With his accustomed precision, Darcy placed his signature on the last document of business he expected to encounter before leaving London for Christmas and Pemberley and handed it back to Hinchcliffe to sand and seal. At last, he was free from the tedious aspects of his return to Town and could give his attention to more pleasurable activities! Although, he acknowledged to himself as he closed up his ledgers and books, this evening’s soiree at the home of Lord and Lady Melbourne in Whitehall would not answer all his ideas of pleasure. Only the much-heralded appearance of L’Catalani could have enticed him to accept one of Lady Melbourne’s invitations, for in general he followed his advice to Bingley and avoided her set as much as was possible.
It was not only that lady’s encouragement of the prince regent’s eccentricities that caused Darcy to maintain a distant attitude. The intrigue and rumors of irregularities within the walls of Melbourne House reached back over thirty years, to the birth of the viscount’s heir, and continued into the present in scandalized on-dits concerning the conduct of that heir’s new wife. Darcy had been present at the marriage of the Honorable William Lamb to Lady Caroline Ponsonby on one of his rare visits to Town during his father’s illness. Lamb he had regarded as a good sort, levelheaded in his pursuit of a political career and of a more serious cast than his antecedents might lead his constituents to expect. But his marriage to Lady Caroline, already celebrated for her unconventional flights of behavior, was, to Darcy’s thinking, ill-advised. In this he had been proved a sage, and Darcy considered, as he nodded his permission to Hinchcliffe’s request to lock up the books, which lady might be the more likely to stage a scene at the soiree, the temperamental diva or the highly strung Lady Caroline.
“Another good day’s work, Hinchcliffe,” Darcy complimented his secretary. “You have overseen everything admirably. I could never have accomplished so much without your attention beforehand.”
“It is my pleasure, sir,” the somber man replied with a slight inclination of his gaze. “Has the date of your departure for Pemberley been settled, sir? I should like to begin the arrangements.”
“Tuesday the 17th, I should think, if I can see Lawrence on Monday. Have I received a reply to my inquiry?”
“It arrived this afternoon, Mr. Darcy.” Hinchcliffe opened the ever-present leather case, extracted a rather crumpled, paint-stained note, and read, “ ‘Mr. Thomas Lawrence will be pleased to entertain Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy at half past two of the clock on Monday, the 16th of December at his residence, Cavendish Square.’ Shall I send a confirmation, sir?”
“Yes, do so. If my interview goes well and he agrees, he shall paint Miss Darcy when she comes to London with me in January.” He smiled into Hinchcliffe’s surprised countenance. “Indeed, I have every confidence that I will be able to convince her to return with me. Not a Season, of course — she is too young — but there will be quiet gatherings enough and operas and plays and” — he paused, then added quietly — “and it will be good to have her among us, will it not?”
“It will, indeed, Mr. Darcy.” The softened look that passed briefly over Hinchcliffe’s face confirmed what Darcy had known for years. He may have had a secure hold upon his secretary’s loyalty, but it was his sister, born the year he came into their service, who held Hinchcliffe’s devotion.
The library clock struck four, and as if on cue, Witcher opened the door, but not with the expected announcement of tea. “Mr. Darcy, sir, Lord Dyfed Brougham to see —”
“Yes, yes, I’m here to see you, Fitz; and I know you are home. Don’t try to brush me off with any Banbury tales, ’cause I’m on to ’um!” The elegant but imposing figure of Lord Brougham filled the doorway and then sidled past the butler. “Good show, Witcher, but Fitz’ll see me, won’t you, old man?” He rounded on Darcy with a confident grin.
“Dy, have you nothing better to do than rattle my servants?” Darcy shook his head at his old university friend.
“Nothing else whatsoever! Except, perhaps, to plague you!” Lord Brougham stretched out his hand and gripped Darcy’s in a hearty shake. “Where have you been this last month? I came to Town to find your knocker down, and all Witcher would tell me was that ‘Mr. Darcy is visiting in the country.’ I offered him a pony if he would say where, but Mr. Witcher here” — Lord Brougham tossed his chin toward the butler — “would mumble not a word.”
“Let that teach you not to try to bribe loyal family servants,” Darcy shot back at him with a laugh.
“Well, all those years at University didn’t teach me anything, so I doubt me this will. Hopeless case, don’t you know!” Brougham dropped carelessly into one of the hearthside chairs and looked around him. “I’ve caught you at the books, have I, Fitz?”
“No, in point of fact, we just finished; and I was expecting tea —”
“Tea! Now there’s an idea!” He sat up with a bound. “Let’s you and I toddle over to the club. I daresay you haven’t looked in at Boodle’s since you returned from…Now just where were you?”
“Hertfordshire.”
“Lord, you don’t say! Hertfordshire!” Brougham mused distractedly. “Whatever for, Fitz?”
“I’ll tell you when we get to the club.” Darcy turned to his butler, who well acquainted with Lord Brougham’s high spirits, was smiling discreetly behind his hand. “My things, Witcher, if you please. It appears I will be taking tea at Boodle’s.”
The two men clattered down the front steps of Erewile House and into Lord Brougham’s curricle, which in minutes conveyed them, under his expert whip, to the hushed hallowedness of Boodle’s. The club’s imperious doorman ushered them inside, where various footmen rushed quietly to relieve them of their greatcoats, hats, and gloves.
Facing his friend across the black-and-white mosaic floor of Italian marble, Darcy cocked a brow. “Where to, Dy?”
“Someplace where we can talk privately and not scandalize the older members. Corner of the dining room, I should think.” Brougham winked in response to the veil of reserve with which Darcy immediately cloaked his face. “Oh, nothing so very bad as that, Fitz! Unless you’ve been kicking your heels up in — where was that? Herefordshire?”
“Hertfordshire, as you well know,” he replied dampeningly.
“Oho! We do have some ground to cover, I see.” Brougham started toward one of the gleaming wooden passageways that arched over stairs leading from the entry hall to the club’s upper floors.
