When Darcy entered through the doors swung open by satin-clad doormen, servants were in the process of clearing the second remove from the long table around which Sayre’s guests were arranged. That great piece of furniture appeared to Darcy as long and wide as the drawbridge that had allowed his coach and team entrance to the castle. Its surface gleamed from generations of beeswax rubbed upon its boards, the shine ably reflecting the light from the heavy, branching candelabras positioned at intervals down its length.
The company gathered there glittered as ably as the candle flames. Darcy quickly noted seven ladies and, including himself, an equal number of gentlemen before presenting his compliments to Sayre. The gentlemen of the party rose to welcome him as Sayre greeted his appearance with an exhibition of the genuine good humor he had been known for when they had all been together at Cambridge.
“Your place is laid down the line, my dear fellow, just beyond old Bev, there.” He nodded toward his younger brother, the Honorable Beverley Trenholme. “We have finished with the light fare and are about to tuck into what one truly comes to table for.” Sayre winked at Darcy, only to be brought to heel by Lady Sayre.
“La, my lord, I thought it was the company of the ladies for which a man comes to the table.” Lady Sayre pulled her full lips into a pretty pout as she looked to the other females among them. “My dears, we have been trumped by a sirloin of beef.” Protests from the gentlemen vied with laughter from the ladies as Darcy made his way to his seat. When he had gained it, it was with no little surprise that he discovered his cousin D’Arcy’s fiancée, Lady Felicia, and her parents, the Marquis and Lady Chelmsford, among the guests.
“Darcy”—His Lordship nodded to him as he sat down—“didn’t know you were a schoolmate of Sayre.”
“Two years behind, Your Lordship,” he responded as he shook out his napkin and laid it in his lap. Chelmsford answered with an incommunicative “Humph,” which his daughter smoothly covered with a dazzling smile directed at him.
“Papa is second cousin to Lord Sayre, Mr. Darcy.” Lady Felicia’s china blue eyes rested delicately upon him. “His Lordship has often invited Papa to visit, but only this latest invitation came at a convenient time. But I suppose, sir, you have been a frequent guest at this delightful relic?”
“No, my lady, this is my first visit.” At her look of surprise he added, “As in the case of your family, this was the first convenient time.” Her “Ah…” in reply was accompanied by a look suggestive of a shared understanding of his obligations and the sweetest of sympathetic smiles, putting Darcy suddenly in mind of the several times they had danced together. A very agreeable sensation of warmth took hold of him.
“Are you acquainted with all the other gentlemen?” she asked.
Darcy looked down the table. “Yes, all the others are Cambridge men. I have known Sayre since Eton, and his brother, who was a year behind me. Lord Manning”—he indicated the gentleman two away from them—“was in the same class as Sayre; Mr. Arthur Poole, a year behind them; and Viscount Monmouth was in the same class as myself, a year behind that. But of the ladies I am acquainted only with you and Lady Chelmsford.” He smiled, inviting her to enlighten him.
“Well, I am not at all certain that I should introduce them,” she flirted back in the accepted mode, “for then you shall be free to ask them to dance sooner rather than late.” Evidently, Lady Felicia remembered their dancing as well as he did.
“As you say,” he responded. She rewarded his discretion with a low-pitched laugh and turned to indicate the lady directly across the wide expanse of table from him.
“That is my mother’s widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Farnsworth. Her daughter, my cousin, Miss Judith Farnsworth, is seated next to Mr. Poole.” She indicated the young woman with light brown curls arranged à la grec. “Now, Lady Sayre, you must know, is sister to Lord Manning. But you may not be aware that they share a younger sister, the Honorable Miss Arabella Avery, who is seated next to Lord Monmouth.” Darcy nodded as he located the lady, who, upon noticing his gaze, blushed and turned her eyes to her plate.
“Upon my other side there remains only Lady Sylvanie Trenholme, Sayre’s sister.” Darcy’s eyes followed Lady Felicia’s gracefully raised hand to behold the face of one he could describe only as a fairy princess, her black hair and gray eyes a perfect contrast to the guinea-gold goddess beside him.
“I did not know Sayre had a sister,” he confessed in surprise as Lady Felicia turned back to him, effectively blocking his view.
