“Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana’s voice, lifted in soft query, drifted across the wide expanse of the breakfast room table of Erewile House, mounted the hurdle of the Morning Post Darcy had erected between himself and his sister, and settled with tentative, questioning grace squarely on the page before him. The concern he detected in it was very like the look that had shaded her face the night before as they had once again dined in a silence dictated by the distraction of his thoughts. He was home, but his journey, rather than a return to London, had taken on the nature of a flight from Kent; and Darcy had mounted his own steps more with relief at sanctuary found than with joy at family and friends rejoined. In truth, since that humiliating evening in Hunsford’s parsonage, he desired nothing more than to be left alone. Not even Georgiana’s gentle presence, or her quiet efforts to make him comfortable, could he tolerate for long. His anger with himself for holding his duty so cheaply and his indignation with Elizabeth for doing the same with his honor seethed continually within his brain and held his chest in a steel band. No, the anguish of it was for him to bear alone; it was certainly not for the ears of a much younger sister! Perhaps, if he considered his reply long enough, she would take the hint and press him no further.
“Brother?” her voice gently probed again.
Reluctantly, Darcy lowered the paper and looked cautiously into the sweetly deferential but determined countenance at his right hand. This particular dual aspect of Georgiana was appearing with an increased frequency since his homecoming. Darcy had no difficulty in putting it down to Brougham’s doubtful influence while he had been away in Kent, for it had been “Lord Brougham this” and “His Lordship that” ever since Darcy had descended from the carriage Saturday evening. It was now Wednesday. He was heartily sick of it.
“Yes, Georgiana?” The tight irritation in his voice did not go unnoticed, and he would gladly have strangled himself to prevent the wilt and withdrawal that now shadowed his sister’s eyes. Darcy carefully laid the paper aside and reached deliberately for her hand. “Forgive me!” He sighed. “I fear I have not been myself.” He was answered with a wry little smile and the delicate squeeze of her fingers.
“No, dear brother, you have not.” Georgiana regarded him with pitying curiosity. “Was Aunt Catherine very difficult this year?”
“Her Ladyship was…herself…” Darcy shifted uneasily as he released her hand and leaned back in the chair. “Or, perhaps, a little more ‘herself’ than usual. It was well that you did not accompany us,” he added and then fell silent as another’s face crossed his vision. Rigid with anger, Elizabeth’s contemptuous eyes slashed at him. “Your arrogance, your conceit, your selfish disdain…” Good God, how many times had he relived that galling litany? He closed his eyes. Thank Heaven, Georgiana had not been witness to it! The thought alone made his stomach turn. Now, for the first time, he experienced the burning self-reproach with which his sister had had to contend after she was made to understand Wickham’s betrayal. At least Georgiana could plead naïveté; whereas he — how had she put it? — a man of sense and education, and who had lived in the world, had no such luxury! How could he have been so besotted, so taken in? No, he had not been, nor was he yet, himself; and Darcy was in nowise confident that he would ever know that particular state again.
“Fitzwilliam?” Her deepening concern, now painfully evident in Georgiana’s voice, almost made him wince. Her solicitude he knew to be tender and unquestionably prompted by love, but that his demeanor had exposed him, given her cause to pity him, mortified him to the bone. Sorely tempted to ward off her solicitude with another ungenerous reply, Darcy abruptly pushed away from the table. Clearly, he was not fit company for anyone today!
“I beg you will excuse me,” he said over his shoulder as he made for the door.
“But, Mr. Lawrence!” Georgiana’s reminder stopped him just as the servant opened the door. Blast! They were to make a final examination of Georgiana’s portrait today. The appointment had been set before he had gone into Kent. He turned back.
“Two o’clock, is it not?” Darcy returned her affirmative reply with a curt nod. “I shall wait upon you at one-fifteen.” Signaling the end of their conversation with a bow, he escaped her unwanted pity for the sanctuary of his study, where he could entertain his brooding anger in peace.
As he drew near the study door, a furious scrabbling followed by a galloping patter forewarned Darcy of an imminent assault upon his person. This soon? He had instructed Hinchcliffe to send the summons only days ago! Slowing, he cautiously approached the threshold and peered within. But instead of a brown, black, and white cannonball launched in wild greeting, there just within the door, sat Trafalgar at perfect attention save for a foolish grin upon his canine jowls. “So, you have arrived; have you!” The first real smile to touch Darcy’s face for almost a week slid across his features as master and hound beheld each other with satisfaction. “And whence come these pretty manners, Monster?” Trafalgar’s hindquarters wriggled but managed to stay, for the most part, on point. Darcy lifted an amused brow at this almost Herculean effort, provoking an undignified whine deep within the hound’s chest. The wriggle became more pronounced.
“For pity’s sake, pet the beast!” Darcy started up, his hand inches from Trafalgar’s broad, silky ears, to behold Brougham leaning comfortably against the study’s mantelpiece.
“Dy!” Darcy straightened, an accusatory tone in his voice. How had his friend gotten past Witcher and entered unannounced? Following Darcy’s look, Trafalgar glanced briefly over his shoulder but then looked back to his master with wide, beseeching eyes. The whine grew louder.
Brougham straightened as well and motioned toward the hound. “No wonder he’d such disreputable manners. You tease him unmercifully, Darcy. It took our entire journey down to bring him to some semblance of order!”
“You brought him down?” Darcy stared at his friend in surprise, but recovering, he added, “And I do not tease him!” Trafalgar’s whine threatened to escalate into an unpardonable bark.
“Then do pet the poor creature before he disgraces himself!” Brougham drawled and, without invitation, made himself comfortable in one of the study’s well-upholstered chairs.
Shooting his friend a glance fraught with irritation, Darcy bent and caressed Trafalgar’s soft crown and then twisted his silky ears between his fingers. “Monster!” he addressed the dog affectionately and was answered with a shuddering sigh and a languorous lick of his hand. Laughing, Darcy rose and, followed closely by his hound, took a chair opposite Brougham. When he was seated, Trafalgar positioned himself as near to Darcy’s boot as was seemly and raised his head to regard his late traveling companion with something akin to triumphal disdain.
“Ha!” Brougham marked his charge’s betrayal. “I am now put in my proper place, I see: airily dismissed from polite company like a governess whose students are called upon to perform for their papa!” Brougham’s “For shame!” was answered with a sniff and his “Ingrate!” with a wide-mouthed yawn as Trafalgar settled in closer to Darcy’s leg.
“You brought him down from Pemberley?” Darcy repeated stiffly, interrupting the trade of insults. “Why ever did you take upon yourself such an office?”
“It seemed the thing to do.” Brougham’s gaze flitted up from Trafalgar to rest upon Darcy. “I knew from your letter to Miss Darcy that you would make your return on Saturday and suspected that you would wish a private homecoming. Having been forced to cut short a jaunt to Scotland that I had planned before you postponed your departure from Kent” — he tipped a curious brow at Darcy, to which Darcy declined to respond — “I decided to take my leave just before your return and asked your sister if there was any service I might do either of you during my short sojourn. Miss Darcy mentioned that you would likely send for your animal upon your return. So, with her help, I obtained your man Hinchcliffe’s authorization and a promise to keep mum about my surprise, then delayed in Derbyshire on my way back from Scotland long enough to retrieve young Master Trafalgar.” Brougham leaned back into the chair. “We enjoyed a most instructive drive down together. I would have you know, Darcy, ‘Monster’ is a name not wide of the mark. Due to your undisciplined beast’s execrable behavior, my credit at the Hart and Swan on the North Road is thoroughly destroyed.”
Darcy bit down on his lip, his hand twitching to bestow an approving pat on Trafalgar’s unrepentant head, but there was a more pressing debt to settle and a warning to serve. “I must thank you for your watchful care of my sister. You have discharged my request with astonishingly dutiful care, it would seem, for Georgiana has spoken of little else but you since my return.”
“Ah,” Brougham replied, “I see.” Resting his elbows on the chair’s arms, he templed his fingers beneath his chin, regarding Darcy steadily. “You object to my attention to Miss Darcy? I had thought that you welcomed what I could do for her in Society.”
“I would be a fool not to,” Darcy returned evenly, “but she is very young, Dy, and you play the gallant extremely well.”
Brougham’s face suddenly darkened. “Do you accuse me of making a game of Miss Darcy’s favor?”
“I do not.” Darcy regarded his friend piercingly. “I only make mention of her youth and remind you how easily a young girl might be led to imagine herself in love.” At that, Brougham rose from his chair and, in visible agitation, walked the length of the room. Darcy looked on him with wonder. Dy stood for a moment, his back to Darcy, then turned, his face relaxed now into the careless lines Darcy saw when they were in company.
“Of course, it is proper and right for you to warn me, Darcy! It is hereby noted, and I shall endeavor that Miss Darcy not be cozened into believing any such thing. I assure you, she is safe with and from me; and here is my hand on it!” Dy extended his hand, which after rising, Darcy grasped with relief. “But I find it incumbent upon me to advise you of something as well, old friend,” Brougham added.
“Yes?” Darcy answered cautiously.
“Miss Darcy is many admirable things. She is, indeed, a credit to your care and liberality; but, my friend, she is a girl no longer. Beware you treat her so, or underestimate her understanding, for there is a strength in her which you have yet to see.”
“So.” Darcy drew up haughtily. “Do you now presume to teach me as you have my sister and my hound?” At the word hound and his master’s inclination toward him, Trafalgar rose as well and, stationing himself at Darcy’s side, looked up with equal hauteur at their guest.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, old man!” Dy laughed. “No future in it!” The study clock struck the hour, drawing all three pair of eyes to it. “You are to view Miss Darcy’s finished portrait today, are you not?” he inquired when the echo had faded. “I would count it an honor if you would allow me to accompany you, for I confess, I would very much like to see it.”
At last, he was alone! Poised at the closed dressing room door, Darcy listened as Fletcher completed his preparations for the next morning and finally departed for his quarters. With the click of the servants’ door, Darcy relinquished his hold on the guard he had vowed to maintain with the relief of a man who had been unburdened of his commission to hold back the wind. The rush of its sudden release flowed through his frame, and for a moment, the tightness in his chest was diminished. For a moment, he could take a deep breath and believe it was a night like any other. Then thoughts of her came as they had come every night since his return as soon as he was decently alone; and the virulent admixture of anger and anguish in his heart, suppressed during the day, could be read plainly in his every feature.
Wrapping his dressing gown tightly about him, Darcy moved to the hearth and took the chair closest to the glowing embers. It was a cool April, necessitating a fire still be laid at night, and he stretched out his slipper-clad feet to take advantage of its warmth. God knew, Darcy snorted, he had none in himself. No, according to Miss Elizabeth Bennet he was a coldhearted miscreant who rejoiced in ruining deserving young men and blighting the hopes of maidens wherever his disdainful gaze happened to alight! He looked at the chair across the hearth rug and knew that, if he closed his eyes, he would be able to see her there. Smiling grimly, he slowly shook his head. “No, Miss Bennet, I do not wish you here to catalog my many shortcomings.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted to the brandy decanter at his side. No, the potential for warmth in that quarter was tempting, the haziness it would afford even more so; but he would be damned if he would allow her to drive him to drink and turn his life into a common Cheltenham tragedy! His life! His life had been well enough until Charles Bingley had taken it into his head to let a country house and then induced Darcy into overseeing his transformation into a member of the landed gentry. Why ever had he agreed to it? Pity? Boredom? If only he had not succumbed to Bingley’s entreaties, he would not even have entered Hertfordshire last autumn. He would not have met…her. The thought brought a sharp pang to his chest. Even now, would he never have wanted to know Elizabeth, the first and perhaps the only woman who could draw him both body and soul, who could merrily stand against him on a point of contention and yet excite both his admiration and desire?
“Elizabeth,” Darcy groaned, cradling his brow in his hands. She had given every appearance of receiving him in Kent. Her visits to Rosings had been lively and her behavior toward him amiable. Yes, she had teased him at times, but he knew that to be her way. His observation that she delighted in expressing opinions not strictly her own she had greeted with scandalized laughter but not denial. He had seen the acknowledgment of a “hit” in the knowing arch of her eyebrows. Their walks had been conducted almost formally. Little had been said, it was true; but it was his actions that he meant her to read, and she had given him no reason to believe himself mistaken in his advances.
Darcy fell back against the chair, rubbing at his eyes and raking a hand through his hair, his mind struggling to fit together all the pieces of this puzzle that was Elizabeth Bennet. At least she could no longer hold Wickham’s story against him. His letter must have laid those charges to rest. If she could not abide him, there was a degree of comfort and vindication to be found in that, was there not? He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked searchingly into the fire. If Elizabeth had known the truth about Wickham, had read aright his wordless apology for slighting her on their first meeting, would it have changed her belief that he was the last man in the world whom she could ever be prevailed on to marry? Good God, those words still cut him like a knife! To her, he was the last man; for him, she seemed the only woman. Could fate have fashioned a more perfect twist or held him in any more derision?