Perhaps this was not wise. Darcy’s eyes narrowed on his friend’s back as he followed him up to the dining room. He knew very well that Dy’s dilettante façade hid a keen mind, which despite his protestations, was as capable of designing a bridge as of composing a sonnet. They had vigorously competed with each other at University, and Darcy remembered, if his friend did not, the multitude of prizes Dy had won at Cambridge. All the while, he recalled uneasily, giving their tutors fits.
In the intervening seven years, Dy had managed, with a studied elegance and frivolous manner, to make Society forget about them as well and account him no more than a charming fribble. Darcy had often wondered why the charade, but Dy had smoothly deflected all his attempts at satisfying himself on the question. How or why his friend had determined to conduct his life in such a fashion remained an untouched subject between them, but as it did not corrupt the firmness of their long friendship, Darcy had chosen early on to leave the question unanswered. But his forbearance in pressing Dy upon his idle existence was, he had found, not always reciprocated. If I am not extremely careful, he cautioned himself, Dy will discover from my own lips what I wish most to conceal.
They entered the spacious dining room, and Brougham immediately commandeered the coziest table. “Here, just the ticket, Fitz.” He pulled out a chair for Darcy and then sat down at the one that offered the best view of the entire room. “Let us get our tea ordered, and then you can tell me all about your expedition to the country.” As the waiters discharged dish upon dish of what Boodle’s considered a suitable tea for its gentleman members, Darcy and Dy entertained each other with the commonplaces and ribbings that long friendship allowed. When they were finally left to themselves, Dy sobered somewhat and grew more candid as he caught his friend up on the economic rumors and political speculations that truly mattered to men in Darcy’s position.
“What an amazing fount of information you are,” Darcy commented dryly as Brougham finally paused for a long draw on his tea. “One could almost suppose it a passion.”
“Oh, nothing so fatiguing! One hears things, you know. Assemblies, routs, hunts, gaming hells…all the same, nothing but chatter. I just happen to have a devilishly retentive mind.” He cast Darcy a soulful look and sighed. “Merely one more curse I must bear.”
“And what are the others, pray?” Darcy laughed outright at Dy’s bid for sympathy. “A very considerable fortune, a fine person, and —”
“Please, desist! You are embarrassing me! Which is particularly annoying as it was I who intended to embarrass you. Now, tell me about Hertfordshire,” Brougham demanded.
“Are you sure you do not mean Herefordshire?” Darcy threw back at him while scrambling for his dropped guard.
“No, I am sure you said Hertfordshire. Come, come; tell Papa what you did. Confession, you know…good for the soul and all that.” Brougham looked at him intently.
Darcy found himself twisting the napkin in his lap. Dy’s face was all sincerity, touched with a wry humor that warmly invited his confidence. The idea of enlisting his old friend’s help seemed, at first, entirely incredible. But as they sat in silence, sipping at their tea, it slowly took on the appearance of reason. He would not tell him all, of course. Nothing about…well, nothing but what Dy needed to know to help him with Bingley.
“You know my friend Charles Bingley?”
Brougham nodded his head. “Young chap from up north with more ready than sense. You have done him more than a few good turns from the look of him lately.”
“He took a year’s lease on a small property in Hertfordshire and got himself entangled with a young woman from a most unsuitable family.” Darcy wove his tale, careful to leave unmentioned his own fall into a tender fascination. “So,” he concluded, “as the man has turned quite intractable on the subject and will not listen to reason, I am engaged in a game of subterfuge. Planting doubts, that sort of thing. I find it is exceedingly uncomfortable.”
“I would imagine so! Not your game at all, Fitz. Do you think he suspects anything?”
“No, I do not believe so. At least, I doubt it. He trusts me implicitly, you see.” Darcy flushed and fell to examining his ruby-crowned ring.
“Likely you are right that he does not suspect. ‘The heart that is conscious of its own integrity is ever slow to credit another’s treachery.’ Ah, sorry, Fitz!” Brougham apologized at Darcy’s pained expression. “Did not mean it the way it sounded. Well, you do have a serpent by the tail! What is your next move?”
“We are to attend Lady Melbourne’s soiree tonight.”
“The divine Catalani! Fitz, you are in luck. I myself have sent my acceptance to this soiree. How can I assist with the enchanted Mr. Bingley?”
“Help introduce him to new enchantments. You know how awkward I am at these things, Dy. But wait,” Darcy responded quickly to the knowing look on Brougham’s face, “by that I mean proper young ladies. If you introduce him to any of Lady Caroline’s intimates, I’ll call you out, just see if I don’t!”
Brougham threw up his hands in mock horror. “Heaven forbid, Fitz. But just where, at a soiree hosted by Lady M, do you propose I find these ‘proper young ladies’?”
“I should not think it much of a challenge to one ‘cursed with such a retentive mind’!” Darcy quoted back to him. The apparent reasonableness of taking Dy into his confidence was beginning to fade.
“Yes,” Brougham drawled, “there is that. I shall do my best, my friend. Now, do we go together or shall I ‘happen’to meet you there?”
“We shall meet you there, but I won’t pretend it is not planned. I shall tell Charles that we’ve arranged to meet at, say, half past nine near the card room.”
“Done and done! Nothing like a bit of intrigue to liven up the evening. Can I drop you at Erewile House?”
The two rose from table and sauntered through the various rooms of the club, pausing now and then to exchange a word with one or the other’s acquaintances, but in general making their way to the front door. Brougham’s curricle was called for, and the horses pointed toward Grosvenor Square.
“You haven’t told me about Georgiana,” Brougham accused Darcy. “Lord, she must be quite a young lady by now.”
“Yes…yes, she is. I intend to bring her back with me to Town in January.”
“Not for a Season! She cannot be that grown!”
“On that we agree! No, I only wish to allow her some of the delights of Town. She so enjoys music and has cultivated a very fine taste.”