“Nor did most,” she replied. “She is the daughter of Sayre’s father’s second wife and has only just come back from school and an extended visit to her mother’s relatives in Ireland to live at Norwycke Castle. Although she is past the usual age, Sayre intends to present her at Court this Season. I am quite in sympathy with her.” She lowered her eyes from his as she reached for her glass of wine.
“Why so, my lady?” Darcy looked at her curiously. The Lady Felicia of his recent acquaintance had not been one to be concerned overmuch with the problems of other young ladies. Perhaps her engagement to his cousin had relaxed her feelings of rivalry.
“It is said that Sayre wishes her off his hands as soon as possible. There was no love lost between the two brothers and their late stepmama.” She gave a delicate sigh.
“Darcy!” Monmouth boomed from across the table. “Is what Sayre said true?”
“What would that be, Tris?” Darcy turned from Lady Felicia and grinned back at his old roommate.
Tristram Penniston, Viscount Monmouth, leaned his elbows on the expanse before him. “That old George has bought into a regiment somewhere! I don’t credit it, not a bit of it.”
Darcy’s grin faded. “I fear you must. It is true.” A triumphal crow from Sayre caused him to add, “I hope you have not bet on him!”
“He did!” broke in Manning. “I tried to dissuade him—reminded him of the last time he’d placed the ready with Wickham, but would he listen?”
“Which regiment did he join, Darcy?” asked Poole. He waved his fork toward their host. “Sayre bet it would be a flashy one quartered in London for George and nothing else!”
Darcy shook his head and frowned, “No, it is the——th, under Colonel Forster, quartered in Hertfordshire.”
“Never took Wickham for a soldier.” Monmouth sighed. “No stomach for that kind of life that I could detect. Thought he was for the Law. Twenty, was it not, Sayre?”
Darcy grimaced. “He intended to, but he did not find it to his liking.”
“Who would not choose red and gold over black and a silly old wig?” Trenholme offered. “Wickham knows, as does any man, that the ladies go faint with admiration over a uniform. Is that not true, Miss Avery?” he quizzed.
Miss Avery colored alarmingly as the attention of the table centered upon her. She looked helplessly at her brother, whose only encouragement was an irritated frown. “A u-uniform is n-nice,” she stuttered miserably.
“Nice? Bella!” Manning’s withering tone caused Darcy to wince while the others became fascinated with their silver service or wineglasses. “Good Lord, speak up, and stop st——!”
“But she has spoken, my lord, and much to the point!” Lady Felicia smiled gently into the swimming eyes of the very young lady. “A uniform is nice.” She then faced the others, arching one brow. “It makes a plain man smart; a dull man intelligent; and a timid man brave with merely putting it on—at least, in his own estimation!” A chorus of masculine denials mixed with chuckles raised the spirits of the hapless Miss Avery.
“And what will a uniform do for a more talented man, Lady Felicia?” asked Lady Sayre. “I vow, it is more than ‘nice’ work then.”
“Oh, my dear Lady Sayre.” Lady Felicia looked to her hostess. “It is well known that a uniform makes a smart man dashing; an intelligent man a genius; and a brave man a hero in no more time than it takes his batman to brush it and ease him into it.” A new howl went up from the gentlemen, and the ladies were forced to resort to their fans. Darcy smiled approvingly. Her rescue of Miss Avery by the turning of Manning’s embarrassing treatment of his sister into a clever conceit was well and compassionately done. The conversation passed on to other subjects, but Felicia smiled at him briefly before attending to the gentleman on her other side as the servants entered with the next course.
Rediscovering his appetite, Darcy addressed the truly excellent sirloin of beef set before him. It had been hours since the wretched meal at the last posting inn, and he was as ravenous as Sayre had guessed him. For several minutes all Sayre’s guests, as well as the host himself, directed their attention to the sumptuous meal. Gradually conversation resumed, and Darcy observed his old college hall mates as they laughed and ate and downed glass upon glass of Sayre’s good red wine. Of the six of them, only Sayre had married. Darcy had forgotten that his wife was Manning’s sister and had never known that Manning had had another one, younger still. Marriage to a friend’s sister had some advantages, to be sure. As long as the sister was tolerable, he corrected himself, as a vision of Miss Bingley as his bride presented itself. There were several sisters present, it seemed: the exceedingly shy Miss Avery and the fairy changeling, Lady Sylvanie, and one cousin, the fashionable Miss Farnsworth.