Darcy rose from the chair. The embers were dying as were the coals in the warming pan that heated the sheets. If he did not go to bed soon, he would not find sleep before the chill returned. Casting aside the dressing gown, he removed the pan and slid between the bedclothes. Would it have made any difference if Elizabeth had known the truth? Darcy closed his eyes against the question, only to see her there armed with her other accusation. No, it would have made no difference; for had he not “ruined the happiness” of the sister she loved? Darcy groaned and, turning on his side, grasped a pillow and buried his face in it. No more…no more tonight! His only relief lay in dreamless sleep, but a ragged night of fitful, dream-curst sleep was all Providence saw fit to give him.
When Fletcher came in the next morning to pull back the curtains, Darcy was torn between a desire to curse him roundly for awakening him and the urge to thank him for putting a point to the disturbing phantasmagoria that had plagued his night. Eschewing both for an uncharacteristic lack of resolve, he struggled upright and swung his legs out of bed, his eyes smarting from the morning light that poured in through the window. How could there be so much sun? He was in London, was he not? Grimacing, he looked at the devastation wrought upon his bedstead by his restless night. The chambermaids would have a fine time of it, for it looked as if he’d engaged in mortal combat. Darcy looked up to see Fletcher staring openmouthed at the upheaval.
“I-I beg your pardon, sir,” he stammered when he realized Darcy’s eyes were upon him. “Should you want your barbering now, sir?” He carefully looked away from the bed.
Darcy heaved a sigh. “Yes, I suppose…” His voice trailed off as he thought of the day ahead. The first test of his uncertain disposition would be breakfast with Georgiana. Supper the previous evening had been yet again an exceedingly uncomfortable exercise, his preoccupation interfering at every turn. Georgiana had sat very straight and still, casting him glances well seasoned with worry throughout a meal that he had barely tasted. Frankly, he did not care to repeat the performance. “Fletcher,” he recalled his valet from the dressing room, “send down for a tray. I shall breakfast in my chambers this morning.”
“Very good, sir” came the formal reply, but Darcy knew that his valet’s curiosity at this directive would be multiplied by every member in his household and received with dismay by his sister. Better, though, that he should disappoint her from a distance than chance hurting her feelings close at hand. He shambled into the dressing room and settled back in his shaving chair, determining that for the next quarter hour he would do nothing but surrender himself to Fletcher’s ministrations. The unvarying ritual required no thought, only submission to his valet’s murmured instructions. The soothing effects of warmed, fragrant towels on his newly shorn face would not be amiss, either. Lord, he felt absolutely terrible! Darcy closed his eyes awaiting Fletcher’s return. Unsettled, lethargic, disinterested — he felt a specter in his own house, drifting from room to room, unable to feel at home in any of them. He could not read, he could not write, he could not even enjoy his sister’s music without falling into fruitless reflection. “With what I most enjoy contented least,” he murmured to himself.
“Your pardon, Mr. Darcy?” Fletcher had returned. How could he have been so careless as to repeat the phrase aloud and within his valet’s hearing!
“Shakespeare, Fletcher. Surely you have heard of him,” Darcy drawled sardonically, raising his chin for the lathering brush.
“Yes, sir. The Twenty-ninth Sonnet, I believe,” Fletcher replied smoothly and began his expert application of shaving soap to his master’s face and neck. Darcy closed his eyes again, eager that the familiar motions should preoccupy Fletcher and lull himself into a state of thoughtless oblivion.
“ ‘Yet — ’ ” The single word hung in the air with no further support. Opening an eye, Darcy beheld his valet, razor in one hand, reaching for the strop.
“Yet?” he repeated curiously as Fletcher set the slide and snick of the razor into a rhythm upon the strop.
“ ‘Yet,’ ” Fletcher replied with feeling. “The next line, sir.” With a light touch, he lifted Darcy’s chin another fraction, turned it and made the first pass. “ ‘Yet!’ followed most auspiciously by ‘Haply.’ Taken together, they make all the difference, sir. Most comforting.”
Able to do no more than make a noncommittal grunt in answer to Fletcher’s enigmatic observation, Darcy looked at the ceiling. What should he do with himself today? Yesterday, Hinchcliffe had somberly directed his attention to a stack of correspondence that still remained discreetly ensconced in the portfolio on his desk. He had tried to deal with it several times in the past few days, but try as he might, he could not focus his mind on the facts contained therein, nor find it in himself to care overmuch about their contents. He could drop in at Boodle’s; he’d not shown his face there since before he’d left for — No, the effort to appear interested in the goings-on of his club was simply beyond him. What he really needed was a hard, bruising ride over challenging terrain that would take his mind and body to the brink of exhaustion. Then see if Miss Elizabeth Bennet haunted his dreams! But there was no such place in London, and Nelson — too much of a handful for Town — was enjoying his stable of mares in Derbyshire. That avenue for his temper, it seemed, was closed to him as well. Was there nothing he could put his hand to that would rid him of this, this — What? From what, exactly, was he suffering?
When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes. The words of the sonnet returned to revolve inside his brain. I all alone beweep my outcast state…Disgrace? he asked himself, testing the thought for a moment before hardening against it. Well may he have been in disgrace in Elizabeth’s eyes, but be it in hers or any man’s eyes, that did not make it so! There was, after all, an innumerable host of men in the world who were the greatest fools, and their opinion counted for nothing. Yet — Darcy paused at Fletcher’s word and flicked an eye toward his valet. Yet, Elizabeth’s charge lay heavy against his conscience. “Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” To be in disgrace with one who mattered; further, with the woman with whom one had thought to spend one’s life; whether just or no, such disgrace was a crushing blow indeed.
Full apprehension of the next line came hard on the heels of his admission. Outcast state…Yes! that was how he felt: cast out, bereft of any prospect of contentment or joy, rejected by Fortune. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope…Nothing in the present was of interest to him; nothing in the future offered him hope that this situation would change. Darcy closed his eyes against the silent groan that began deep in his chest and traveled inexorably throughout his frame. Hope — the word, so rich and full, pregnant with sound and meaning — mocked him. From where was hope to come? His cousin had but to wait for the next pretty face to ease his disappointment. The idea of venturing out into the marriage mart for a replacement to install in his heart was, to Darcy, too appalling. Such an exercise could not possibly be done, not by him. Elizabeth was irreplaceable. He’d learned that quite well enough at Norwycke Castle. More rich in hope? He derided himself. He was destitute of it.
“The towel, sir?” Fletcher had finished shaving him.
Darcy nodded but arrested his valet as he turned, his curiosity at Fletcher’s words getting the better of his judgment. At this point, any straw would do. “ ‘Yet’? What did you mean by it, Fletcher?”
“ ‘Yet’ and ‘Haply,’ sir.” Fletcher carefully averted his eyes from Darcy’s and set about rearranging the shaving equipment on the tray. “ ‘Yet’ turns the point of the sonnet. All is hopeless before it; then, in the very midst of the poet’s self-abasement, ‘yet’ suddenly appears, a word suggesting that hope may still exist, that all is not truly lost.”
“Humph.” Darcy snorted his dissatisfaction. “Hope against hope: a poet’s romantic solution to what the rest of the world knows as the unyielding nuda veritas of life.”
“You would be entirely correct in that, sir,” Fletcher replied, “save for the presence of ‘haply.’ ”
“Haply? By chance?” Darcy frowned.
“By Fortune, if we follow the Bard’s metaphor,” Fletcher amended. “Hope reborn begins with no more than a thought; but that thought is able to move the poet from misery to joy. ‘Haply I think on thee,’ and then ‘bootless cries’ are turned into ‘hymns at heaven’s gate.’ ” His voice fell almost to a sigh.
“All this with a thought,” Darcy interrupted, discontent and skepticism hard-edging his words.
“No, sir, not a thought — Fortune’s thought. Would you like the towel now, sir?” Fletcher cocked his head toward the steamy article whose comforting fragrance was beginning to tickle Darcy’s nose. Nodding, he sat back again in the chair, closing his eyes against the towel’s imminent application. It landed suddenly in a hot and unceremonious heap upon his face as, in a shocked voice, his valet exclaimed, “Miss Darcy!”
In a single, swift movement, Darcy flung the towel from him and shot bolt upright. “Georgiana!” Never had his sister entered his chambers uninvited! He could not even think when her last visit had been; certainly, she had never seen its walls before he was properly dressed.
“I-I beg your pardon, Fitzwilliam,” she stuttered to his incredulous gaze. Although she was obviously nervous, she returned his regard steadily, breaking only to slide a glance at Fletcher, who had remained next to his chair in slack-mouthed surprise.
“Is, ah, is something the matter?” Darcy’s brain did not seem to be working at all properly.
“Breakfast” was her simple reply. The revelation of her purpose for appearing in his chambers was no less surprising than her actual presence there. He had known she would not receive the news with anything less than disappointment. Evidently, she had received it with a great deal more and had bravely determined to beard the recalcitrant lion in his den. Darcy passed a hand over his freshly shorn cheeks as he took in her straight, dignified carriage, yet softly tender eyes. Quite suddenly, he was put in mind of their mother. So be it, he sighed to himself. How could he refuse in the face of such a revealing glimpse at the woman that his sister was becoming?
“I shall be pleased to join you as soon as I am dressed,” he conceded. “Tell the servants to lay my place.”
“I would prefer to breakfast with you here, please…in your chambers.” She was clearly pressing the advantage of his surprise. Her voice had trembled a bit but had, in the end, held firm. Even so, she was not finished. “I have already instructed that both our breakfasts be brought up.”
“Indeed?” Darcy looked upon his sister with new appreciation. She was becoming something more than what she had been. Was this further evidence of Dy’s influence or proof of his contention that she was a girl no longer? If he was to discover which, Darcy would have to submit to her arrangements. He inclined his head in formal acquiescence to her wishes. “Then I shall be pleased to join you even sooner, as I am dressed.”
Her smile was a delight. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.” She curtsied, and after glancing curiously once more at Fletcher, whose dazed attention had not abated during the entirety of the interview, she departed his dressing room, closing the door behind her. For a full minute, neither Darcy nor Fletcher moved or spoke, both of them caught up in a contemplation of the closed door.
Finally, Darcy cleared his throat. “Well, it appears that we have received our orders, Fletcher.”
Now properly attired, Darcy hesitantly emerged from behind his dressing room door. He had, throughout his valet’s ministrations, been occupied exclusively with the thought of what he would find on the other side of the door. As interesting as was this new confidence Georgiana exhibited, it did not bode well for his desire to tend to his wounds in private. She would want an accounting for his behavior. How would she approach the matter, he wondered, and how would he avoid it?
Georgiana stood behind one of two chairs drawn up to the small gateleg table, now opened to its fullest extent and laden with covered dishes. Even covered, the savory aromas of the viands tucked beneath were seeping into every corner of the room. Against his will, Darcy’s stomach growled.
“Oh, good, you are hungry then!” his sister greeted him. She signaled the servants to uncover the dishes, and as Darcy seated her, they bore the covers out the door.
They were alone. Darcy took his seat opposite and drew it up to the table, while casting her an uncertain smile. This was all so very strange; he felt off balance. He looked down at the dishes. The most tempting of choices lay before him, and really, the smells wafting up from them were entirely irresistible. The knot that had been his stomach relaxed somewhat as he reached for a plate. Georgiana’s smile widened as he filled it, but she said nothing about his awakened appetite, merely setting about her own meal with a precise grace. Stiff with caution, the muscles in Darcy’s back gradually released. Perhaps she would be satisfied with the return of his appetite and desire no more of him for the present.
“Fitzwilliam?” Her address, with its implied question, came when he had finished pouring his first cup of coffee. “Must we have a formal unveiling of my portrait?”
Prepared for a question in quite another vein, Darcy looked at his sister with surprise. “You do not wish it?”
“No, I do not,” she replied diffidently. “It is not that I dislike the portrait; it is very nice. It is just that…” She stopped. Seeing that she was searching for the right words, Darcy held his peace and lifted his cup to his lips. Was she retreating into shyness again? It was expected that a young lady on the verge of coming out had her portrait painted. The Unveiling was the first step in that vital process. She began again. “How did you feel when your portrait was painted?”
She referred, of course, to the one hanging in Pemberley’s gallery, painted upon his twenty-first birthday. He recalled feeling mightily embarrassed by it, and to this day, he avoided looking at it when he traversed the hall. He much preferred to gaze upon his forebears’ faces, particularly that of their father, painted at the same age, and one of both their parents painted when he was ten.
