked back up at his ex-wife. Still beautiful when she's fiery, he thought with sad regret. "I can't lie to you. With a magazine."
"And this wouldn't happen to be Top! magazine, would it, William?"
"You're just a mass of neurons and intuition, aren't you?"
"And I don't suppose Jane's friends are photographers and hack writers, are they?"
"I think they'd be dreadfully hurt to hear you say that, Elizabeth. Especially your 'hack writer.' He seems rather sensitive type."
"Ooh!" she seethed, "I thought you were low, William, but not this low-oh!" She cast him her most dangerous glare, a combination of vinegar and hydrochloric acid, with the essence of a Molotov cocktail for taste.
He hardly flinched a facial muscle. "You're slipping, Elizabeth. I used to be afraid of that look. The withering glance of the perfection and pride that is the goddess." The words sounded harsher in his ears than he intended, but they had been said, and there was no going back now.
"When I first knew you, I thought you had absolutely no decency, that you were more unlike a gentleman than anyone I had ever known-" She was getting flustered. "You're one to talk about pride, Mr. Darcy!" she snapped.
Then, Elizabeth remembering that Kitty was in the room and that this was definitely no example of lady-like behavior, quickly ushered herself and William into the next room with speedy apologies to her father and sister.
Elizabeth slammed the door to the room before Kitty could get through to see the rest of the fight.
"Come, dear," Mr. Bennet said to his daughter. "I'm sure we'll all find out what has happened in due time. For now though, would you care to join me for a cup of tea?"
In the other room, as soon as they were alone, Elizabeth began to shout. This was all too much-first her, well, her daydream--and then William, here in the flesh and confusing things with photographers and hack writers days before her wedding. It was too much.
"William, I want no argument about this. Get those people out of my home and I want you with them. Take the to Essex for all I care, or even to Derbyshire." She checked her temper and replaced it with something a little cooler and drier. "I hear it's lovely this time of year."
"Yes, your majesty," he said with a low bow, "but may I interest you in a small bit of blackmail?"
"No-you-what?"
William pulled something crisp, white, and neatly folded out of his pocket. "I'm not sure if you've heard about this-but this is worse than the time with Lydia and the Tory intern trying to slander your father. And all this, article complete with details and pictures ready for publication in Top!" He revealed something besides the neat typed-script paper. Glossy photographs of Lydia and...
Elizabeth gasped, then paled.
"They can't. They just can't." She stared up at her ex-husband. "This has got to be stopped. If this gets out-why, this might be even worse than the scandal with Hamiltons and the--" she gestured wildly, half-hysterical and half-remembering, "you know, with the swinger parties and what-not. Oh no! And she's still underage! And with her history..." Elizabeth darted over to a nearby sofa. She placed her head promptly in her hands.
"It's temporarily stopped," he said a little stiffly, now more concerned with her reaction and state of mind than anything.
She looked at him, relieved, but only for a moment.
"I say temporarily when I mean you have to let Miss Lucas and Mr. Fitzwilliam turn in a story about your wedding. And when Catherine De Bourgh says story, she means story.
She tasted something vile in her mouth. "I'm going to be sick, William."
"Yes, dear," he said with a bit of a sigh, massaging her shoulder some. "An intimate day with the London society bride."
"I am sick."
"I am sorry." His eyes darted around the room, then back to her. "However," he said with a wave of the hand towards the door, "they, and I mean Miss Lucas and Mr. Fitzwilliam, are waiting for you in the morning room, your majesty. You shan't keep them waiting." Then, in a voice betraying more gentleness and emotion than he wished to express, he said, "Shall I conduct you in?"
Elizabeth stood up and steeled herself. She touched his arm, and in that touch apologizing for some of her earlier behavior, and thanking him for his kindness to her in this time of stress. "No, no. Don't bother, please. I know the way."