“And you wax eloquent whenever you speak of her.” Brougham’s face took on a distant look. “I envy you, Fitz. I envied you even when Georgiana was a troublesome little moppet who innocently spoiled our plans for fun. Remember that summer I spent at Pemberley after our first year at Cambridge?”
“How could I forget? It was you who found her! The sight of her in your lap as you rode into the courtyard I shall never forget.”
Brougham’s sigh was so quiet that Darcy almost missed it. “Fitz, now I have a confession to make. It was I who hid the blasted doll she was looking for. If I had not found her —” He stopped abruptly. “Well, I did, and that, as they say, is that. And here we are!” He brought the matched bays to a neat stop and leaned over to unlatch Darcy’s door. “Lady M’s card room at half past nine. I’ll be the one with the posy in his buttonhole.” He saluted Darcy with his whip. “Au revoir!”
Darcy stood in the gathering dusk, frowning after the curricle until it turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Then, shaking his head slowly, he mounted the steps to Erewile House.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” The bedchamber door had barely shut behind him when Fletcher, in a fine agitation, nearly sprang upon him from behind it.
“Great heavens, Fletcher!” expostulated Darcy, more than a little startled. “I have not rung for you yet.”
“No time for ringing, Mr. Darcy. We must begin! Your bath will be ready momentarily. Shall we decide on your attire for the evening? Did you have anything in mind?” Darcy surveyed his chamber, noting with amused alarm that most every item of evening attire he owned was draped or stacked here and there. A pile of freshly starched cravats lay docilely beside his jewel case. His several pairs of evening shoes were polished to perfection. It all had the look, he thought, as his gaze returned to his valet, of a military campaign.
“I believe you have been seriously misinformed, Fletcher. It is only a soiree, not a summons to Carlton House.”
“Indeed, sir” — Fletcher sniffed — “if it were only Carlton House! But it is, rather, Melbourne House, a much more refined address, sir.”
“Umph” was all Darcy replied as he started toward the dressing room, Fletcher in his wake. His valet’s ministrations during his disrobing and bathing were performed with the utmost professionalism and speed. A whispered command to a kitchen lad here or a low-pitched inquiry to himself there, and Darcy found that he was bathed, wrapped in a dressing gown, and in his shaving chair in amazingly short order.
As Fletcher expertly tested the edge of his blade, Darcy settled back into the chair. The routine nature of shaving — Fletcher always executed the strokes in the same order and manner — ever allowed him a few precious moments of reflection. This evening there was much to reflect upon…too much, if he permitted his mind to wander where it would. Dy’s sudden appearance had the mark of Providence. Brougham was much more capable of guiding Charles through the labyrinthine intricacies of a gathering of Society’s flowers than he could ever be. Aside from a true appreciation for the acclaimed diva, his only interest in the soiree was as an opportunity to distract Charles from his infatuation in Hertfordshire. The attention of the young ladies to a new, rich face appearing among them would be, for Charles, heady wine indeed. That, in addition to the doubts Darcy had planted in the other quarter, would, he hoped, channel Bingley’s wavering convictions into proper courses. Tomorrow, he would send a note to Miss Bingley, and if she could restrain her disparagement of Hertfordshire and do as he had instructed, Charles would be safely out of danger, and he could go home to Pemberley.
“There, sir. Your towel, sir.” Fletcher dropped a soft Turkish towel into his hand and, turning to the tray of toiletries, selected a bottle. “The sandalwood, I should think, sir.” Darcy nodded and received a daub of the scent mixed with alcohol into his palm.
“Have you decided on your attire, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy pulled himself out of the comfort of the chair and looked into Fletcher’s face, animated for the first time since their return to London. “No, I have not given it any thought, whereas you have given it a great deal, if the condition of my bedchamber be the judge! What do you suggest, Fletcher, keeping in mind that the Beau himself will be in attendance and the regent, too, most likely?” He strolled back into his bedchamber and again surveyed the troops.
“Restrained elegance, Mr. Darcy. And as you, sir, have more claim to that than certain celebrated fellows —”
“I have no wish to compete with Mr. Brummell,” Darcy clarified as he removed his dressing gown. “I mentioned him only in warning and do not wish to occasion any undue notice on anyone’s part.”
“I perfectly understand, sir. No undue notice.” Fletcher paused and fingered the fine white lawn of the shirt he had chosen for his master. “I think the dark blue with the black silk waistcoat. The one embroidered with sapphirine threads, like the green you wore at Netherfield.”
Darcy swiveled round. “No! Something else.” Fletcher held up the waistcoat against the blue, almost black superfine coat and breeches. “Oh,” he breathed. “Blue.” His voice fell to a mumble. “Yes, that will do.”
“Yes, sir.” The valet held out the shirt and slipped it up his arms. Fletcher’s enthusiasm increased with each article of clothing Darcy assumed, a marked contrast with his demeanor since returning to London. Evidently, his valet also had interests residing in Hertfordshire, and Darcy was vaguely sorry for it. What a disaster that trip had become! He looked down as Fletcher finished buttoning the waistcoat and went to select a neckcloth. Yes, it was very like the one he had worn at Netherfield. Was it only two weeks ago? The metallic threads alternately glittered and dulled as he moved before the dressing mirror. How hopeful he had been of a good result from the evening.
Fletcher returned, and Darcy sat down, lifting his chin to allow the valet room to practice his artistry. While his man folded and knotted, his mind involuntarily slipped back to that evening, to those few moments he had possessed himself of her hand and they had moved together in harmony rather than opposition. The flow of her gown around her, the flowers entwined in her hair.
With a start, Darcy recalled his thoughts from the unprofitable path in which they had strayed and, shaking himself, received a pained adjuration from Fletcher: “Please, sir, do not move just yet.” The lines were ones he had found marked by the embroidery threads that he had stolen from the Milton in Netherfield’s library. An idiotish fancy, he told himself as he turned from his valet, but the self-excoriation did not stop him from retrieving the threads from the book at his bedside. As he gently wound them about his finger and then poked them down into his breast pocket, the words they had lain against, not unlike the woman they brought to mind, caught and held him.