“I remember disliking the attention and fuss and thinking that the fellow in the painting could not possibly be me,” he admitted.
“Yes!” Georgiana leaned toward him eagerly. “How not you?”
“Oh, older, I suppose, better. Certainly wiser than I could claim at the time.” Or even now, Darcy thought ruefully.
“The ideal of you, rather than the you that you knew yourself to be,” she supplied him, then smiled. ‘’Although, I have always thought your portrait captured you exactly.”
Darcy accepted her compliment with a bow of his head. “The proper perspective for a younger sister to take, to be sure.” He smiled back. “But how is this to the purpose? It is expected that it will be unveiled. Lawrence would have reason to take offense if it were not. He would consider it a commentary upon his skill.” He could see from the look upon her face that the last troubled her. “It need not be a grand affair. Only family and close friends,” he offered. “It is a perfectly lovely portrait, Georgiana.”
At his description, her eyes fell; but when she raised them he saw a serenity in them but a serenity not untouched by the world. “Yes, ‘perfectly’ lovely.” She leaned closer still and reached for him, her fingers lightly grazing the top of his hand. “Fitzwilliam, it is not I! I am not that ‘perfectly lovely’ girl in the painting, and I have no wish to take part in the deception, to stand beside it and pretend that everything it depicts is true.”
“Would you have Lawrence add some spots, a wart or two, perhaps?” he teased, but in truth, he was uneasy, confounded by her reticence. “Georgiana, there is nothing amiss with your portrait!”
“Nothing but honesty about who I truly am.” She sat back in her chair and breathed a sigh. “Fitzwilliam, when you first saw your own portrait, the idealized you, what else did you feel? What did you think?”
Closing his eyes briefly against her intense scrutiny, Darcy breathed out heavily as he flexed his jaw. What did she want from him? The truth, he heard the answer clearly, only the truth.
He opened his eyes again and answered, “I hoped to God that one day I would be the man in the painting — better, wiser — that I would not be a disappointment to my station, my name,…or myself,” he added as he turned his gaze from her searching one. But he had disappointed himself. Norwycke had shown him the dark depths in his heart he had been unable to remedy. He continued, but he could feel his confidence fading. “That I would…in every way…truly be the gentleman…” He stopped, choking at the one word Elizabeth had flung at him that had, during their interview, most made him flinch.
Rising abruptly from his chair, he left the table; but there seemed no place to go, no place to escape what was now become the damning truth. Even were it true that he played the gentleman in all other venues of his life, he had utterly failed in the eyes of the one he most desired to believe him admirable. If he had been found so severely wanting in Elizabeth’s small world, did he even know himself ? Sylvanie’s taunts took on new meaning. Had she recognized this in him and played upon it? With that revelation came the suspicion of the truth of Elizabeth’s other epithets: arrogant, conceited, disdainful of the feelings of others. They had seemed to depict the character of a monstrosity that he had thought born of her anger, and he had summarily dismissed the whole as having any relation to himself. Yet had he not brooded angrily over those words for days now, resentful of Elizabeth’s ungenerous attachment of them to him? Why had her words not caused him to hate her? For, despite all his anger and resentment, he literally ached with the loss of her. His stride had taken him to the window, and spreading his arms, he grasped either side of its frame and stared out against the sunlight pouring through it. Hate Elizabeth? How could he? How could he hate the woman he loved for demanding of him the man he had always desired to be?
The light pressure of a hand on his arm brought him back. He looked down into brimming eyes full of compassion as his sister gently pulled on his sleeve. Helpless to deny her, he bent and received the benediction of her kiss upon his cheek. “Dear Brother, tell me,” Georgiana whispered. “Tell me what happened at Rosings.”
At Georgiana’s plea, Darcy looked down into his sister’s face, his heart stilled in his chest, before he turned away to stare once more out his window. Georgiana’s loving appeal and gentle kiss pierced him to the quick, tempting him to lay before her all the crushing pain of Elizabeth’s determined rejection and the bitter knowledge of himself that he had gained from it; but there was in her eyes something that made his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth with a sudden, irascible stubbornness. Was it possible that she could understand his pain? Yes, he might grant that what she had experienced at Wickham’s hands had been similarly devastating before working such unexpected changes in her and bringing the singular sort of maturity she now exhibited. But while he continued grateful for the solace she had found in religion, he could not, in the cold economy of Heaven that was his own experience, find anything, not even the compassionate solicitude in Georgiana’s eyes, to draw him in that direction. It had always made him uncomfortable, and now, in all he had lately undergone at the behest of Providence, he was become decidedly inured against it.
“Fitzwilliam?” The catch in Georgiana’s voice warned him that his demeanor had betrayed something of what had passed within him. Whatever that had been, and he could not put a name to it as yet, he knew it was not something for her tender sensibilities. Working to settle his features into softer lines, he turned back to her, grabbed for her hand, and brought it up to his lips.
“It was nothing, sweetling. You must not worry.” He stroked her hand with his thumb but could not look into her eyes. Suddenly, his room, indeed all of Erewile House, felt oppressive and confining. He must get out, it was impressed upon him, or suffocate! He released Georgiana’s hand. “I thank you for breakfast and your company, but I must leave you now.” He walked quickly to the bell pull and gave it a quick tug.
“Leave?” Georgiana’s brows slanted down in puzzlement. “Where must you go?”
“Out, my dear,” Darcy returned almost curtly. The urgency to escape from his sister’s keen observation felt like an intolerable weight hung large within his chest.
“B-but…we have not finished discussing the Unveiling,” she stammered, her eyes pleading with him to remain.
“The Unveiling,” he repeated absently, unwilling to meet her gaze. “I believe it cannot be avoided.”
“Fitzwilliam, please —” she remonstrated, but he cut her off.
“You must reconcile yourself, Georgiana, and proceed in the expected manner with as good grace as you can. I will grant you that the guest list may be pared down to only family and our closest friends, but the Unveiling must proceed.” He dared then to glance at her, but he saw with relief that she had turned away from him. A click at the dressing room door claimed his attention.
“Mr. Darcy, sir?” The formality of Fletcher’s bow revealed that he had not, as yet, accustomed himself to the fact of Miss Darcy’s unusual presence in the master’s rooms.
“My coat, Fletcher. I am going out.”
“Out, sir? But where, sir?” the valet asked, puzzled at the stark order. “Do you require your walking coat, your driving —”
“Out!” Darcy repeated, his irritation growing as he cast about for a destination that would satisfy both his inquisitors and his own requirement for relief. The solution came to him with sudden clarity. “Out — fencing!”
“Very good, sir.” Fletcher bowed low again, but his delicacy was for naught; for, despite its softness, the sound of the bedchamber door closing behind Miss Darcy’s skirts echoed clearly through the room.
“Yes.” Darcy looked about him approvingly before beginning his warming exercises. He had made the right choice. The atmosphere of the fencing rooms was just what he required to exorcise the demons of mind and the cramp of his body that had plagued him since That Day. He threw back his shoulders and began tracing the slow arcs and easing into stretches that would loosen the muscles in his back, arms, and limbs, readying them for the demands which he would soon place upon them. It had been rather a long time since he had held sword or foil, and though the weight felt good in his hand and the urge to immediate action was great, he knew it behooved him to commence his reacquaintance slowly. Yes, this was exactly what he needed. No one here would think of demanding of him anything more than common decency, fair play, and style in his swordsmanship. Of those, he was quite as capable as any gentleman and more so; for the first two lay in his blood and, as to the last, he knew his swordplay was generally considered both powerful and elegant.
From the corner of his eye, Darcy spied Genuardi, the fencing master, who acknowledged his presence with a salute and a bow. Pausing in his regime, he returned the courtesy, ignoring the wistful or jealous glances cast him by lesser blades who dreamed of such attention, and then returned to his study. The blood in his veins began to flow faster; his sinews and muscles warmed. The stiffness fell away from his limbs. His movements increased in their speed and fluidity until, finally, he felt that rush of power, of such control over his body that he knew it would do all he asked of it. God, it felt good! He slowed his movements, his heart pounding only moderately, then stopped to wipe the sheen of perspiration from his brow and survey the room for an opponent. He heard the step behind him only a second before feeling the tap on his shoulder.
“Darcy, old man! Where have you been?” Surprised at the voice, Darcy pivoted to face Lord Tristram Monmouth, who gestured carelessly with his foil. “Care for a go?” Tris’s brow lifted lazily, but there was in his old university roommate’s manner a certain nervous tension for which Darcy could not account. That Monmouth was here at all was strange enough. He could not remember seeing him in the fencing rooms any time over the last two years. Perhaps his wife, Lady Sylvanie, had lost her fascination.
“Monmouth,” Darcy returned, nodding his assent, and walked away to claim a position on the floor. Tension was good. It made one’s opponent too careful or too reckless, and either could be used to advantage. Centering his feet upon the mark, Darcy looked up to observe his challenger and decided that, in Monmouth’s case, it would be too reckless. Why, he could not assay, for Tris’s “En garde!” had already sounded loud in his ears. They met. Within seconds, Darcy knew he had been right. Tris’s swordsmanship in their university days had been admirable, but he had not, evidently, advanced his form much beyond that.
Their engagement was not a long one, its duration more a result of his permission than of Tris’s skill, but in the course of it, he found himself, not once but twice, forced to block an illegal thrust. The first he put down to the heat of the moment; the second time, he was not so certain and quickly put an end to their play, scoring his touchés in the remaining bouts with precision and speed. Stunned by Monmouth’s actions, he searched his face as they exchanged the formal ending salute, but Tris only smiled back at him, seemingly unaware that anything untoward had occurred. Was it possible he had just been carried away or, perhaps, forgotten proper form over the years?
Still smiling, his old mate advanced upon him, his hand outstretched. “Better than university days! Damn me, Darcy, if you are not!”
“I have kept at it.” He grasped Monmouth’s hand briefly.
“In a word!” Monmouth snorted. “After your demonstration at Say ——, the last time we met, Manning wagered that you could take any or all of the rest of us in under ten minutes. Well, old man, you know how I cannot resist a sporting wager!”
“I hope that I have not done you significant harm,” Darcy offered, relieved to have an explanation for Monmouth’s actions.
“No, no! I am in good funds, thanks to My Lady.” He winked at him. “Who, by the by, would be very pleased if you would accept her invitation sent you this week to dine with us and a select number of friends.” Monmouth paused for Darcy’s reply but must have sensed the polite decline that hovered on his lips, for he then continued hurriedly, “I can promise you an interesting evening, Darcy, not the usual set at all. ‘Tell him he will not be bored or hunted!’ she said, and I swear, ’struth! Sylvanie likes fascinating people around her: artists, thinkers, writers — deep uns like you. Allow me to convey My Lady your acceptance, there’s a good fellow!”
“Acceptance! What are you accepting now, ‘good fellow’ Darcy?” Both men looked up in surprise to see Lord Brougham propped against one of the pillars that marched along that side of the room. Monmouth stiffened visibly at the voice, but when he saw that it was only Brougham, Darcy could sense the relief that swept through him. His own surprise remained at the fore. He had never seen Dy in Genuardi’s fencing rooms or heard of his membership in any other. What could have tempted him today? Or could Georgiana have sent him?
“An invitation to dine with a collection of jaw-me-deads. Nothing in your line of interest, Brougham, I assure you,” Monmouth drawled as his gaze traveled pointedly over His Lordship’s elegant, unruffled figure. “No gaming — well, there’s a pity — only a little music and a great deal of conversation. Philosophy and politics, that sort of thing.”
“Brougham,” Darcy interrupted, stepping toward his friend, “Georgiana?”
“In a manner of speaking, but do not trouble yourself — as yet.” Dy held up a restraining hand and then turned a supercilious gaze upon their companion. “Philosophy and politics, eh, Monmouth? Both in one evening? I should say, it will be select and, you are correct, quite beyond my poor brain. But, tell me, My Lord, who will you talk to all evening?”
Monmouth’s sword arm tensed briefly but relaxed when Darcy swiftly interposed himself between them. “His Lordship and I have unfinished business to discuss!” He deflected Dy’s question and shot him a dark frown. Then, looking back at Monmouth, he continued, “Please convey to Lady Monmouth that I accept her invitation.”
At his promise, a look of satisfaction replaced the anger in Monmouth’s face, and with a smirk at Brougham, he turned to Darcy. “Her Ladyship will be very pleased to hear it. Tomorrow at eight, then? Good! Your servant, Darcy.” He bowed. “Brougham.” He barely paused to nod in his direction before sauntering toward the dressing rooms.
“You cannot truly mean to go, Fitz!” Brougham’s lip curled in disgust as they watched Monmouth walk away.
“You would not have me go back on my word, would you?” Darcy rounded on him.
