Free The Darcy Connection by Elizabeth Aston

the dreams of most men, and have a Lady Sarah for a mother, but to the sprigs of the aristocracy at Eton, he was tainted with trade.
    Freddie had come to his cousin’s rescue the first time he had flung himself at his taunter, but he soon realised that Bartholomew was well able to fight his own corner. Pretty soon, both his contemporaries and older boys took care what they said to him, for he fought without quarter and was so quick on his feet and so swift to sense and make use of a weakness that it was generally considered best not to annoy or argue with him.
    Bartholomew knew the remarks and abuse still went on behind his back, they always would, and the idiots couldn’t see that he was far more proud of his Huguenot goldsmith and banking ancestors than they could ever be of their dull forebears, whose titles had, as often as not, been earned in highly dubious ways.
    â€œDo any shooting practise while you were away?” Freddie enquired as they walked down Bond Street.
    Bartholomew laughed. A brilliant swordsman, and a tough man with his fists, he was a hopeless shot. He called his long-sightedness “farsightedness” and pointed out that the time he saved not going in pursuit of various forms of game could well be spent on more interesting pursuits.
    â€œSuch as going to the opera,” he said to Freddie. “Do you care to come tomorrow? Angelini sings, I believe.”
    Freddie pulled a face. “Is she the stout party who sings so high you’d think someone had trod on her foot?” Freddie wasn’t musical. “No, I thank you, I’ll pass on that.”
    â€œPerhaps you’re right. Last time I heard her sing, she was not in good voice.”
    â€œThen, if you have no other engagements, you can come with me to Lady Grandpoint’s soirée.”
    â€œGood God, are you out of your mind?”
    â€œI see your propensity to shun elegant social gatherings hasn’t undergone a change while you’ve been making merry in Paris. Listen, Bart, you have to come. Well, the truth of it is that Lady Grandpoint has someone staying with her. My God, not just ‘someone,’” Freddie burst out, stopping in his enthusiasm, then grasping his friend by the arm to reinforce his point. “Bart, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever set eyes on. Such eyes, such a face, such grace.”
    Bartholomew sighed. He knew Freddie’s enthusiasms, which usually ran to ripe and luscious ladies of easy virtue. However, Lady Grandpoint would be most unlikely to have a woman of that sort staying with her.
    â€œWho is this paragon?”
    â€œHer name is Charlotte,” said Freddie, lingering on the syllables of the name. “Miss Collins. She’s a bishop’s daughter, from somewhere in the north, so don’t look like that, she’s utterly respectable.”
    â€œAnd rich, by any chance?”
    Freddie frowned. “What does that matter?”
    â€œI can see trouble ahead if she isn’t. Has your mother met this new beauty?”
    â€œNo, no, she hasn’t, not yet. She’ll be enchanted by Miss Collins, can’t help but be.”
    Bartholomew doubted that, unless the bishop turned out to be a rich and well-connected prelate.
    â€œMy mother will be there tomorrow,” said Freddie. “So she can meet Miss Collins.”
    â€œI suppose that means my mama will be also be there,” said Bartholomew resignedly. “At least in company she can’t ring another peal over me. I’ve been avoiding her ever since I got back.”
    â€œWhy, what have you done?”
    â€œThere was a girl in Paris, the prettiest, liveliest creature you ever saw. We spent a good deal of time together, and word got back to England about her. That’s the trouble with having relations all over Europe, all of them with their spies and sending letters flying to and fro.”
    â€œBart, is this serious? Don’t tell me you’ve