A knock at the door announced the welcome distraction of a tray from Monsieur Jules. The covers were lifted by another lad from the kitchen to reveal a savory fortification against supper at Melbourne House not being served until midnight.
“Here, sir.” Fletcher came into the bedchamber. “Save for your fob and coat, you are ready.” Darcy examined the valet’s efforts in the mirror with a critical eye. Fletcher’s face appeared alongside his reflection. “Should anyone ask” — he beamed with sartorial pride — “it is the Roquet. My own creation,” he added diffidently.
“Roquet? ‘To strike out of the game?’ And who am I to strike out with this?” Darcy indicated the constriction that encircled his neck in an untold number of knots and folds.
“Whomever you wish, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher bowed to his employer’s raised eyebrow, then took the napkin from the tray and shook it out. “Sir?”
Darcy sat down to his repast, his brow furrowed in speculation upon his valet, who returned his regard with an imperturbable aplomb. “A case of Measure for Measure, Fletcher?” he asked finally, as he took the napkin.
The ghost of a smirk passed over the valet’s face. “Quite so, sir. Quite so.”
Leaning to look out the window of his carriage, Darcy watched as his groomsman jumped down from the box and bounded down Jermyn Street to Grenier’s, armed with a note advising Bingley that he had arrived and to wait until the carriage had pulled up to the hotel’s door. Satisfied, he settled back into the squabs, pulling his evening cloak and the carriage rug closer. The ride to Melbourne House would be of no moment, he thought as he waited in the deep shadows of a cold late autumn’s evening; but the wait for the long line of carriages attempting to discharge their passengers and then the receiving line within could take up well over an hour, even two. Not that he was anxious to arrive at his destination. Thank Heaven, Dy will be there! Someone of sense and decency with whom to converse and to provide an excuse for not attending to every Lady This or Miss That and her mama!
The carriage rocked slightly as the door was pulled open and Bingley’s muffled form climbed in. “Charles!” Darcy exclaimed. “Did you not receive my note?”
A slip of paper was waved before his nose. “Yes, and here it is! The line in front of Grenier’s is frightful tonight. Every man and his uncle is going out or coming in, and you would be waiting until your bricks were stone cold. Much easier for me to come to you and, with your groomsman along, little danger. Yes, I’ve heard!” Bingley cut off Darcy’s remonstrance. “Horrible business down in Wapping. In all the papers!” He sat back into the seat opposite, unwrapping a thick scarf from around his chin. “Is it true the regent has forbidden anyone to be received at Carlton House after eight?”
Darcy nodded as the carriage pulled away from the curb and his driver began the tedious negotiation of the streets to Whitehall. “Forbidden it to strangers. The door will not be refused to His Majesty’s intimates, of course, as none of them are, as yet, suspected of mass murder,” he added dryly.
Bingley’s answering laugh evidenced a nervous tremor. “Darcy, this soiree. It seemed like a great go yesterday, but the more I thought about it today…” His voice trailed off, and he fell to studying his gloves.
“You shall do very well, Charles,” Darcy assured him. “I have never seen you do aught but land on your feet, no matter where you are. Your talent for entering into whatever society you find yourself is truly remarkable. Incomprehensible, but remarkable.”
Bingley chuckled again nervously. “Well, tonight shall be the test. I almost wish it were Caroline making this venture rather than myself. She would revel in it!”
Darcy grimaced in the dark. “I find your presence much more agreeable. Which reminds me, besides the ornaments of society you will meet tonight, I wish to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Lord Dyfed Brougham. We were at Cambridge together; he ran tame at Pemberley for a summer or more.”
“Brougham, you say? I do not believe I have met him or his family.”
“Unlikely. Brougham is his parents’ only surviving child, and they were older when he was born. The old earl passed away before I had met him our first year at University. Brougham himself is rather a will-o’-the-wisp; one never knows when he may appear. But,” Darcy advised, “he is just the man to guide you through tonight’s gauntlet. Follow his lead, and you are sure to come out with your skin whole.”
“And what shall you be doing?”
“I hope to have an opportunity actually to hear L’Catalani! The last time I attended a performance, the noise from the gallery was so appalling, even her great voice could not be heard. Aside from that, I plan to spend the majority of the evening avoiding danger as best as I am able.”
“Danger! You make it all sound so sinister, Darcy. I fear you do not anticipate enjoying yourself in the least. I hope I am not interfering with your pleasure in the evening!”
“Of course not, don’t be a gudgeon!” Darcy shifted uneasily. “I have never enjoyed large gatherings, as you well know, and have little patience with the intrigues that so delight the haut ton.” He leaned forward. “But do not allow that to spoil your evening. Stay close to Brougham, and you will certainly enjoy yourself. Just take care not to be drawn into anything which might require me to act as your second.”
“I almost believe you are serious!”
The carriage swayed to a stop at the corner before Whitehall, joining the line of others awaiting their turn to pull up to the torchlit stairs and shivering footmen of Melbourne House. Darcy knocked on the roof with his stick, and in moments his groom appeared at the door.
“Mr. Darcy, sir.”
“Harry, I think we shall walk from here. Did Mr. Witcher give you anything?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry grinned and patted his coat pocket, which jingled impressively. “Me an’ James be well supplied fer an evenin’ at the Bull ’n’ Boar. Thank ’e, sir,” he replied as he reached inside the carriage door to let down the steps.
“Good man, Harry.” Darcy climbed down, Bingley close behind him. “Be available by two. I hope to make an early evening of it, unless Mr. Bingley will not be pulled away.”
“Aye, sir. Two o’clock it is, an’ a good evenin’ to ya, Mr. Darcy.”