“In this particular case, I would, and with great urgency,” Brougham replied. “One does not owe one’s word to the Devil!”
“Coming it rather strong, are you not?” Darcy bristled. “And I would not have given it if you had refrained from antagonizing him. Good Lord, Dy, you all but called the man an idiot to his face!”
“I beg your pardon, Fitz; I was under the distinct impression that I had! But that is neither here nor there.” Brougham dismissed the topic of His Lordship. “What I wish to know is why, after I have taken great pains to avoid an acquaintance springing up between Miss Darcy and Lady Monmouth, you are now increasing its likelihood?”
“I have never seen you here before today.” Darcy met the uncomfortable question with one of his own. “Have you come to fence, or did Georgiana…?”
“Oh, to fence, my friend; and it appears that we have begun already, although I am not yet undressed for it!” Brougham began to unbutton his frock coat. “I was distracted, you see, by your magnificent display of forbearance on the floor. You know, he fouled you twice.”
“That does not make him the Devil!”
“True, Fitz, very true; Monmouth is only a serpent, and a very lowly one at that, running the Devil’s errands.” Just then, one of the room’s attendants appeared to relieve Brougham of his coat and waistcoat, and both men fell silent. Darcy watched closely while his friend divested himself of the restraining garments of their station and then stepped back as Dy accepted the protective waistcoat and foil the servant offered and began his own regime of limbering stretches.
Shaking his head, Darcy let out a heavy breath. Dy had succeeded yet again in piquing his curiosity with his enigmatic speech. Questioning him further or issuing a demand for an explanation he knew to be useless. His old friend would merely return him a shrug of his shoulders and a ridiculously vacant, puzzled look with the reply that he had quite forgotten whatever silly thing had come out of his mouth and that Darcy should not regard it. Besides, Dy knew that his friend’s appearance in Genuardi’s fencing rooms was not accidental but related in some way to Georgiana; and that concerned him more than his opinion of the company Monmouth kept. After only a few minutes at his exercise, Dy dropped his sword arm and looked back to him with a curt “Ready?”
“That is all the preparation you require?” Darcy looked dubiously at his friend. “How long has it been, Dy? Have you done anything since university? You can hardly have warmed sufficiently —”
“Afraid I shall disappoint you, Fitz?” Dy cut him off. “Have no fear, my friend. My blood is quite up and has been for the last half hour or more.” He walked off then to an empty position on the floor, leaving Darcy little choice but to follow him, his eyes narrowing in perplexity. What was this uncharacteristic behavior about? If, out of concern, Georgiana had sent Dy after him, why fence with him? It was much more his old friend’s way to suggest billiards at their club or some sporting event to “banish that tedious set of your jaw,” as he called Darcy’s jealous protection of his privacy. Save for the rigors of the field, Darcy could not recall observing Dy in a sweat in all of the two years since he had returned to Town. He took his place opposite Dy and, after their salute, settled into the en garde from which their engagement would begin.
“My Lord! Mr. Darcy! Scusatemi!” Signore Genuardi called out urgently as he quickly strode across the hall toward them. “Perdono, signori, are you knowing one the other? Prodigioso!” He beamed at them with the fondness of a master for his prize students. Darcy looked to Brougham uncertainly, a suspicion beginning to form. “Per cortesia,” the fencing master continued, “allow me the pleasure. I will judge.” He then motioned them back into position and in a ringing voice that echoed above the murmur of the now attentive hall proclaimed, “En garde!”
“We have an audience, it would seem.” Dy matched Darcy’s advance but made no motion to offer the attack. “I had not anticipated such interest. Unfortunate, that!”
“You know Genuardi?” Darcy flexed his wrist, causing the tip of his foil to trace out tight circles in the air between them.
“Everyone knows Genuardi.”
Oh, how he hated it when Dy played his obtuse games with him! The irritation decided him. Springing to the attack, he took first priority, pressing Dy back several steps before being blocked and parried. Brougham’s riposte was effective but unremarkable, exactly what Darcy had expected from a good swordsman who had been away from the sport for several years. He blocked Dy’s thrust, parried, and pressed his attack back upon him, but this time he did not force him back as far before being blocked. Brougham’s parry was nicely done, and the first part of his attack was a move they had learned and practiced together in their university days. He deflected it easily but was met with it again, this time accompanied by a new twist of Dy’s wrist and body that greatly increased its effectiveness. He avoided it by a hairsbreadth and fell back one, then two steps.
“Touché!” the fencing master declared. “To His Lordship!”
Brougham drew back from his victory immediately and saluted him. “You are underestimating me, Fitz! I expect it from others, but not from you. I should not have gotten that one.”
“You will not get it again, I promise you,” Darcy bit out and returned to position.
“En garde!” Genuardi called them back together. This time, Darcy waited, intent upon observing everything possible about Dy’s stance and style, but his opponent offered no clues, merely smiling and holding his foil up before him in a desultory fashion. Darcy grimaced back, then lunged into first with a ferocity that swept them both into a display of arm that elicited shouts of admiration from the onlookers as they swiftly traded right-of-way, lunge, and parry.
“Touché! To Signore Darcy!” The blood was singing through his veins as he gave Dy back his salute. They were excellently matched, and it felt…good!
“Up to your weight that time?” Dy threw at him before returning to position.
“More what I expected of you, yes. Quite good.” His smile remained as ever, but as Dy turned away, Darcy had the sudden, uncomfortable feeling that more than his swordsmanship was being measured. It was a deuced curious sensation that he had felt more than once in the two years since their friendship had been resumed. He turned at position and looked back into Dy’s face, only to meet eyes that were focused upon him with a piercing intensity. Darcy brought up his foil.
“En garde!” Their third bout was like the previous one: swift, powerful, elegant. Darcy found that his friend answered him stroke for stroke, and the allotted time was almost gone before the tip of Dy’s foil caught him just under his heart. “Touché! To His Lordship!” The entire school and club were gathered at the sidelines now, and the response was deafening.
As they exchanged salutes, Darcy leaned toward his friend. “And where have you been training and not breathing a word of it? If that had been swords and serious —”
“You would still be whole and hale,” Brougham interrupted, the smile gone. His eyes bore into Darcy’s. “A man must have a heart to be slain by that stroke.”
“What?” Darcy’s brows shot up in surprise, but the fire he had seen in his friend’s eyes had already been replaced with his habitual nonchalance.
“You must forgive me, my friend, but I can spare you only one more bout. A pressing prior engagement, you understand. This little tête-à-tête” — he sighed — “was not on my calendar for today.” He offered him a small bow and sauntered back to position, leaving Darcy to stare after him in dawning comprehension. Dy was angry with him! He returned to his mark in some confusion, his mind casting about for an explanation. Why? And what was this about having no heart? Turning back to face him, Darcy went into position immediately. The noise of the onlookers quieted now that it could be seen that both of them were ready. He took a deep breath. No manners, no conscience, and, now no heart! See what you have begun, Miss Elizabeth Bennet? He snorted bitterly. All that remains now is a Greek chorus!
“En garde!” Signore Genuardi’s command cracked through the now silent hall. This time, Dy did not wait for Darcy to decide whether to take first opportunity but came at him directly with force and speed. Not only he but those gathered to watch as well could see that Brougham’s sword work was in earnest, and Darcy had never felt so hammered. If that was the way of it, then so be it! he resolved as he parried Dy’s lunge, taking the right-of-way from him and setting to. He put every move, every feint, every twist of body or wrist that was at his command into his attack and had the satisfaction of driving Dy back almost to his mark. The exhilarating sense of his body as a finely tuned and responsive instrument returned, along with an exquisite timing that seemed to send every thrust exactly where he wished it to go. Although Dy had successfully avoided the tip of his foil thus far, he knew that he was forcing from him the employment of every shred of knowledge and skill he possessed. Back and forth they worked, and the onlookers could contain their appreciation no longer. Shouts of encouragement mixed with those of astonishment as the time ticked forward with neither man scoring a hit amid the dazzling display. But Darcy, wholly focused on his goal, neither saw nor heard the uproar. Suddenly, there was an opening.
“Touché!” Genuardi could barely be heard, but those around him took up the cry. “To Signore Darcy!” The hall seemed in chaos, but the two men on whom the excitement had centered stood apart from it, their breaths coming in gasping unison as, with an awkward caution, they eyed each other. Slowly, a reluctant smile spread across Dy’s features, and he brought his foil up in salute. “Well done, old sod! You might make a swordsman yet!”
“Ha!” Darcy laughed, returning the gesture. “And I might say the same of you! Two to each of us — not a decisive outcome!” Then he turned a sober regard upon his friend. “Are you going to tell me what this was all about?”
Dy looked away. Which one will it be who answers the friend or the fool? Darcy wondered.
Darcy wondered, “I stopped in at Erewile House this morning to see whether you had recovered from your jaunt in Kent,” the friend replied, turning to look him full in the face, “only to find Miss Darcy alone and in very low spirits.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Whatever it was happened in Kent, Fitz, I beg you will not give Miss Darcy the grief of it! She is all concern for you, while you behave with her in a shabby, patronizing manner nursing your Kentish grievances.”
“Brougham!” Darcy growled. Who was he to —
Ignoring his interruption, Dy continued, his voice low but exceedingly clear. “She will say nothing against you, nor would she even if she felt herself misused, she respects you so well.” He shook his head slightly. “But I am under no such compunction and take leave to tell you that, as much as you are my friend, there is more swordplay where this display came from should you continue to behave toward Miss Darcy in a manner so careless of her feelings!”
“You take much upon yourself!” Darcy drew himself back. “You step beyond the bounds, Brougham, and are quite out of your —”
“Am I, Fitz?” Brougham looked searchingly into his face. “Then knowing me as you do, p’rhaps you ought to ask yourself why I have taken such an uncharacteristically fatiguing step on your behalf!” With that, Dy threw the foil to a waiting servant and left the hall.
“The fox crying sour grapes, Darcy?” Monmouth appeared, stepping ahead of the crowd coming to congratulate the swordsmen, and cocked his head toward Brougham’s retreating figure.
“No,” Darcy replied absently, staring after his friend. “More like a Greek chorus.”
In a pique of equal parts irritation and curiosity, Darcy followed after Brougham a quarter hour later when he had acknowledged those who had taken his part in the contest and retrieved his clothing. Dy had left the hall immediately, it appeared, without stopping to freshen or resume his usual impeccably garbed state. Where would he have taken himself? Hurriedly buttoning his coat after tying his neckcloth into something presentable, Darcy left the fencing hall and hailed a cab.
“Boodle’s,” he called up to the driver as he leapt into the vehicle. If the story of a prior engagement had been merely the tale he suspected it to be, it was likely that Brougham would have withdrawn to their club, expecting that Darcy would follow. If not, well, he had no intention of chasing after his friend all over London. He would take his leisure among the gentlemen of his club and wait for a more opportune time to corner Dy. More to the point, he admitted to himself, he was still in nowise ready to return home.
The ride to the address was not a long one, hardly providing him time enough to consider the meaning behind his friend’s provocative words. It was clear that Brougham did not approve of the manner in which he was keeping himself from Georgiana, causing her distress over his behavior and concern for his health and the well-being, he supposed, of his soul. But what the Devil business was it of his! Dy’s actions were suspiciously like those of a lover! Darcy shifted uneasily, dismayed that the thought should arise once more. Had Dy not taken his hand and sworn that he was no danger to his friend’s sister? And then there was the matter of the differences in their ages and temperaments…“No, it could not be!” he assured himself aloud. There had to be another reason. It must be that Dy had come to regard Georgiana as the sister he never had while he had the charge of her. His friend was warning Darcy that his behavior toward her was not what Brougham, in his severely limited experience, considered “brotherly.” Darcy leaned back into the cushions. Yes, that must be it!
Free now to turn his attention from the messenger to the message, he could only concede that Brougham was right; and he had known that immediately. He should have more care for Georgiana’s tender feelings — had he not always done so? — but at present, he found himself reluctant to act on the admission. That unwillingness, as so many other thoughts and emotions he had experienced this week, struck him as curiously unlike himself. Smothering the thought quickly, Darcy looked out on the exclusive shops and clubs of fashionable London. Things would come about…in time, and when he had gotten himself to rights again and Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a distant memory, they could all return to the way it had been, to the life he had planned before he had lost his senses in the parlor at Hunsford’s parsonage.
Once inside Boodle’s hallowed halls, he crossed the black-and-white marble-tiled entrance and hurried up one of the broad staircases to the clubrooms beyond. A quick survey revealed that Brougham was not among their denizens, although others of Darcy’s acquaintance were there, and he was hailed with enthusiasm by more than one gentleman as he made his way through the rooms.
“Darcy.” Sir Hugh Goforth nodded to him as he passed through one of the billiard rooms. “That friend of yours was looking for you.”