A low, intimate laugh from the lady beside him drew him once more to the fact of her presence in the group. Lady Felicia, his cousin’s fiancée. She was certainly beautiful and, he knew, possessed of all the expected accomplishments. Tonight she had shown him that she was possessed of a compassionate nature as well. Had he relinquished his place in her court prematurely? Perhaps he had been wrong in believing she required the admiration of multiple suitors. A flicker at the edge of his vision caught his attention, and he looked down to find that the fringe of her gossamer shawl had fallen across his coat sleeve and was now snagged by his cuff button. She seemed not to have noticed. He reached over and gently disentangled the delicate threads, but not before she discovered him. Her eyes searched out his, and the meaning in their silent expression was not lost on him.
Darcy drew back his hand from the fringe, letting the shawl drop like a veil between them as Lady Felicia murmured her thanks. A number of conversations whirled about him, but his mind seemed locked upon what had just occurred. He picked up his wineglass and partook of a generous amount as he pretended to listen to others. He was no spring lamb; he had a fair comprehension of what Lady Felicia wished him to understand. She, his own cousin’s fiancée, had invited him to embark upon a flirtation.
Such relations were commonplace enough in Society, valued by the participants as well as their families for the political or social advantages they bestowed. That being said, in practice a flirtation provided a safe harbor for those desiring to avoid the intrigue of the marriage mart or relief from the tedious results for those who had succumbed to it. The rules for such things were excruciatingly precise, the limits openly acknowledged; but, Janus-like, the offering of enticements to push against those boundaries was also part of the game.
Darcy’s first experience of this game had occurred at the start of his second year at University. Soon after he had reached the tender age of nineteen, Darcy’s father had called him down to Erewile House from Cambridge upon rumors that a Certain Lady had taken an interest in him. Although their short acquaintance had not progressed to the point of an acknowledged flirtation (frankly, Darcy had not understood then what the lady was about), the un-wisdom of being in her company was represented to him in the strongest terms. Chastened and relieved that he had not joined the ranks of callow cicisbei who were the lady’s preferred quarry, he had returned to Cambridge a bit wiser of the world and correspondingly cautious of the female portion of it.
That predacious lady’s invitation had not been the last that had come his way, to be sure. His wealth, rank, and person had attracted attention from the beginning, and at first, it had been a heady experience to be the object of so much feminine admiration. But the standards he had adopted at his father’s knee, the memory of the loving, respectful example of his parents, and his own native intelligence had succeeded, for the most part, in checking the passions of youth. Oh, he had experienced desire and infatuation several times over. But when the first rush of feeling had passed, its object had unvaryingly been found less than worthy in the structure of her mind, the stricture of her conduct, or his sounding of her depths in the unpredictable sea of female charity. Then, there had been the fortunes his wealth had been meant to restore, the reputations his rank was to make or heal, and the influence his name was to bring to bear. All these expectations and more lay thinly cloaked behind the flutter of a fan, the display of an ankle, or the dip of a neckline. It had become disgusting, and later insulting, when it was borne upon him that who he was, his self, was the least of these ladies’ concerns.
It was at this dismal point in his life that Dyfed Brougham had crossed his path. Already an Earl upon his entrance to University, Dy had experienced the same dissatisfaction with the eligible females of their circle and had retired to the same inn as Darcy to express it by getting stone drunk. The only student in the place at the time, Darcy had looked up from his mug of ale to see a glass and bottle being set down on his table by a fellow who then fell into the seat opposite him and introduced himself wryly as the “Rich Young Earl.” Although they did not precisely get drunk, they managed to relieve each other’s low spirits, finding a kinship of mind, and departed the tavern in support of each other in more than the making of their unsteady way back to their halls. From that point on, it had been agreed between them, the females of the race were of secondary importance and the academic race was begun.