The two men turned and walked hurriedly down the street, which was already crowded with gawkers and hawkers of every description. Darcy’s grip tightened on his heavily crowned walking stick. He pulled himself up to every inch of his tall frame, projecting an air of uncompromising purpose as he strode through the throng, Bingley at his heels. In short order they gained the line of torches illuminating the walks on either side of Melbourne House and, upon presenting their cards to the footman, were immediately escorted up the steps and inside the doorway past guests who had arrived before them.
Bingley turned a questioning brow upon him as a servant hurried to relieve them of their hats and cloaks, but Darcy would only shrug in answer. It had always been thus, this deferential treatment, and it would be difficult to explain to Bingley, newcomer that he was, that it was merely part and parcel of the game Society loved so well to play. Although, Darcy acknowledged to himself as he turned to the butler and extended his card again, he had not entirely expected such marked distinction here at Melbourne. He had rarely mixed with this set, despite the many opportunities and invitations to do so, and knew he was regarded by the majority as stiff-rumped in his adherence to principle and decorum. But his name and fortune outweighed all these defects tonight, it seemed. It remained to observe who Lady Melbourne’s other guests might be. Then, perhaps, he could make a determination on the manner of his reception.
He stepped to the arched doorway that led into the public rooms and waited for the Melbournes’ butler to announce him and then Bingley. A quick survey confirmed that they were all here, the peers and politicians, the literati and the artists, the men whose hour was upon them and those whose hour was nearly past. Peeresses and very rich misses hung lightly on their arms, their brilliancy of gown contrasting with the Brummellian starkness of the gentlemen, their eyes darting here and there in the quest to see and be seen. Music swelled from the ballroom beyond. The mingled sounds of voices and music were deafening.
Darcy turned back to Bingley and smiled wryly into the overawed expression on his friend’s face. Of course it would be daunting to a young man as unaffected as Charles! Darcy experienced a pang of uncertainty as to the wisdom of his plan, but it was much too late for reconsideration. The butler was, even now, announcing them.
Lady Melbourne broke from a group and advanced upon them with a smile long praised for its warmth if not for its sincerity. “Mr. Darcy, how absolutely delightful!” She extended her elegantly gloved hand, which he took smoothly and bowed. “Sefton,” she called over her shoulder. “See, he has come, though you vowed he would not!” Lord Sefton sketched Darcy a curt, apologetic bow.
“Your servant, Darcy,” the founder of the Four-in-Hand Club drawled. “Just trying to prevent the lady from suffering a disappointment. ’Sides, you never do come, leastways not till now.”
“Hush, Sefton, you shall make him think we do nothing but gossip, and that is not entirely true.” Lady Melbourne flashed her famous dark eyes up at Darcy and smiled. “We find any number of ways to amuse ourselves, Mr. Darcy, and many of them are here tonight for the enjoying.” She took his arm, at the same moment noticing Bingley, who had been standing mute behind him. “Oh, pray excuse me, sir! A friend of yours, Mr. Darcy?”
“Indeed. May I have the honor of introducing him to Your Ladyship?” At her curious nod, Darcy made the introduction. To his relief, Charles appeared to have roused himself from his wonder at the surroundings to the point that he was able to receive the lady’s hand with creditable grace.
“Mr. Bingley, you must take every opportunity to enjoy yourself tonight. There is dancing in the ballroom, cards in several rooms off the hall…” She paused. Darcy could see her quickly summing up Charles and assigning him a position among her ranks of acquaintances. Where will she place him? he wondered, which was followed by the more pertinent question, And where, tonight, does she place me? “But if your tastes run, as do your friend’s, to the philosophical and political, my son Lamb is entertaining the more scholarly of our guests in the Blue Room. Now, where may I introduce you?”
“Lady Melbourne, you are very kind.” Bingley bowed again to his hostess, then looked uncertainly at Darcy. “I hardly know where to begin…”
“Then allow me to choose for you, Mr. Bingley.” She turned and, after appraising those near her, gracefully lifted her fan and motioned to a young woman who immediately excused herself from her distinguished companion and came to her. “My dear Miss Cecil, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Bingley, a particular friend of our Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley, Miss Cecil, grandniece to the marquess of Salisbury, Hertfordshire.” Darcy watched as Bingley made his bow, wishing the young woman were better known to him. She curtsied prettily to his friend and to him, but there was a haughtiness in her air he could not like, although she was a very well-looking woman.
“Miss Cecil” — Bingley’s open smile set about working its usual charm — “should you like to dance or —”
“Of course she wishes to dance, Mr. Bingley; do you not, my dear?” Lady Melbourne smiled archly at Miss Cecil, who, quickly exchanging a glance with Her Ladyship, nodded her agreement and took Bingley’s proffered arm.
“Then dance we shall, Miss Cecil, if you will be so kind as to show me the way. Darcy,” he tossed over his shoulder to his friend, “you shall have to do without me. Good luck! Lady Melbourne.” He bowed and was soon lost in the crowd of guests, leaving Darcy with no doubt that he had been expertly outmaneuvered and wondering where, in Heaven’s name, Dy had gotten himself.
“There, Darcy, your young friend is well engaged.” Lady Melbourne lightly rapped his arm with her fan. “Now you need no longer play nurse to the charming puppy and may amuse yourself with no encumbrance.” She looked up at him, then, from under lowered lashes. “And what does amuse you, Darcy? Sefton was quite right; you never do come. Yet you are here! I wonder what could be the reason.”
“The reason, dear lady, is as plain as a pikestaff,” a voice intoned from behind her. Darcy’s left brow shot up as a splendid figure in the glossiest of black frock coats and the snowiest of starched linen came to stand before them. A circle of onlookers immediately formed while the man proceeded to favor Darcy with a minute scrutiny, one hand held behind his back as the other cupped his chin, the index finger tapping his cheek.
“And that reason is —” Lady Melbourne began but was cut off with a swiftly upraised palm.
“Hisssst, I must have quiet, madam!”