“Sir Hugh.” Darcy stopped and bowed. “Brougham, was it?”
“No, no — have not seen Brougham for an age. Bingley, I think the name was. Said he was taking his sister over to see your sister, or something like. Was hoping you would be about, I gather.”
Darcy almost flushed with the ire that seized him as he thanked Sir Hugh for the information. Bingley — whose headlong flight into love had started the whole miserable affair and whose chestnuts he had drawn out of the fire only to be thoroughly burnt himself! Darcy let out a heavy breath. Well and so, it appeared that Bingley and his sister had returned from their annual trip to Yorkshire and were once again in Town. If he had bothered to look at the stack of calling cards Hinchcliffe always laid so precisely upon his desk, he might already have been in possession of the knowledge and sent round a note forestalling any thoughts Charles might have entertained of an imminent visit. As it was…
“I say, Darcy!” Sir Hugh called from the other side of the billiard table. “Devereaux’s horse is running, and he must as well. Care for a game?”
He ought to go home. He ought to go home, ask Georgiana’s forgiveness, and welcome Bingley and his sister back to Town. He ought to be there this very moment discharging the mountain of papers awaiting his attention on his desk, as had always been his custom.
Darcy turned back and reached for a cue. “As many as you like, Goforth. I have all afternoon.”
The Bingleys’ visit could not be staved off forever, and though Darcy had arranged to avoid it the previous day, Charles’s card appeared once again the next morning. Resigned to it, Darcy met his sister in the drawing room to await their entrance. He had spoken to Georgiana only briefly the night before, his curiosity about what she knew of Brougham’s behavior driving him to seek her out after having shunned their home most of the day. She replied innocently enough that, yes, Lord Brougham had come by to see him, but that they had spoken very little after His Lordship knew he had gone out.
“And what ‘very little’ did you discuss, Georgiana?” he had asked her in an offhanded manner as he examined a piece of her embroidery lying on the small tambour table. Her work was, as everything she did, exquisite and precise. The silks were fair on their way to portraying a scene from Eden, their mother’s conservatory garden at Pemberley. A collection of differing colors strewn alongside it caught his eye, and without thinking he reached for them.
“He asked how you had been keeping yourself since returning from Kent, as he had not seen you about since bringing Trafalgar to us. Then, he kindly inquired about the Unveiling.”
“Nothing more?” He fingered the strands, their cool silkiness sliding so familiarly between his fingers.
“We spoke a little of a book he had sent and encouraged me to read. I recall nothing more; although, for a moment…” She hesitated and then looked at him curiously. He followed her bemused gaze to his hand and flushed to see he had unconsciously entwined the silk threads about his fingers. As indifferently but rapidly as he could, he unwound them and laid them back on the table. “Oh, you may have them to add to your others, if you wish,” she assured him with a small, quick smile.
“For a moment…?” he prompted her and turned his back on the wretched temptation.
“For a moment” — Georgiana’s young brow wrinkled in perplexity — “he appeared unwell…but not ill, precisely. I cannot say; it happened so quickly. You know him so well.” She looked up at him. “What could it have meant?”
“Humph,” he snorted. “It meant that he had determined to embark upon an errand he knew to be officious and impertinent.” He looked away then in some exasperation, confounded with the inexplicable workings of Dyfed Brougham’s mind. Did Darcy really “know him so well”? He leaned down and bussed his sister’s forehead. “Good night, my dear.”
“And to you as well, Brother.” Her smile for him was shaded with uncertainty.
He left her to spend a restless night knocking about his chambers, at once unable to sleep and distrustful of the dreams sleep might bring. The morning had been a loss, for try though he might to deal with the backlog Hinchcliffe had laid before him, he could wade through little of it before drifting into a reverie or dozing off to sleep. Giving up, he had stretched out on the divan in his study and recouped an uncomfortable but dreamless hour before Witcher’s diffident knock had awakened him to the arrival of Bingley’s card.
The look of constrained relief on Georgiana’s face at his appearance in the drawing room gave him pause, and as he took her hand to kiss, he could feel an unwonted tension about her. “Georgiana?” he murmured, keeping an eye on the door that would shortly open upon their visitors.
“It is nothing, Brother.” She flushed, withdrawing her hand from his grasp.
“Nonsense!” Darcy returned, but gently. “Give over; what is it?”
Her flush deepened. “Miss Bingley,” she confessed ashamedly. “I —” The drawing room door opened at that moment, revealing the subject of his sister’s confusion. No more could be said.
Darcy stepped forward. “Miss Bingley.” He offered her his bow and then turned to her brother and put out his hand, “Charles! So, you are returned.”
“Darcy! Yes!” Bingley took his hand and shook it vigorously. “London, or rather, the Season called, and Yorkshire was no place for us, you may believe! Miss Darcy.” He turned and bowed to Georgiana. “It will be our very great pleasure to attend your Unveiling next week.”
“Charles! Miss Darcy’s portrait’s Unveiling, if you please.” Miss Bingley rolled her eyes. “We are all anticipation, Miss Darcy.” She turned an indulgent smile upon her object. “It will be the most brilliant Unveiling of the Season. Do I understand aright that Lawrence himself attends?” Not waiting for an answer, she looked to Darcy. “Why, that is the greatest of good fortune, is it not, Mr. Darcy? Your sister’s introduction to Society is already a Subject; Lawrence’s presence will guarantee the Unveiling’s success. I predict Erewile House will be inundated with well-wishers!”
Darcy felt rather than saw Georgiana’s tremor of dismay at Miss Bingley’s fulsome compliment. Incredible that the woman who professed to love her so well had not the slightest notion of his sister’s true nature! She took her up as one might a pretty doll and with no more care than that for her mind or feelings! He drew back from Miss Bingley and turned to her brother.
“You are, of course, most welcome, but it will not be as well attended as you might expect. We have lately decided that only close friends and family will receive invitations.”
“Oh, you cannot mean it!” Miss Bingley claimed his attention with a shrill gasp as she took his offered chair. “Miss Darcy —” she appealed to Georgiana.
“But I do,” Darcy broke in, regarding her in arched irritation. Damn and blast if he would allow her to tease Georgiana any further about it! “It was Georgiana’s wish.”
“Would you care to take some refreshment, Miss Bingley, Mr. Bingley?” Georgiana interposed with a smooth, firm voice. Bestowing upon her a surprised but approving smile, Darcy seconded the suggestion. “Yes, you must want for some tea. I have no doubt Mrs. Witcher has it and more already prepared.” He motioned Bingley to a seat and pulled at the bell cord. “Now, Charles, you must tell us how you occupied yourself these weeks in Yorkshire.”
As Darcy buttoned on his waistcoat before his mirror that evening, he could not decide if he was glad Brougham had not come by that day or if he was out of humor with him for staying away. Dy was a will-o’-the-wisp, it was true; but to come at him as he had on the fencing floor and later in regard to Georgiana, and then to disappear? It was the outside of enough! Still, if he had come, what might have transpired? Likely a disagreement distasteful to them both and an estrangement of their friendship, for Darcy was at this very moment preparing for the Monmouths’ select gathering, and nothing Dy would have said would have dissuaded him.
In point of fact, he was already experiencing enough disapproval of his prospective evening from his valet without Brougham’s to add to it. On Darcy’s first informing Fletcher the night before that he was going out to a formal affair, his valet had brightened considerably and set about surveying his wardrobe with something like his customary enthusiasm. Today, though, his spirit for the project of presenting his master in the height of fashion had flagged decidedly. “His Lordship and Lady Monmouth’s did you say, sir?” he had repeated in some disbelief upon discovery of his master’s hosts for the evening. “Are you quite sure, sir?” his valet had queried him as he shaved him for the second time that day.
“Yes, Fletcher.” He had looked up at him ironically. “I am quite sure that is who extended me the invitation.” Knowing there was more, he ventured, “Why?”
“In a word, Norwycke Castle, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher had grimaced in disgust. “And since then, His Lordship and, most especially, Her Ladyship have been observed to be traveling with a rather, ahem, diverse company, sir.”
“So Monmouth told me. ‘Philosophy and politics’ was his description. Hardly akin to what lurked in the shadows of Norwycke, Fletcher!” To this observation, his valet had ventured a skeptical sniff. “ ‘One may smile, and smile,’ sir,” he had replied and returned to the plying of his razor. Nothing more was said, but each piece of Darcy’s evening clothing had been handed to him with an air of reluctance, and the knot at his throat was nothing of particular note or elegance.
Later, as the hansom took Darcy to Monmouth’s town house, the combined effect of Fletcher’s and Brougham’s disapproval worked to produce in him a species of regret that he had accepted the invitation. But it was of a weak sort, for he also found himself curious about how the former Lady Sylvanie Sayre had gotten on after the horrific events at Norwycke Castle and also not a little intrigued by what the temper of the intellectuals and artists who had gathered around her might be. Such company gave the evening an air of piquancy, and piquancy or danger outright was infinitely preferable to what consumed him now, twisting his vitals ever and again into their familiar, painful knot. If he was to…If Elizabeth were to…The door to Monmouth’s town house opened, candlelight and the murmur of a dozen conversations spilling out into the street. Desperate to escape the pain, Darcy laid hold of the invitation before him to think and feel something other than the wretched chasm of his loss and followed the beckoning from inside.
“Darcy, welcome!” Lord Monmouth greeted him from the top of the grand staircase that dominated the hall. “Do not dally down there!” he commanded as Darcy gave his hat and coat to the footman. “Come up, man! Her Ladyship is most anxious to see you!”
Darcy wound his way through the crowded hall and gained the steps, but his progress was impeded by the number of guests on the stairs, some going up or down, others holding intense conversations or serious flirtations on the risers. Monmouth still awaited him at the top, a broad smile yet upon his face. Tris always had liked crowds of people around him, and judging from the number here, Sylvanie had succeeded in making her social mark as a successful hostess. His Lordship should have been quite pleased. It still seemed strange to Darcy that Sylvanie would desire to resume their acquaintance. His refusal of her sensual offers at Norwycke and his undeniable part in the discovery and ultimate suicide of her mother must surely have made any contact between them painful or, at the least, exceedingly uncomfortable. Yet she had pursued an acquaintance with Georgiana that had required Dy’s intervention to discourage, and now she desired above all things to see him.
“Tris.” Darcy bowed and then gripped the hand Monmouth held out to him. “Amazing number of people you have here for a ‘select group’ of philosophers and politicians!”
“Oh, these.” Monmouth waved dismissively. “These are mere window wares, my friend. The important ones are in the Green Room, where Sylvanie holds court. Come!” Monmouth drew him along, threading a way for them through the hallway toward a pair of great double-hung doors. “A moment!” He smiled when they had arrived and then rapped on one of the doors. The handle began a slow revolution, and the door cracked open. Quickly, His Lordship put a hand upon it and pushed in, surprising the servant on the other side into taking a hasty step backward. “Fool!” Monmouth growled as he ushered Darcy into the room. “Lord, how I hate dealing with day-hired servants; they never seem to grasp the smallest bit of instruction or even recognize those who pay their wage! But here we are, the inner circle!” He stopped another servant and, lifting two glasses off his tray, handed one to Darcy. “Some refreshment, old man, and then Her Ladyship. Cheers!” He lifted his glass in salute and downed half the punch before Darcy had even responded. Making a perfunctory motion with his glass, Darcy brought it up to his lips and was struck immediately by the strong smell of whiskey. Drawing back, he looked at his friend.
“A whiskey punch, Monmouth?”
“An Irish whiskey punch,” replied a brogue-laced voice from behind him. One of Darcy’s brows hitched up as he turned to discover the identity of his informant.
“Ah, O’Reilly.” Monmouth acknowledged him. “Allow me to introduce you to a very old friend. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of the Darcys of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Darcy, Sir John O’Reilly of County ———, Ireland.”
“Your servant, sir.” Darcy bowed.
“And yours, sir,” Sir John responded, his demeanor warming slightly. “So, Darcy. Come to talk politics or philosophy?”
“I have not yet decided, Sir John, as I am a newcomer to Monmouth’s ‘select’ gatherings,” he confessed with a wry tilt of his chin toward his host. “I believe it would be the wiser course to listen and learn before giving my opinion on either subject.”
“You must not possess a drop of Irish blood if that is your way.” Sir John laughed. “Lack of familiarity never stopped one o’ my race from holdin’ forth on a subject. Not knowin’ what he is talkin’ about only encourages an Irishman to wax more eloquent upon it.”
“I do not know whether I should agree with you, sir, or not.” Darcy joined in the laughter Sir John’s witticism had provoked in those immediately around them. “But I expect if I am careful to listen, I shall learn that as well.”