Later, after the death of his father, the responsibilities of Pemberley and the care of Georgiana had weighed heavily upon Darcy, and the foray he had made back into the Polite World after University was cut short. It had been only in the last two years that he had made a concerted effort to return, but he had found the landscape little changed. The faces were different, but all else was as it had ever been. Perhaps it was even worse since the Continental war had claimed so many of Society’s young men, leading to an increasingly desperate competition among the ladies. Again, he had experienced only disappointment. Until…
Darcy flicked a glance at the woman by his side. Lady Felicia was the epitome of what Society deemed perfection in its females of rank. She had contracted a brilliant engagement with his cousin and was destined to become one of their world’s influential ladies. All was before her, if not in her possession already. Yet, this was as nothing! Honor—hers, his, or his cousin’s—was not even a consideration! She desired a flirtation. With him specifically, or would any man at the table serve? Darcy surveyed his fellow guests. If he did not take the bait, would she encourage another? He recalled Alex’s unease after the announcement of his engagement and his inexplicable anger with his brother upon Richard’s teasing. Had he, Darcy wondered, stumbled upon the answer to his cousin’s strange behavior? And further, should he stand silent while the lady made a fool of his cousin?
His quandary rendered the remainder of the meal tasteless, but as his body required sustenance, Darcy worked his way through course after course. After dinner the gentlemen were invited to repair to Sayre’s gun room for their brandy and tobacco while Her Ladyship suggested that the ladies retire to the more feminine environs of a salon in another wing and on the next floor. With a fluttering of fans and gathering of shawls, the ladies rose and curtsied to the gentlemen. They in turn bowed, and Sayre promised that they would not keep the ladies waiting. “For,” he said as the door clicked shut behind them, “I hope to get them all safely to bed as soon as may be, so we can truly begin to enjoy ourselves.” His Lordship’s remark was immediately understood by all, Darcy not excepted. Sayre had been an inveterate gambler at University, his penchant for cards in particular, nearly an addiction. The intervening years had not, it appeared, satiated his hunger for games of chance. It was going to be a late night.
The gun room was, in fact, the old armory of the castle, converted to display its owner’s collection of weaponry, from pike through edge to gunpowder, in an atmosphere conveyed by appointments in keeping with a strictly masculine idea of comfort. The servants awaiting them brought forward the brandy and Scotch and a selection of cigars and cheroots. Waving away the tobacco, Darcy considered the brandy but then passed it by for a smaller glass of port. If they were to gamble, he desired the command of all his faculties. Tonight’s play might begin in cordiality, but it would soon take a very serious turn. Strong drink and tobacco could be dangerously distracting.
“Darcy, have you seen the sabers?” Monmouth called him over to an entire wall of the sword maker’s art. It was a stunning collection. The graceful blades and elegant hilts glinted in the candlelight, practically begging to be lifted free from their display to have their balance weighed and their danger tested. Darcy ran a finger over a particularly lovely one from Spain, its creator’s name a virtual byword for excellence among swordsmen. “A beauty, isn’t it?” Monmouth commented then laughed. “I was present when Sayre won it from young Vasingstoke. His grandfather, the old Baron, tried to redeem it, but Sayre wouldn’t part with it. Cost Vasingstoke a month kicking his heels in the country, as I recall.” Darcy let escape a low whistle. The Baron’s collection was legendary, but even so, this must have been a prized piece.
“Like the look of that saber, do you?” Sayre strolled over to them with unconcealed pride. At Darcy’s nod, he motioned toward it. “Take it up! Tell me what you think.” Almost disbelieving him, Darcy reached up and gingerly freed the saber from its display. The weapon’s hilt seemed to slip into his hand, his fingers closing around it in a perfect fit, the swirling silver bands of the wrist guard accentuating its deadly beauty. He hefted it reverently, flexing the muscles and tendons of his hand and forearm, and slowly thrust it out before him, watching the candlelight play along its length as he tested its exquisite balance.
“Go on, Darcy,” urged Trenholme as the others gathered around. “Show what can be done with the little beauty! My brother never was a swordsman. I’d like to see it as it was meant to be seen—in action!”
Smiling with anticipation, Darcy executed a few simple moves. The blade floated, then slashed through the air, the traditional moves calling forth the weapon’s own distinctive song. Perfect, he thought, or as near to perfection as a thing from the hand of man could be.
“Too tame by half!” Manning sneered.
“Show us more than nursery exercises, Darcy!” called Poole.