Her Ladyship rolled her eyes at Darcy in apology, but his attention was wholly upon his examiner, whom he watched with narrowed hauteur. The silence demanded by Society’s unchallenged arbiter of Fashion spread outward, catching the notice of more and more of the other guests. Darcy drew himself up even straighter, determined not to reveal his distaste for this display to the man’s insolent gaze or deliver the setdown that hovered on his tongue, either of which he knew would be a deadly error. Even the prince submitted to the man’s exquisite taste.
“Hmm,” the man commented as he looked at Darcy from one side, then the other. Then, suddenly, “What!” and he stepped closer, peering through a gold-handled quizzing glass, which had dangled from a fob at his waistcoat. “Ah, yes, I see!” Heaving a great sigh, the man retreated a pace and finally looked into Darcy’s face. “What is it called?”
Darcy’s lips twitched briefly at the resignation in the man’s voice, but he retained his stony aspect, replying indifferently, “The Roquet.”
The other’s brows rose at that. “Rather a bold name, wouldn’t you say? Fletcher?”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “Fletcher.”
“Come now, Brummell, do not keep us all in suspense.” Dy’s welcome voice reached Darcy, who turned to see him shoulder his way to where they stood. “More than a few guineas are put down on this. What is the verdict, man?”
The entire room gasped in astonishment as the Beau offered Darcy a deep obeisance. “Let it be known: the Roquet is a masterpiece, worthy of the highest acclaim, and in the face of such genius, I hereby place my own creation, the Sphinx, in honorable retirement.”
“Surely, Brummell, you do not mean to say that Mr. Darcy has come merely to issue challenge to your cravat!” Lady Melbourne’s protest was almost lost in the general shouts at the Beau’s astonishing concession and the totting up of guineas lost or won by it.
“But that is precisely what I mean, ma’am.” Brummell lazily turned his quizzing glass upon her. “Although I could not attach the term merely to such a matter. I am quite cast down, Your Ladyship, quite cast down. My one consolation is that I have been bested by a true artist. Do observe, ma’am, the foldings here and the knot thus —”
“Brummell, if you wish to conduct a lesson, I will gladly put a room at your disposal, but Mr. Darcy —”
The Beau turned and surprised Darcy with a wink only he could see, saying, “Heavens no, Your Ladyship! If I spilled all I knew, who would pay me the least attention thereafter?” He bowed to them both, intoned “Your servant, Darcy,” and sauntered away, only to stop suddenly before a gentleman and in a few moments declaim, “My dear fellow, you call that a waistcoat?”
Lady Melbourne laughed lightly and drew Darcy’s arm to her once again. “I had not thought you a rival of Brummell’s, Darcy. How is it that I have not heard of this before? And who is Fletcher?”
“Rival I most certainly am not, Your Ladyship,” he answered forcefully. The appreciative look that she returned him on this declaration caused a flush to begin creeping up his collar.
She looked away, as if determining a route through the crowded room. “And Fletcher?” The smile she turned back upon him was one of polite interest only.
“My valet, ma’am.”
“Yes, of course.” She indicated a direction, and Darcy could not but escort her. Out of nowhere, Dy fell in beside them.
“Lady Melbourne, please allow me to say what a shocking crush you have accomplished tonight! It but lacks the regent’s presence to be the biggest ‘do’ since the fete at Carlton House.”
“Brougham, you exaggerate obscenely, but I forgive you for it. I hope you will not be disappointed when I tell you that dear Prinny will not be coming tonight, and further that I have resisted furnishing my guests with a fish-stocked stream down the length of my table.”
Brougham’s face fell dramatically. “Ma’am, I had not heard! But this news is most distressing. Darcy, did you hear? The prince is not to come —”
“Darcy,” the lady interrupted, turning her attention back to him, “were you at the fete at Carlton House? I do not recall you there, but in such a confusion one can easily miss even one’s greatest friends.”
“No, ma’am, I was not in London at the time.”
“Not in London! I distinctly remember you accompanying me to the Grand Review only days before,” Dy said, looking at him curiously over the top of Lady Melbourne’s headdress.
“I was in Ramsgate…visiting my sister, my lord.” Darcy returned him a hard stare, hoping to discourage further discussion.
“Visiting your sister, Darcy, instead of attending the prince’s fete!” Lady Melbourne looked up at him closely. “What an uncommonly attentive brother you are! But that is your reputation, sir. You are attentive to all your concerns, as was your dear father before you.”
Darcy bowed his head in acknowledgment of her compliment. “That is high praise indeed, my lady.”
“I wonder, sir, are you attentive as well to the broader concerns?”
Chill fingers of warning played down Darcy’s back and were only heightened by the slight narrowing of Dy’s eyes above the lady’s head. “Broader concerns, ma’am?”
“Concerns that lay beyond the charming borders of Pemberley, beyond even Derbyshire.”
“I hope I am a good and loyal subject of the king, my lady,” Darcy hedged. He looked again to his friend, but Dy only shrugged and appeared exceedingly bored.
“As are we all, Darcy,” Lady Melbourne replied smoothly. “But the tiller is not in His Majesty’s hands alone, and at times, the course of the ship of state must be amended, different stars followed, to bring it safely to port.” She stopped their progress through the guest-thronged hall and indicated a door that opened from it. “Let me introduce you to some of those whose broad concerns encompass all our smaller ones.”
The door cracked open upon Lady Melbourne’s soft knock, and while she conducted a whispered exchange with the servant who stood within, Darcy cocked a brow at Dy in indication that now would be an excellent time to bring his vaunted social acumen to bear and forestall their proceeding any further into Her Ladyship’s toils. But as his friend was unaccountably absorbed in a study of the lace at his cuff and returned him no answer, there appeared to be nothing for it. So, frowning in irritation, Darcy reluctantly crossed the threshold into the room when it opened for them.