“Very politic of you, Mr. Darcy.” Sir John nodded at him. “You’ll do. If you will excuse me? Monmouth.” He winked at His Lordship and then melted into the crowd.
“Drink up, Darcy.” Monmouth indicated his still untasted punch. “Sylvanie awaits.” Darcy raised a brow at his glass and then sampled its contents under His Lordship’s amused regard. It took all his willpower to suppress the choke and gasp his throat demanded of him. As it was, irrepressible tears sprang to his eyes. “Ha!” Monmouth clapped him on the back. “Not a whiskey drinker, I see!”
“No, not usually,” he managed to reply as he wiped at his eyes. A servant appeared at his elbow.
“May I take that, sir?” he asked, bowing and then producing an empty tray.
“Yes, here.” Darcy put down the unfinished glass.
“Very good, sir.” The servant bowed again and whisked it away.
“Humph,” observed Monmouth, “a day-hire who actually knows what he is about! Well, then.” He grinned. “Now you are ‘baptized,’ you may wander freely, old man. Oh, yes!” Monmouth responded to his look of surprise. “Without the smell of ‘water of life’ on your breath, you would be held in suspicion. All is right and tight now! But, My Lady first.” With that His Lordship took Darcy’s arm in a firm grip and set off with purpose for the other end of the drawing room. It was just as well, for the whiskey had, by this juncture, reached Darcy’s head, and for the moment, the room appeared somewhat confusing. They passed the servant who had taken his glass, and something about him struck Darcy as so curious that he halted their progress to stare after him. “What is it, Darcy?” Monmouth asked.
“The servant, the one who took my glass.”
“Yes?” His Lordship prompted impatiently.
“For a moment…he seemed familiar,” he finished lamely.
“Likely you have seen him in service at other houses; as I said, he is a day-hire.”
A rustling sound replaced that of the conversations around them. A path between them and their destination opened to reveal Lady Sylvanie Monmouth rising from her seat surrounded by a coterie of men and women, all of whom exuded an intensity of passion for whatever subject had just been suspended. They all turned curious, glittering eyes upon him as Her Ladyship smiled and held out her hand to him. If he had called her a faerie princess before, it had been a weak metaphor. No, it was the Queen of Faerie who smiled upon him. Her luxurious black hair tumbled in ringlets about her creamy white shoulders, and as she moved toward him, her diaphanous emerald gown revealed more than any man but her husband should have known. The memory of what she had offered him at Norwycke raced through his frame.
“Mr. Darcy, welcome!” Her voice fell warm and intimate upon his senses. “How we have longed to see you again!”
Darcy could not be certain whether it was Sylvanie or the whiskey which had kindled the warmth that was now spreading throughout his frame, but the curst tight knot that had taken up residence in his chest a week before seemed to come loose. The welcome in her every movement as she approached him soothed his battered pride, then excited in him an appreciative anticipation. He smiled back at her and bowed, said, “Lady Monmouth,” and rose to a face made even lovelier by a light of gentle amusement.
“So formal, Mr. Darcy?” she returned with a low-pitched laugh. “But we are more intimately acquainted than that, are we not?” She nodded to Monmouth, who bowed his leave with a smirk and took himself off to another part of the room. “We are not so careful to observe all the old proprieties here.” Lady Monmouth took his arm, drawing him back to where she had been seated. “The world is changing and ablaze with new ideas that have no patience for that which is past.” She glanced up at him, gauging his reaction, he supposed, but the delicious warmth suffusing him from within and caressing his senses from without overrode any impulse he might have had to take issue with her words. “Here, I am simply Sylvanie to your Darcy.” Lady Monmouth resumed her seat on the divan and indicated to Darcy the space beside her.
As he took the place next to her, her admirers, who had drifted away at her desertion of them, strolled back, their eyes lighting upon him with a keen interest. Among them, though, were some who regarded him with a troubled uncertainty, while others cast upon him looks that bordered on hostility. One in particular, an intense-looking gentleman whose stance seemed to indicate resentment of Darcy’s favored status, leaned near her ear and murmured something as she signaled a servant for more refreshments to be brought. “My dear Bellingham,” she replied smoothly in undertone, “all is well!” She turned a wry smile upon Darcy. “They are all eager to know you! Will you allow me the introductions?”
Nodding his uneasy permission, Darcy reached for a glass of wine from the tray that appeared at his elbow. True to her word, all noble titles were abjured, and Sylvanie made her introductions by surname only. Nonetheless, Darcy recognized several who were titled lords or ladies, though minor ones. Those with a claim to some little fame for their art or writing were introduced as such, those with political aspirations with the names of their connections. As he had anticipated, they were a diverse lot, although radical might have been a better epithet, he decided. Further, many of them, as was his first new acquaintance of the evening, were Irish. Even as Darcy hoped he harbored no prejudice toward that fractious population, he could not have been unaware of the problems the radicals among them had been presenting to the government as it sought to prosecute a united effort against Napoleon. An indifferent Tory by birth, he had delved no more deeply into modern political philosophy than with an appreciative reading of Burke. Content as he was in the careful observance of his personal creed of responsible obligation to King on the one hand and to his own lands, tenants, and people on the other, the “Irish Question” had never intruded on his consciousness. If he read this gathering aright, it was about to do so.
“‘What have you got in your hand,’ Darcy?” Bellingham demanded of him, his eyes narrowly focused on his face. Darcy stared back at him, a brow raised in warning.
“Bellingham!” Sylvanie responded sharply but then continued in a more conciliatory voice. “All is well.”
“It is a simple enough question.” Bellingham ignored her, his gaze intent upon Darcy. “What have you got in your hand?”
“It appears to resemble a glass of wine.” Darcy brought the glass to his lips and drained half of it, all the while holding Bellingham’s eyes with his own. “Yes, definitely wine! But pray, enlighten me, sir, if you deem it otherwise.” He held the glass out to him.
Bellingham drew back at the offer, a look of supreme disdain upon his countenance. “I thought as much.” He sneered and then turned to his hostess. “ ‘All is well,’ Sylvanie?” he questioned her. “Not bloody likely!” Then, with the briefest of nods, he stalked away.
Darcy stared after him in wonder, but when his gaze returned to those about him, he immediately sensed that his welcome among them was dissipating as quickly as Bellingham’s stride was taking him to the door. What had he said? He quickly downed the rest of the contents of his glass.
“You must take no notice of Bellingham.” Sylvanie leaned against his arm and, reaching across him, took the glass from his hand. The scent of her perfume drifted over him, the smell of new roses and rain-drenched moss. “He is a strange man at best, and tonight he is more than a little preoccupied.” She smiled up at Darcy from under shapely black brows. “Do not let him spoil the evening.” Darcy found he could not help returning her smile and inclined his head in agreement. “Excellent.” She laughed in pleasure with him and then rose from her seat, placing the glass on a table. “Come then; there are those here who, I daresay, you will enjoy meeting.” Rising, he stepped up at her invitation, and once again, she tucked her hand inside his arm. “As your hostess, I must ensure your comfort,” she murmured intimately, “and as I must leave you in a few minutes, I would have you well provided for until I return.”
“You must leave?” Darcy asked, loathe to be left to his own devices in a room of strangers. He found too that he liked the caress in Sylvanie’s voice and the warm pressure of her on his arm.
“Only long enough to sing a few songs for my guests. Tonight is rather special,” she whispered conspiratorially as they made their way across the room. “Monmouth has secured Tom Moore for this evening! He consented to sing but only on the condition that we perform a duet and that I play for him.”
“An honor, indeed,” Darcy acknowledged, much impressed. He had heard the widely popular Irish tenor perform on more than one occasion and in highly prestigious company. That Sylvanie had obtained him for her soiree was, in itself, a social triumph of the first order. Moore’s desire that she sing and play for him was a supreme compliment.
“Sylvanie, darlin’!” Sir John O’Reilly’s exclamation brought them to a halt. “What would you be doin’ with Darcy here? Keepin’ him ta yerself all evenin’?”
“O’Reilly!” Sylvanie brightened. “Have you already met, then?”
“Didn’t Monmouth himself introduce us when he first come in the door?” He paused and bussed her cheek. “I’ve the distinct honor o’ bein’ his oldest new friend here! Is that not the truth, m’fine lad?” O’Reilly winked at him again from under bushy, grizzled brows. If Sylvanie were Faerie Queen, O’Reilly was one of the wee folk writ large, although Darcy suspected his treasure lay in his silver tongue rather than in buried gold.
Sylvanie laughed. “Then perhaps you would not object to taking charge of his further introduction, for I must see to Moore and the entertainment. But I expect you to take good care of him,” she warned, “for I shall return and demand him of you when I am finished.” She nodded to them both but bestowed upon Darcy a lingering caress of her fingers before removing her hand and threading her way gracefully through the knots of guests.
“I suppose that means she’ll be wantin’ you back sober, more’s the pity.” Sir John sighed dramatically. “Ah well, what can no’ be mended must be endured. Here!” He stopped a servant and, lifting two whiskeys from the tray, handed one to Darcy. “To endurin’!” He toasted him and tossed it back.
“To endurance.” Darcy repeated and lifted his glass as well. It had been some time since he had tossed back any appreciable amount of whiskey, and that which was served here was potent. The liquor scorched a trail down his throat, but at least this time it did not bring tears to his eyes. He brought the glass down to behold a smiling Sir John.
“There now, better this time, eh?” He then motioned round the room with his glass, the remainder of his whiskey sloshing dangerously as he did so. “Know many of the others here?”
“Almost no one,” Darcy replied. “Monmouth is a friend from university. I met Syl — Lady Monmouth while visiting her brothers in Oxfordshire last January. Moore I have heard sing before, of course, but have not met.”
“Would you be wantin’ to meet anyone in particular?” Sir John finished his glass and cast about him for a place to lay it.
“I am not certain.” Darcy hesitated, surveying the crowd a moment before recalling the curious incident that had happened earlier. “Yes, Bellingham.” Darcy looked down at Sir John and then stayed him as he began to search the room. “He has already gone, but perhaps you would explain something he said.”
“Somethin’ he said now?” O’Reilly’s tone cooled. “Bellingham says all too much, I’m thinking.”
“It was a question, actually, which I apparently did not understand; for he took great offense at my reply.”
“ ‘What have you got in your hand?’ Would that be the question?” At Darcy’s surprised nod, O’Reilly looked away and swore under his breath. “And what did you answer him?”
“That I held a glass of wine…” O’Reilly almost choked at his answer. “Which was the truth; but he was listening for something else, was he not?”
“Oh, aye!” O’Reilly raised his eyes to Heaven, then shook his head. “You’ll have observed, bright lad that you are, that most of these present at Sylvanie’s gatherin’ are of Irish descent or persuasion. He was testin’ your sympathies to see where they might lie, and ‘a glass of wine’ was no the right answer!”
“Yes, he made that quite clear!” Darcy agreed. “But —”
“Ah, there’s the darlin’ and Moore beside her!” Sir John interrupted him, turning Darcy’s attention to the door. Indeed, Sylvanie was there, posed enchantingly with her harp in her arms and the great Moore at her elbow. The crowd parted to allow them into the center of the room, applause rising as they passed. “Here, Darcy.” Sir John deposited his glass, snagged another pair of tumblers from a tray, and handed him one. Looking about him, he saw that all the servants were busily engaged in distributing identical glasses to everyone present and that all were getting to their feet. “Wait for the toast now, lad!” Sir John nudged his arm and nodded his head toward their hostess and her famous guest as all grew quiet.
Holding her harp loosely in the crook of one arm, Sylvanie tossed back the curls that tumbled in rampant luxury over her shoulder and accepted with Moore a glass from a servant. The expectancy that gripped the room laid hold upon Darcy as well as all attention centered upon them. Suddenly, Sylvanie raised her glass. “What have you got in your hand?” she asked.
“A green bough!” those in the room thundered back, raising their glasses in turn.
“Where did it first grow?” Moore stepped up and raised his glass to the room.
“In America!” came the unison reply. Darcy looked down into the glass in his hand with consternation, at a loss as to what he should do. He felt he ought to know, he ought to decide and then act upon it; but how to begin such an enterprise eluded him.
“Where did it bud?” Beside him, Sir John bellowed out the question.
“In France!” The answer sliced through the air, then all once more grew silent as every eye returned to their hostess.
Sylvania let her gray-eyed gaze travel slowly over the room. They were entirely with her, of that Darcy had no doubt. She held them delicately but with surety in the palm of her hand as she stood in fierce beauty before them. A look of exaltation washed slowly over her face, recalling to Darcy memories of their conversations at Norwycke Castle. Power, she had said when last he had seen that look, the power of riding the crest of passion, is life worth the living. Had she proven it so? As she thrust her glass again high in the air, Sylvanie’s voice rang out, a sudden clarion in the silence. “Where are you going to plant it?”