Checking his movement, Darcy gently placed the saber on a table and began unbuttoning his coat. With a knowing smile upon his face, Monmouth came behind him and helped pull it from his shoulders. Shaking one arm free, Darcy stripped his other and threw the coat over a chair as he turned back to the blade. It fit into his hand as smoothly as before, and no, he had not dreamed the perfection of its balance. Stepping away from the group and stretching the muscles of his back and upper arms, he swung the saber in increasing arcs.
“He should have an opponent,” Chelmsford observed, but no one made a motion to offer his services. Instead, silence fell as the gentlemen eagerly awaited Darcy’s first move. Darcy drew in several calming breaths as he reviewed the steps of the exercise he had recently developed for himself. It had been well over a week…
He began slowly with classic moves that warmed his muscles and steadily increased the beat of his heart. Then the pace and complexity of the figures increased as well, until the blade was a blur as he advanced and retreated against an invisible foe. The saber responded to his slightest wish, becoming an extension of his body. He pressed himself further.
Shouts of “Well done!” and “Good show!” slowly invaded his concentration. It was time to end. Advancing to his host, he slowed and, with a flourish, threw the saber up into the air. Catching it, he laid it across his crooked arm, offering it hilt first to a wide-eyed Sayre. His Lordship took the weapon with a bow as the rest clapped Darcy upon his back, exclamations of their appreciation echoing from the stone arches of the ancient armory.
“Damn me, Darcy!” Sayre eyed him speculatively. “Thought seven years would have slowed your sword arm. Of course, with such a blade…” He let the thought dangle as Darcy shrugged back into his coat and began on the buttons.
“Out with it, Sayre. ‘With such a blade…’?” Monmouth prodded.
“Just a thought.” His Lordship would not be rushed. “Perhaps, Darcy, you would like an opportunity to acquire the saber?”
His suspicion aroused at such a question, Darcy replied casually, “Are you offering it for sale, Sayre?”
“Oh, no! Not for sale, Darcy!” His host regarded him slyly. “If you would have the saber, you must win it from me!”
The gentlemen entered Lady Sayre’s salon to the sound of a musical duet. The last to enter, Darcy paused in the doorway, for the scene presented for them had been artfully contrived. Lady Felicia sat at the pianoforte with Miss Avery at her side to turn her pages, while Miss Farnsworth stood behind them, drawing a bow across a violin. The music was sweetly plaintive, a popular lament and, with the performers so charmingly grouped, ideally suited to delight the senses.
It was a pleasing sight, Darcy admitted as he found a seat. Veteran as he was of many a drawing room campaign, he was not inured to beauty and grace; and the females present possessed those qualities in full measure. All of them were good-looking women. Lady Chelmsford, the oldest, was still handsome; and her sister, Lady Beatrice, could almost be taken for Miss Farnsworth’s older sister rather than her mother. Lady Sayre had been declared a “stunner” her first Season by members of the fast set who still had entry into Almack’s and had been credited with bringing red hair into fashion. Although six years had passed since her triumph and marriage, her sloe eyes, womanly figure, and pouting, full lips were still more than capable of sending warm shivers down a man’s spine.
Darcy turned his contemplation upon the younger ladies. Miss Avery, Lady Sayre’s much younger sister, was a copy of her but in a different key. She also possessed the Avery hair, but imitated her brother in looking upon the world through grass green eyes. The most obvious difference lay in her manner. Whereas her siblings regarded the world with confidence and complacency, Miss Avery did so with a timidity that revealed a severe doubt as to her welcome. This hesitancy was further exacerbated by her brother’s impatience with her and an unfortunate tendency to stutter. She was very young and impressionable, Darcy noted. Already, her gratitude for Lady Felicia’s intervention during supper had blossomed into worship as she gazed upon the lady playing so charmingly beside her.
