Page 127 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Lindon looked up. "Leaving? Is it late?"

"It is early tomorrow," Richard countered, glancing at the windows where night still pressed its face against the glass. "I have a mother who knows all."

Lindon grimaced in sympathy. "Ah."

Richard's mouth tightened. "Yes. Ah."

The streets at three in the morning had a different character. The day's respectable carriages were gone. The lamps burned lower. Shadows moved in corners with purpose. A man could cross half of Mayfair and not meet a soul, which, to Richard's mind, made London briefly tolerable.

Matlock House stood like a threat. Not the grand house in Derbyshire, where hills and trees softened the shape of authority, but the London residence, sharp edged and watchful, as if even the bricks expected obedience.

A servant admitted him without surprise. Of course they were awake. Matlock servants did not sleep, they merely waited. He stepped into the hall and shrugged out of his coat.

"The Countess is in the parlour, Colonel. She requires your presence."

Richard nodded at him and took a deep breath to brace himself.

The drawing room door was open. Light spilled out. He paused, then went in, bracing as if entering enemy territory.

His mother sat near the fire with a book in her lap, not reading it. She wore a gown of dark silk, elegant and severe, her hair arranged neatly, the diamonds at her throat catching the firelight with cool disdain. Her posture was perfect. Her expression was not quite stern, not quite amused. It was the expression of a woman who had watched men ruin their own lives for decades and felt very little sympathy for the spectacle.

"Richard," Lady Matlock observed, as if he had arrived at noon for tea rather than at three for judgement. "You are late."

Richard stopped in front of the hearth. He inclined his head. "Mother."

Her eyes swept him, taking in the faint crease at his sleeve, the dust at the hem of his boot, the slight disarray of a man who had attempted, unsuccessfully, to outrun his own thoughts. "You have been at White's."

"Yes."

"And you have been restless," she continued, not asking.

Richard took the chair opposite her. He placed his gloves on the table with deliberate neatness. "London is full of irritations."

Her mouth curved. "London is full of consequences. It is your family's favourite pastime."

Richard's gaze narrowed. "Is Father awake?"

"He is asleep," she replied. "Which means he will be awake in two hours and irritable. He barely kept his eyes open on our way back from Lady Taverham's ball."

Richard exhaled slowly without smiling. He had inherited many things from his parents, and one of them was the ability to be deeply amused while appearing miserable.

Lady Matlock tapped the edge of her book with a finger. "You spoke to your father at the wedding breakfast."

"I endured my father at the wedding breakfast," Richard corrected.

"Endurance is not a strategy," she replied. "It is a habit. One that will kill you."

"He threatened me."

Lady Matlock's eyes remained steady. "Your father promised you."

The chair complained softly as he leaned back. "He will not send me to the West Indies."

"He will," she replied, as calmly as if discussing the weather. "He does not make idle threats. When he loses patience, he becomes efficient."

Richard's mouth twisted. "He has always been efficient. It is his one charm."

Lady Matlock watched him for a breath, then leaned forward slightly, her hands folded in her lap gracefully. "You are one and thirty, Richard. You are a Colonel. You have an excellent name, and a poor purse. You also have an unfortunate talent for spending money before it exists."