“In the crown of Great Britain!” The roar circled the room, and a hundred glasses of Irish whiskey were drained in an instant.
“Now, lad, now!” O’Reilly urged him as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Ah, a glorious sight, isn’t she?”
Darcy nodded. “Yes, she is.” He brought the glass up and tipped it toward her. To you, Sylvanie, he toasted her silently, and your passion for life. At that moment a servant stepped up to Sir John with a tray on which he thankfully deposited his empty glass. Seeing it, Darcy brought the toast to his lips, only to have the man turn sharply toward him, knocking the glass out of his hand. With a startled exclamation from all three men, the heavy glass tumbler hit the floor with a dull thud.
“Your pardon, sir!” The servant ducked his head as he apologized and then went down on the floor to retrieve the glass. Darcy frowned at the man’s broad back as he blotted at the carpet, recognizing him as the one who had arrested his attention earlier that evening. The man’s face was properly averted from his betters, but there continued something about him — his movements, perhaps — that seemed so familiar. He rose then and, with his back to Darcy, proceeded to attend to Sir John, who was flicking at the droplets of whiskey that had been flung upon his waistcoat.
“Have a care, man!” Sir John bit out angrily, displeased by the man’s futile attempts at remedy.
“Yes, sir,” the servant responded, then more loudly, “Excellent advice, sir!”
“What?” Sir John demanded in surprise at the man’s impertinence, but the servant was already bowing and thereafter whisked himself and the tray quickly into the crowd. “Cheeky blighter!” O’Reilly commented to Darcy, who stood frozen for a moment staring after the man in disbelief. That voice! It could not possibly be…! He stretched to attention, trying to follow the servant’s path through the room, but even his superior height could not afford him a clear view of his quarry.
“You must excuse me, O’Reilly! Your pardon!” he blurted out and stepped round him, but Sir John laid a strong hand upon his arm.
“Where are you off to, lad? Sylvanie will want to know,” he demanded of him.
“I do not know.” Darcy looked desperately after the servant. “You must excuse me!” Pulling away, he hurried in the direction the man had gone, dodging the servants and guests strolling the drawing room. Finally, he gained the door and slipped out into the still crowded corridor. Peering over and around the heads of the throng, he caught a glimpse of his prey entering a doorway farther down the hall. The man hesitated and then, as if come to a decision, turned to look him full in the face. Confirmed! Darcy did not know whether to give in to triumph, anger, or curiosity, for all three vied for the upper hand as he made his way down the hall to the last door. When finally free from the crowd, he quickened his stride, more so as his object appeared to urge him to hurry.
“What the —” he began, but the erstwhile servant frowned heavily at him and pulled him through the doorway, closing the door softly behind them. Darcy strode several paces into the room and then, rounding quickly upon his quarry, demanded, “What in God’s name are you doing here posing as a servant, Dy?”
“Will you keep your voice down? You are bellowing like a blasted ox!” Brougham frowned at him again, causing Darcy to cross his arms tightly over his chest and return him the same. His Lordship ignored him, checking again at the door that none should overhear or disturb them.
“You are following me!” Darcy accused him. “Of all the —”
“No, I am not following you,” Dy quickly shot back, then retracting his statement, added, “Not exactly. It happens that I was already engaged to come here tonight before you allowed Monmouth to goad you into accepting his invitation; although the idea of assigning you a keeper does have a certain merit to it! Good Heavens, Darcy, I warned you to stay away, and you walk right into it!”
“Into what? You talk in circles, Brougham!” Darcy returned, his temper rising. “And if you were invited, why warn me away? You make no sense!” He dropped his arms and, gesturing toward his costume, peered at his friend intently. “And why are you dressed as a servant? Is this some sort of odd start, Dy, some sort of prank?”
“No, Fitz.” His Lordship sighed and looked to Heaven before returning his inspection. “But it is rather a long story, too long to relate under this roof.”
Darcy nodded curtly. “I would imagine so. Come round tomorrow and tell me. Perhaps by then I shall be able to see the humor in it.” He made to leave, but Brougham stepped in his path.
“You cannot go back!” He laid ahold of Darcy’s shoulders. “Fitz, do you not realize what is going on back there? It is treason, old man —” Darcy’s dismissive snort interrupted him. “Or the next thing to it, and you should not be seen among them!”
“Dy!” he warned him, “do you seriously expect me to believe that Monmouth invited me here to entertain me with a show of treason?”
Brougham held the breath he had taken in preparation to answer him back and, instead, looked at him with such piercing intensity that Darcy almost began to doubt himself. When finally he spoke, Dy dropped his hold of him and stepped back. “No, not to entertain you, Fitz, to blackmail you.”
“That is preposterous!” Darcy burst out.
“Indeed? You were to be made drunk or, failing that, drugged and then ‘discovered’ in Her Ladyship’s bedchamber by the ‘outraged’ husband and other suitable witnesses.” Dy’s voice tightened with loathing, then shaking his head at him, he continued with exasperation. “And from what I saw of you and Lady Monmouth tonight, such an eventuality would hardly be questioned. You were playing right into her hands!”
“Her hands?” Darcy repeated, now listening with more attention.
“Oh, Fitz! You cannot for a moment think that Monmouth concocted all this! I told you he was only an errand boy and a ham-handed one at that! Regardless” — Brougham dismissed His Lordship — “you would have then been assured of their silence in exchange for regular donations into a certain charity for the relief of orphaned Irish children.” He laughed bitterly. “Of course, the true beneficiaries would be Irish revolutionaries, for that is Her Ladyship’s driving passion. You were the perfect target, old man! Rich, in charge of your own fortune, and with a younger sister to protect. Then, to add spice to this evil brew, you are also someone with whom Her Ladyship has a score to settle.”
“Lady Sayre.” Darcy sighed heavily.
“Yes, Lady Sayre,” Dy confirmed. “Lady Monmouth holds you responsible for her mother’s death.” He paused and looked searchingly at his friend. “Do you believe me now, Fitz, or would you like to see the glass I knocked out of your hand?” Dy picked up the tumbler from the tray and held it up to a branch of candles, where the smallest of specks could be seen still clinging to the bottom.
“O’Reilly?” Darcy asked, knowing the answer. Dy nodded. “Good God!” The closeness with which he had come to disaster took his breath away.
“Well, so He was this time, although you hardly deserve it,” Dy observed drily. “Now, are you going to leave this nest of villains or must I arrange your kidnapping? Lady Monmouth is probably looking for you as we speak.”
“But how did you know?” Darcy looked at his oldest friend in confusion. “What are you —?”
“Too long a story,” he said over his shoulder as he turned back to the door. “You must leave…now!” Opening it, Dy peered out. “Good, there is still much activity in the hall and down to the door. Do you know the Fox and Drake on Portman Road?” Darcy nodded. “Meet me there in an hour, my friend, and I will answer your questions.” For the first time that evening, he smiled, though wryly. “Well, some of them! Now get yourself out of here!” Clapping him on the shoulder, Dy then pushed his old friend out the door. “And be quick about it!” he whispered urgently and closed it behind him.
Although the corridor still teemed with Sylvanie’s guests, Darcy at first felt suddenly, horribly alone and, then, like the world’s greatest fool. Gathering himself together, he began to thread his way back through the throng to the head of the stairs. If he could leave without notice, it would be the greatest of good fortune, and nothing more would come from this night than a much-needed opening of his eyes to the political realities of a country at war, from both within and without. That, and an entirely tumbled-over understanding of one of his oldest friends! He still reeled from the sudden reappearance, despite the servant’s clothing, of the Dy Brougham he had known in university, but that puzzle would have to wait for the Fox and Drake. His first task was to get out of Monmouth’s town house and, as Dy had so succinctly recommended, be quick about it!
“Darcy!” The shout came from behind him. He knew it could only be Monmouth, probably sent by O’Reilly to hunt him down. Darcy hesitated, for a moment his breeding holding him hostage to convention, but Monmouth’s second shout of his name propelled him toward the stairs. He had reached them, the post at the head of the stairs under his hand, when a grip closed about his arm from behind. “Darcy!” Monmouth breathed heavily. “The evening has only begun! You cannot be leaving?”
Monmouth’s touch made his skin want to crawl, but he controlled the urge to pull away and turned back to his old hall mate with a remarkable calm. “Yes, I fear I must; another engagement, you must understand, which I ignore at my peril.”
“But Sylvanie is to sing in only a few moments! Surely your appointment will allow for that!” Momouth urged him. “And she will be extremely disappointed if you do not stay and hear her. A song and a drink, what do you say, old man?” An undercurrent of panic colored the reasonable words of his request and the wary look upon his face, putting a period to any doubts Darcy may have had about Dy’s veracity.
“Impossible, Monmouth,” he replied firmly. “I am behind the time already and beg you will excuse me.”
“You made no mention of another engagement when you arrived,” His Lordship persisted. “Come, if something has offended, allow me to make amends. For old times’ sake, Darcy.”
“Old times’ sake, Tris?” Darcy could no longer mask his disgust. “How could you?” he demanded of him and pulled away. Monmouth’s protests were met by his back as he stalked down the stairs and requested his things from the footman. A flurry of activity warned Darcy that the plans for his entrapment had not yet been given over by all the participants. As he placed his beaver atop his head and took his walking stick from the footman, Lady Monmouth appeared at the head of the stairs.
“Darcy!” Her voice, low and entreating, called to him. Propriety and good breeding, he very well knew, demanded he acknowledge her, but right now his feeling about social niceties were that they could be damned! Taking his stick into a ferocious grip, he turned pointedly to the door, causing the doorman to spring for the handle and wrench it open.
“Another time, then,” Sylvanie promised with a scornful laugh, “when you are less easily frightened by the world that is coming.” Those in the hall and on the steps around her tittered appreciatively.
Darcy stood motionless, beyond measure angered and stung by her mockery and the public humiliation she had dealt him. Summoning every ounce of hauteur he possessed, he turned on his heel and raised cold eyes to her beautiful, taunting countenance.
“Never, madam,” he answered her, biting off each word in solemn vow, “never on your life!” Not deigning to wait for a reply, Darcy swung back to the door and, with broad stride, walked out into the cool night air.
“The Fox and Drake, Portman Road,” he instructed the driver of the first conveyance that pulled to a stop at the curb.
“Righto, guv’nah.” The cabbie laid a finger to his brim, saluting him.
It was only after he’d been sitting back in the hansom’s dark interior for a few blocks that the anger-wrought tension began to loosen its grip on Darcy and allow him to think. Think! He wrested the privilege of mocking himself from Sylvanie’s duplicitous hands. How have you fallen into the role of the world’s greatest fool? That you have been deceived for years by one of your oldest friends and twice entered willingly into the orbit of a woman bent on using you for God knows what nefarious purposes? That the woman you love…He looked out the window. The streets of London were alive yet with the city’s more exalted citizenry and would continue so until the small hours of the morning. Ladies leaned on their gentlemen’s arms, laughing and excited, eager for the glitter and whirl of gatherings within the lofty halls of the many ballrooms and drawing rooms promised by row upon row of stately homes.
Darcy closed his eyes against the sights, the yearning slicing through him, painful as a cut to the heart. Yes, the world’s greatest fool! And what the world’s greatest fool needed now was a drink! The hansom pulled to a stop. Darcy climbed down and threw the fare up to the driver, who caught it handily. “G’night, gov’nah!” He nodded as he pocketed the coin.
“That remains to be seen,” Darcy responded. The driver laughed and commanded his horse to walk on, leaving Darcy to inspect the front of the public house. Its sign hung brightly illuminated in lamplight, showing a strong young fox exuding a wide grin while a fat drake dangled from its jaws. “Almost,” Darcy addressed the fox, which he had no doubt was a vixen. “But tonight the drake got away.” He bent and opened the pub’s door. Immediately, he was welcomed by its owner.
“What will it be, sir? I have a room available,” the man offered cheerily.
“No, no room, just a table in a corner,” he answered him. “Are you well stocked?”
“Why, yes, sir!”
“Good! Bring me your best brandy.” The man’s smile grew broader as he put a glass on a tray in front of him and began to open a bottle. “No, you misunderstand me.” Darcy stopped him. “Not just a glass. Leave the bottle as well.”
It was curious, Darcy reflected as he cradled the remains of his second glass of brandy, how every time his thoughts managed to fight their way up into the realm of his control, when he could begin to hope to direct them into rational avenues, they fell down again into a ghastly, maudlin tangle. He sat back and stared for a moment at the glinting amber liquid captured in the glass in his hand, then downed what remained of it. Where was Dy, anyway? If he would only come, the blasted sneaksby, the scoundrel! Acting like a positive coxcomb all these years! Laying the glass aside, he pulled out his pocket watch. Its hands danced wantonly but were not so wayward that he could not in the end verify that, indeed, an hour and more had passed without Brougham showing his face. He shoved the ill-behaved mechanism back into his waistcoat pocket. Well, when Dy did arrive, Darcy would tell him exactly what he thought of him! Yes, the delivery of a good dressing-down would serve admirably in putting a stop to this infernal brooding!