Miss Farnsworth, by contrast, was a regal beauty cast in the classical mold. Tall like her mother, she held herself with an easy confidence that bore testimony to her reputation as an accomplished horsewoman and huntress. A veritable Diana, she seemed as if she had just stepped from the forests and fields shouldering Olympus. In that, she was a perfect complement to her cousin. Lady Felicia’s celebrated beauty was all of English cream mixed with Norse ancestry. Sunlight or candle, it did not matter, her hair was gloriously golden and her eyes the clearest blue. As he turned his attention to her performance at the pianoforte, Darcy recalled his enchantment upon their introduction almost one year ago and his subsequent recession of himself from her court several months later. She was beautiful, of that there was no question. Her taste, her air of recherche were exquisite. She was the perfect consort for a man of distinction in the world. But he had relinquished his place in the lists; she was now his cousin’s, and although he could still respond to her beauty, Darcy suddenly found that he was not sorry he had stepped aside. He wanted for a wife and a mistress for Pemberley, not a consort, and especially not one whom he could not trust out of his sight.
Lady Sylvanie was the only one of the young women who was not charmingly grouped for the gentlemen’s appreciation. Quickly surveying the room, Darcy found her half-hidden behind Trenholme’s turned back in a corner of the salon. A heated discussion was obviously in progress as Darcy immediately recognized the signs of a man whose back had been set up. Beverley Trenholme had never been one to handle his emotions stoically. He now wove back and forth, as he habitually did when in agitation, but Darcy could not fault him; for the movement gave him a view of the lady. His first impression of a fairy princess was recalled as he observed her cool disdain for her half brother’s words. Her black hair was plaited into a crown upon her head, although cloudy wisps had come loose and played delicately about an ethereal face. Her smoke gray eyes looked through Trenholme as if he were not even now leaning toward her, intent on making his point. Her gaze seemed focused elsewhere, beyond her brother or within herself, Darcy could not decide. No child’s flower fairy she, he concluded, but one of that more traditional, fearful caste whom men do well to treat with caution.
Knowing he should not attend to a family squabble, Darcy made to look away; but at that moment, Lady Sylvanie’s eyes met his. A slow smile touched her lips. Seeing the change in her expression, Trenholme turned immediately, his features smoothing from their snarl into an embarrassed smile when he beheld the raised brow of her object. Looking over his shoulder, he said something that only caused her to laugh at him before he abruptly left her where she stood. Shuttering her eyes once more, the lady drifted to a chair next to Lady Chelmsford and, without another glance in Darcy’s direction, appeared to give all her attention to the duet.
Finally, the last notes drifted across the salon and were answered with enthusiastic applause from the gentlemen and ladies alike. Darcy added his, but the irrepressible memory of another lady’s performance at the pianoforte tempered his response. As the pair acknowledged their audience’s appreciation, he could not help but contrast their grand curtsies with Elizabeth Bennet’s unaffected one, which had thanked her listeners with such sweet sincerity. Elizabeth’s performance had been no better in execution, he admitted, but her music’s expression had called forth from deep within him a response that Lady Felicia’s performance had been unable to touch. He closed his eyes while the remembered pleasure coursed through him.
A sudden cascade of feminine laughter brought Darcy’s eyes snapping back open, and a flush of heat crept up his neck. Had his lapse been noted? No, it was something Poole had said that had caused the amusement. He closed his eyes again, this time bringing his fingers to work at his temples. Is there nothing that does not bring her to mind, or have you merely lost all your sense? You are here, sir, for an antidote to her charms, not a restorative! He looked up again with purpose at the bevy of eligible femininity before him. Was The Woman who would cure him among them? He sighed lightly, feeling once more the effects of the day’s travel. Perhaps he just needed rest and time to become acquainted. Maybe then She would gently assume the guise of one of the ladies present. He could hope.
“A delightful offering,” Lord Sayre complimented his guests, “as delightful as any I, or these walls, have been privileged to hear, I am sure. Do you not agree, Bev?” He turned to his brother, who by now betrayed no sign of his unsatisfactory interview with Lady Sylvanie.
“A privilege, indeed!” Trenholme agreed and offered his arm to Miss Farnsworth as his brother did to Lady Felicia, escorting her to a divan.
“Shall we have our tea, then?” Sayre looked to his wife. “My lady?”
“Yes, Sayre, I take your meaning”—Her Ladyship gave a delicate snort—“and will not suggest more music for this night.” She arched her brow as she nodded to the servants. “Drink your tea, ladies. The gentlemen have their own plans for tonight.” Murmurs of disappointment issued from the female quarter, answered with nobly phrased apologies from the gentlemen. Darcy accepted his tea and sweets in silence, hoping that Lady Sayre’s little rebellion against her husband’s plans for a night of gambling would gain sway. The thought of a night spent in high-stakes and devil-may-care play was numbing to his travel-weary senses.