The handsome salon into which they were admitted was not overly crowded, but it was decidedly masculine in its occupation; not a single female was present save their hostess. Lady Melbourne smiled at Darcy reassuringly as she held out her hand to a gentleman who was nodding to the servant she had sent. The man’s eyes narrowed as he observed them at the door, but he moved quickly enough to Her Ladyship’s side. “Lady Melbourne,” he greeted her tersely with a tight smile and short bow.
“Lamb,” the lady addressed her son, her smile wide but somewhat brittle, “are you acquainted with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Derbyshire?”
The Honorable William Lamb allowed himself another tight smile. “Yes, ma’am, although not so well as I should like. Your servant, sir.” He bowed to Darcy. Darcy returned the courtesy, shocked that he had not recognized the man. The years since he had attended Lamb’s marriage ceremony had not, evidently, been kind ones, leaving a man Darcy knew to be his senior by only four years looking much worn.
“I am certain you know Lord Brougham,” Lady Melbourne continued, “as he is always here, there, and about.”
“Yes, of course, Your Ladyship. It was that shooting party of Grenville’s the last time, wasn’t it, Lamb?”
“I believe you are right, Brougham. Caught nothing but a cold that day, but marvelous geography, as I remember.” Lamb’s features relaxed somewhat at the memory but cooled again before he turned pointedly to his parent, saying, “Madam, you must not neglect the rest of your guests. I shall take these two in hand.”
The flash of fire in her eyes was unmistakable. “Then I shall leave you to it!” Lady Melbourne curtsied, and in a swirl of skirts left them.
“A formidable lady,” Dy murmured as they watched her leave.
“Indeed!” Lamb returned with feeling. “But now, gentlemen, I must ask you a question: Did you seek us out” — his hand swept the room — “or were you press-ganged by Her Ladyship?” Dy chuckled at the allusion but made no answer, leaving Darcy to smooth their way.
“Lady Melbourne is not a woman I should wish to gainsay.” Darcy hesitated, then added wryly, “Even were I given the opportunity.”
A genuine smile then spread across Lamb’s features. He offered his hand to Darcy. “Well said, sir, and quite politic of you! Perhaps you are in the right place after all! But, in truth, you have come tonight to hear the diva my mother has promised, not to argue politics; is that not so?”
Darcy took his hand in a firm grasp. “You have it, sir, although I am not uninterested in the ‘broader concerns’ as Her Ladyship described them. Rather, I believe we should find ourselves on opposite sides of the room on many issues.”
“The Darcys were ever a Tory lot,” Lamb groused in jest. I suppose there is no hope of you throwing for Canning against Castlereagh? I thought not!” he concluded at Darcy’s polite grimace. “And I know far better than to solicit Brougham here, who has as much interest in politics as does a fence post.” Dy’s answering bow elegantly acknowledged Lamb’s perspicacity in the matter. “Ah well, it is all one with the events of the day. You have heard that our illustrious regent will not appear tonight?”
“Lady Melbourne said as much,” Darcy replied. “The duties of state have commanded his attention, no doubt.”
“No, actually it was the demands of His Highness’s tailors that commanded his attention! After he summoned his ministers upon a matter of ‘vital concern’ and kept them waiting upon his arrival for the entire day, a note was sent round to the effect that his tailors had delayed him and that now his mama was in want of him; and they should all go home! So tonight he takes his aches and pains and imagined maladies to be soothed at Windsor.” Lamb looked at Darcy keenly. “I suppose you can guess that I am not in charity with His Highness at the moment, I nor anyone else in this room.” Lamb paused as Darcy cast his gaze over the occupants of the salon. The mood was decidedly rancorous. Angry words often broke through the hum of strident voices as Britain’s Whig aristocracy and politicians gnashed their teeth over the regent’s latest ill treatment of his avowed friends and supporters.
“It was not well done of His Highness, certainly,” Darcy agreed. “Although I cannot be unhappy with the result of his negligence. What shall you do now?”
“We have not totally consigned ourselves to returning to the wilderness as yet! We have had our forty years and more of wandering under His Highness’s father and rather thought that, with the son, we had finally arrived at the Promised Land. But the blasted Jericho walls refuse to fall down! Canning is determined to continue storming them, though, and deny Castlereagh and Perceval. I shall, of course, support him.”
A discreet cough reminded both men that Lord Brougham was a party to their conversation. “Oh, pardon me, Lamb! Didn’t mean to interrupt! Just a thought, though. Trumpets!”
“Trumpets?” Lamb looked uncomprehendingly at him and then to Darcy.
“Trumpets,” repeated Brougham firmly.
“Brougham,” Lamb growled impatiently, “what are you playing at?”
“Didn’t storm Jericho to bring the walls down, now did they? Blew trumpets and shouted, as I recall.” Brougham looked down modestly, examining his perfectly pared fingernails. “P’rhaps you fellows ought to look into it.”
“A theologian is among us!” Lamb shook his head derisively. “I never would have guessed you for a parson, Brougham, any more than a politician.” He looked then at a group whose disappointment in the day’s events was threatening to spill over acceptable bounds. “Although your point is taken, and I shall endeavor to be more accurate with my metaphors. Gentlemen” — he gestured toward his discordant guests — “I must leave you to your own devices and take charge of the room before Bloody Revolution is declared. Then the Tories would have our carcasses! Darcy…Brougham.”
As Lamb walked away in the direction of the thundering voices, Darcy turned to his friend. “Great lot of help you were!” he muttered in disgust.
“Don’t be an ass, Fitz. I got rid of him for you; did I not?” Gone was the vacant-eyed fribble of moments before, and in his place Darcy beheld a man with an edge of steel to his voice. “All we need do now is walk out the door.”
“Dy, what is this?” he demanded sharply.
“A very interesting evening, I would say, and not over yet!” The smile Dy cast upon Darcy was broad and guileless, giving him to doubt his previous impression. “But we have left your friend Mr. Bingley unsupervised quite long enough, I should think.” Dy strolled to the door, turning back to Darcy as the servant opened it. “Oughtn’t we go find him?”