As if to pledge himself to his design, Darcy snagged the brandy bottle and poured himself another, but he missed the snifter’s rim by a hairsbreadth, the liquid fire flowing instead down its side and puddling around its base. With an oath, he moved the glass. That he had fallen into distemper was the conclusion he came to as he sat in a corner of the Fox and Drake and finished his second glass of brandy. Try as hard as he might to argue otherwise, he was forced to concede that he had not yet spent any significant time without Elizabeth Bennet occupying the uppermost place in his thoughts. Nothing had served to dismiss her completely: not his anger at her accusations, his indignation at her opinion of him, or the monumental shock at her rejection of his suit. He imagined her wiping her hands of him, crowing her triumph in bringing him to his knees. Did she and that friend of hers, that Mrs. Collins, laugh together over his humiliation? Darcy’s jaw hardened as he again picked up the bottle, this time finding the glass without mishap. Nothing helped relieve or even mitigate his disconsolation. Solitude betrayed him, sleep fled him, sport offered only a temporary reprieve, and Society — well, look at what his venture into Society had almost done to him! And now, here he was alone, in a strange public house, on his third glass, and with not even the comfort of a friend to keep him from getting ape-drunk. How had he come to such a pass? He retrieved the brandy glass and raised it in toast to himself. “To the World’s Greatest Fool!”
“Oh, I would hazard you have rather heavy competition for that title, old man!” Dy sat down heavily in the chair across from him, his face drawn and tired.
“Where did you come from?” Darcy demanded without looking up and then downed a significant portion.
“The back door,” Dy replied casually. “I know the owner. He told me you have been drinking this.” He placed a new bottle of brandy on the table. “But I did not realize that he meant by the bottle. Let me call for some ale or, better yet, some coffee —”
“This will do very well.” Darcy cut him off and took up the bottle, placing it next to his original before pouring his friend a glass.
Dy eyed him speculatively. “I believe the last time we did something like this was the first time we met.”
“I believe you are right.” Darcy held up his glass.
“To old friends.” Dy tipped his glass against Darcy’s and joined him, then sank back into the chair with a sigh.
“Well, ‘old friend.’ ” Darcy nursed his glass, watching the brandy swirl. “Are you finished playing footman for the night, or must you toddle off soon to play next as my lady’s maid?”
“I suppose I deserve that, but I had hoped better from you, Fitz,” Dy returned steadily. “I had also thought to find you sober enough to hear my explanation,” he added as his friend took another drink.
Darcy raised a brow at him. “I’m sober enough to hear your miserable excuses for deceiving me…deceiving me into thinking you had abandoned your reason in favor of…of what? I never could fathom it, but I still counted you as friend.” To emphasize the point, he replenished their glasses and, picking up his, lifted it to Brougham. “To old friends.”
“We already drank to that,” Dy drawled, a wry smile relaxing the tension in his face. He tipped his glass to Darcy’s all the same and closed his eyes as the liquor warmed his senses. “Oh, what a night!” He shook his head and then leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and studied his friend. “And now I have you to contend with. Were you in charge of your faculties, I might know what to do; but three sheets —”
“Two,” Darcy interrupted. “Haven’t reached three…yet.”
“Every bit of three sheets to the wind,” Brougham insisted with a snort. “I do not think I have seen you bosky since that first meeting at university! It was over women then, and we both forswore them at the time, if I recall.” At the remembrance, he suddenly sat up straighter, a look of alarm upon his face. “This is not about Lady Monmouth, I hope!” He gestured to the half empty bottle.
“Sylvanie?” Darcy peered intently at Brougham’s face, the better to bring it into focus. “You must be mad!”
“You are not the first to think so!” His Lordship lapsed into thought. “You seemed rather taken with her tonight, and it naturally occurred —”
“Nothing ‘natural’ about Sylvanie, I assure you.” Darcy laughed bitterly. Then, in a more pensive tone, he continued. “Nor any female, come to that! Not to be trusted, not a one of them — from first to last!”
“That is quite a sweeping condemnation!” Brougham sat back and folded his arms across his chest.
“But true, nonetheless.” Darcy leaned forward and set down his glass. “In their girlhood they learn how to twist men about their fingers, beginning with their fathers, then…” He stabbed at the table with a finger. “Then, they start working their wiles on every honest-hearted man that crosses their path, turning him into a beef-witted Jack Pudding before he knows what he’s about!”
“Indeed?” Brougham’s eyebrows rose.
“Indeed!” Darcy returned and took another drink. He hardly tasted it now, but the fiery liquor seemed to flow into the gaping fissures of his wounds. “Ungrateful, teasing creatures!” he continued as his friend made himself comfortable, “designed by Nature to drive a man mad. They look up at you with eyes that leave you breathless and then steal your soul!” His voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Beautiful eyes that promise a paradise you alone may explore.” He placed his glass down carefully on the table.
“And then?” His Lordship asked quietly after several minutes had passed in silence.
“Then, when a man’s guard is down and his hand is out, they turn on him.”
“Touché?” Brougham quizzed him.
“Touché and the whole damned engagement!” Darcy slumped back into his chair and rubbed at his temples. “Deceitful, May-gaming wenches, the lot of them!”
“Undoubtedly you are right,” His Lordship agreed indifferently. “Perhaps Benedick’s course is the wisest after all, and every man should do himself ‘the right to trust none.’ ”
“Hear, hear.” Darcy, raised his glass, the brandy sloshing dangerously.
Brougham lifted his as well. “To the forswearing of all the race of Deceitful Women…especially those of Kent!”
Darcy lowered his arm in flushed confusion. “Kent? Who said anything of Kent?”
His Lordship looked at him quizzically. “Why, you did; did you not?”
“Did I?” Darcy’s brows lowered in perplexity with his faltering grasp on the conversation. “No, no, the trap was merely set there…in the park.”
“In the park?” Brougham questioned, then his face cleared with recollection. “Oh, yes, Rosings Park! Your aunt’s estate. Well then, it must be the Deceitful Women of London Who Visit in Kent that we are forswearing. And Heaven knows, I heartily agree with you there! To the Deceitful — No?” He stopped his toast as Darcy began to shake his head.
“Hertfordshire!”
“Oh, Hertfordshire!” he expressed with surprise. “Cannot say that I know much about the women of Hertfordshire, not enough to forswear them, I’m sure! You must enlighten me first, my friend.”
A look of supreme distaste crossed Darcy’s face. “They breed them like rabbits in Hertfordshire, at least five to a family! They have tabby cat mothers who do nothing but lie in wait for a likely gentleman to pounce upon and leg-shackle to their daughters, all of whom scamper as they please like hoydens about the countryside running after red coats!”
“In Hertfordshire?” Brougham returned with amazement. “I had no idea it was such an interesting place!”
“Interesting!” Darcy set his glass down with such force that the contents sloshed out, soaking the ruffle of his cuff and sleeve. “Blast!” He pushed away from the table, but not before some had dripped onto a leg of his trousers. His outburst caught the attention of the pub’s young serving wench, who hurried over with a piece of toweling, but upon closer examination of her patrons, she also drew out the clean handkerchief that had served her as bodice lace.
“Here, dearie,” she cozened Darcy as she dabbed the frilly square of cheaply scented holland about his sleeve. “None the worse!”
Withdrawing from her ministrations, he commandeered the piece of cloth with a tersely polite “Thank you, miss,” and bent unsteadily to employ it upon his trouser leg.
“Yer welcome, I’m sure!” she simpered back to him, but as he did not immediately look up from his endeavor, she flounced away to more appreciative customers.
When he carefully sat back up, it was to behold Brougham’s amused countenance. “Certainly you were in no danger in this disreputable shire; your way with women must surely have insulated you against any such encroaching or shocking females as you have described!” He paused as Darcy returned him a scowl. “Or perhaps not all were so shockingly behaved or enamored of red coats and gold shoulder braid?”
“Ha!” Darcy snorted, absently tucking the handkerchief into his coat pocket. “Dress the blackest villain in a red coat and he is instantly a saint whose whispered lies are more to be believed than another man’s entire life and character!”
“Ah, a Serpent in the Hertfordshire garden!” His listener nodded sagely as Darcy took up his glass again and, noting that most of the brandy had spilled out, reached for the bottle. Brougham’s hand forestalled him. “Here, Fitz, allow me,” he drawled and poured him short. “Enough for our vow,” he explained to Darcy’s displeased frown, “which I take us to be offering up against your Hertfordshire Eve. Yes…” His Lordship waxed eloquent as Darcy looked on him in growing confusion. “A highly appropriate metaphor when one thinks on it. Serpent in the garden, Eve in the park — which is really nothing more than a large Garden, you understand — whispers in her ear, Eve figuratively ‘bites’ and then serves you — our Adam — the core of bitter fruit. Yes, the symmetry is near perfect!”
Darcy’s glass hit the table again. “What the Devil are you talking about? I have never been in a garden with a woman named Eve!”
“Then of whom are we speaking?” Brougham asked innocently.
“Elizabeth, you idiotish wretch!” Darcy ground back at him. “Elizabeth!”
“Oh, is that the deceitful wench’s name! Elizabeth!” Brougham looked relieved. “Then I may now in all good conscience offer the vow.” He stood and lifted his glass as his companion fumbled for his own. “To the forswearing of Elizabeth, Ungrateful, Deceitful Wench…”
Darcy brought his arm back down, his mind a muddle. Forswear Elizabeth? She would never be his, he knew that well enough, but to vow against her? Curse even the memory of her? It was not even remotely possible!
“…an Unworthy Creature of the lowest order…”
Darcy stared hard at his friend. Lowest order! Elizabeth? What did he mean by that? “No, not-not low,” he mumbled as a vision of Elizabeth easily, graciously holding her own against his aunt’s imperious demands flashed through his mind.
“…Despoiler of the Hopes of honest men…”
“No, not low,” he argued a bit louder against the laughter that Brougham’s oration was provoking across the room. His speech had by now attracted the attention of the pub’s other patrons, who being already primed for any sort of mill, regarded a show provided by the gentry as especially entertaining.
“…and, let us not forget, Tease, who after having led them on an intoxicating chase down the garden, or rather, park path…”
“No!” Darcy bellowed as he attempted to stand. The room swayed and howled with mirth, refusing to come clearly into focus.
“A Disgrace to — Pardon me?” Brougham inquired loftily. “I believe I was in the midst of —”
“How dare you, sir!” Finally, Darcy had found his feet and rose, belligerently intent upon putting an end to Dy’s slanderous speech. “How dare you bandy about Elizabeth’s name in a public house and in such an infamous manner!”
“Darcy.” Dy began in a conciliatory tone, but his companion would have none of it.
“You are speaking of a lady, sir!” He was interrupted by jeers from across the room. “A lady,” he insisted passionately over their calls, “of incomparable worth!”
“Darcy.” Stepping between his friend and the pub’s raucous patrons, Brougham laid an earnest hand upon his arm. “I would be honored to drink to such a lady…providing you sit down, my friend.”
Eyeing him at first with some suspicion, Darcy slowly resumed his seat as Brougham did the same. For a time, they sat in silence as Darcy tried to read his friend’s face through his self-inflicted haze but, he concluded, Dy was such a changeling to begin with that his state of inebriation was hardly a factor in the effort. With as much acuity as he was able to bring to bear, he searched Dy’s face, and what he saw in his old rival and friend’s countenance was a sincerity of concern and a warmth of sympathy that were impossible to discount as mere playacting. No, the playacting had been the ridiculous toast, the posing as a servant, maybe even the whole frivolous persona he had presented to the world for the last seven years! But here, now, was his truest friend in the world come back from a very long journey, and the timing of his return was impeccable.
Brougham broke their silence with a sigh and then, with a wry smile, leaned his elbows once more upon the table and looked Darcy square in the eye. “I think you had better tell me about her, old man,” he prescribed, his voice compassionate but firm. “She must, indeed, be of incomparable worth if she has so won your heart.”
From habit, Darcy bridled at Dy’s quiet request that he lower his defenses; but the old reserve, the shield between himself and the world, had already been rent by a young woman from Hertfordshire. Why should he hold it up against his oldest friend? He would not reveal all; it was too much, and the details were unimportant now. But he would tell him something of it, enough to understand.
“Her name is Elizabeth,” he began, looking past Dy’s shoulder the better to maintain the shreds of something akin to dignity, “and I am the last man in the world that she could ever be prevailed on to marry.”