“Bingley!” Conscience-stricken, Darcy advanced to the threshold, and together the two hurried down the corridor and across the hall, and shouldered their way up to the crowd-thronged archway leading to the ballroom. All that could be seen of the great room beyond were the blazing candles held aloft in glittering chandeliers of cut glass festooned with twinings of holly, ivy, and gold cord in honor of the approaching season. The music of the ensemble within gave Darcy pause; it was not the staid and stately measures that usually denoted a ton ball, nor the tunes of popular country dances. Rather, the music held a distinct rhythm based on three that Darcy found pleasing to the ear.
With Dy close behind, he politely made his way through the onlookers crowding the door. Achieving the last ring of spectators before the floor, Darcy made a final plea to be let through and, lifting his head to begin his search for Bingley, was brought to a standstill. Wide-eyed, he turned to his friend.
“What is it, Fitz?” Dy asked, and then followed Darcy’s stare as it returned to the ballroom floor. “Hah!” he laughed. “I had heard rumors but did not credit them. Well, one should never doubt a scandalous story if Lady Caroline is at its center. It is called the waltz, Fitz.”
“It’s indecent!” Darcy expostulated in fascinated disgust.
“That may be, but it will, no doubt, become all the rage.”
“Rage or no —” A wave of opprobrious gasps mixed with appreciative cheers and lewd laughter interrupted his declaration. The music stopped, leaving the couples on the floor in apprehension and all eyes straining for the source of the excitement. A private entrance to the room lay open to Darcy’s left, and from its secrecy he saw emerge the tawny-crowned person of Lady Caroline Lamb on the arm of a gentleman quite unknown to him. From where he stood he could see only her face, her delicate chin raised high, her eyes glittering in amusement and daring. As she and her companion made their way through the throng, it parted before them, and Darcy noted more than a few faces of both ladies and gentlemen color and turn away from the procession.
Suddenly, an older woman sank in a faint, the gentlemen nearest to her crying out in dismay. Several young ladies followed her example, and soon the floor was littered here and there with insensible females being coaxed back to consciousness by alarmed young men who, nonetheless, craned their necks to catch another glimpse of the source of the uproar. More than a few women were being propelled from the room by insistent husbands or fathers amid shouts for carriages and cloaks.
“What the devil is going on?” Darcy demanded of the chaos around him. Dy tugged at his sleeve and solemnly pointed back down the room to where Lady Caroline and her swain had finally broken free from her mother-in-law’s guests. Darcy’s jaw dropped in disbelief while his own face flooded crimson. “Great God in Heaven, she’s…she’s…Her clothes!”
“Yes…what little there are of them,” interposed Dy in a lowered voice. “I believe the effect is achieved by sprinkling the sheerest of gowns with water.”
The music was beginning again, and several giggling couples had joined Lady Caroline and her escort on the floor when a high-pitched wail from behind them caused Darcy and Dy to whirl about just in time to be pushed out of the way by a stately-looking woman who strode to the fore, shrieking all the while in a flood of Italian.
“L’Catalani,” whispered Dy, “and she is most displeased.” Darcy’s Italian was somewhat neglected, but he understood enough to recognize the tenor of the lady’s complaint. Comparisons of Lady Caroline with certain Covent Garden strumpets and the depth of the insult her appearance in such dishabille had offered to the diva were thoroughly explored before the Melbourne footmen arrived to escort the lady to her carriage. On her way she passed the rigid figure of the lady’s husband, to whom she gave a most pitying look before exclaiming, “The English! Bah!” and hurried out the door.
One glance at Lamb’s face was all Darcy could stomach, and as the man walked determinedly toward his wife, Darcy grabbed Dy’s arm. “Bingley must be found immediately, and then do what you will, for we are leaving.”
“A very sensible notion.” Dy had to shout to be heard above the din. “How can I be of service?”
“My coachman and groom are waiting at the Bull ’n’ Boar. Find them and tell them to ready my carriage immediately. Bingley and I will meet you at the corner.”
Dy nodded crisply and plunged into the stream of guests struggling to depart. Darcy turned back to his search and, aided by his height, became quickly convinced that Bingley was not in the ballroom. He made, then, for the supper room, pushing his way through without apology until he finally stood before its open doors and peered in.
“Bingley!” Charles looked up at his name being bellowed across the room and, with an expression of undisguised relief, excused himself from Miss Cecil and hurried to Darcy.
“Where have you been, Darcy? I’ve been trying to entertain Miss Cecil for nigh onto an hour, ever since they started that new dancing, which, I hope you will not take this amiss, is not quite the thing, if you get my meaning.”
“Charles, we must leave, now!” Darcy interrupted. “Something extremely untoward has — is — We’re going!” he commanded in exasperation. Charles gave him a startled look but offered no resistance. Making a hurried bow to Miss Cecil, he followed Darcy into the hall and to the steps, where after issuing an imperious command, Darcy was able to obtain their hats and cloaks. They barely waited for the doorman to perform his duty before Darcy had them stepping out into the frigid night air.
“What in Heaven’s name happened?” Bingley demanded, slapping his hands against his sides as they made their way down the sidewalk. “Why are so many leaving, Darcy?”
“Because not everyone has taken leave of their senses!” was all the answer Darcy was willing to offer. The evening had been, in truth, an unmitigated disaster. How had such a simple plan gone so very wrong? A shout caused the two men to look to the street, where they beheld Darcy’s carriage pulling smartly up to the curb. Harry leapt down and opened the door. The vehicle’s noble occupant leaned out, filling the doorway.
“Brougham’s Hackney Service! Can I take you two gentlemen anywhere?”
“Brougham…Bingley. Bingley…Lord Dyfed Brougham. Now move aside, Dy!” Darcy followed Bingley into the carriage and then turned to his groom. “Harry, let’s go home.”