“My lady.” Sayre’s voice rose above the others. “Might I suggest that the ladies use this evening’s separation to plan tomorrow’s activities? I promise we shall be at your service whatever you decide. Shall we not, gentlemen?” His offer was enthusiastically seconded by the men and eagerly accepted by the ladies.
“Let it not be a very late night then”—his wife smirked in satisfaction—“or else your promise will be worth precious little on the morrow, my dear.”
Sayre allowed the gentlemen long enough to do justice to his board before excusing them all from the ladies’ gentle company for the sharper air of his library. Mentally arming himself for the battles ahead, Darcy rose with the others and made his bow. The ladies wished them well with sweetly despairing smiles upon their faces.
“Bonne chance, Papa.” Lady Felicia swiftly crossed the salon to Chelmsford, who was standing next to Darcy, and bestowed a soft kiss upon her father’s cheek. It was a pretty picture, and only Darcy’s closeness to the exchange allowed him to observe Chelmsford’s startled response before he checked himself and patted his daughter’s shoulder. Lady Felicia drew back slightly from his gesture as the gathered gentlemen murmured their approval of her display of sentiment. Darcy watched in silence, his mind divided in perplexity.
“A most unfair advantage, Chelmsford,” Monmouth grumbled playfully behind him. “I have no fair lady to wish me well in such a manner.” Chelmsford laughed with the others, but his brow wrinkled slightly as his daughter rose from her curtsy.
Lady Felicia smiled archly at Monmouth. “My Lord, it is true you have no ‘fair’ lady, but if you will soon come to the point, you might then claim the favor of one of another shade.”
“Walked into that one with both eyes open.” Manning snorted above his fellows’ chorus of jibes at the Viscount’s misstep. “Take care, Monmouth!”
“Yes, do take care, my lord, as shall I.” Lady Felicia turned to Darcy, detaining him while the rest of the gentlemen took their leave.
“My lady?” he inquired politely, although the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in warning at the look she gave him. Cerulean pools appealed to him from under lowered lashes as her hand came to rest upon his arm.
“As we are nearly related, Mr. Darcy, allow me to wish you well also.” His incredulity at her forwardness must have shown, or perhaps she felt his arm tremble under her hand; for she arched a brow and smiled. “But perhaps you have no need of wishes,” she murmured, drawing close to his side, “and know your way.”
In a second she was gone, back to the other women, but the warmth of her hand and of the look she had cast him remained. Wheeling abruptly, he left the room, but the churning of his thoughts hampered his long stride. There was no hope of mistake or avoidance; Lady Felicia had made it very clear that a flirtation was not the sum of what she desired of him. My God, poor Alex! The thought brought him to a halt. No wonder he had come near to baring his fists when Richard had teased him. He knew! Had he known of his fiancée’s “propensity” before he made his offer? Surely not! Darcy’s lips pressed themselves into a hard line as he looked back down the hall. Could his aunt and uncle have been so deceived as well? His eyes narrowed. To all her other talents, then, must be added that of consummate actress.
“Darcy!” Monmouth suddenly rounded the corner before him. “Coming, my good lad? I have claimed a seat for you.” His old roommate stopped directly in his path and peered into his face. “Is there a problem? Good Lord, what a scowl!”
Darcy looked back at his roommate in chagrin. “N-no, Tris. Just a very long, blasted day.”
“Oh, good that! Well, what I meant was, good that nothing is wrong.” Monmouth clapped his shoulder. “Come on, then. It will be just like old times—you and I against all comers, eh? Although, I seem to recall, you partnered that other fellow often after our first year. Who was that? Won all the prizes when we graduated.”
“Brougham,” Darcy replied, the memories relaxing his features.
“Ah, yes…Brougham! Earl of Westmarch, isn’t he? Whatever happened to him?”
“Oh, he is still about. Flies with the Melbourne set usually, but I see him now and then.” They had reached the library door, which was opened by yet another richly dressed servant.
“The Melbourne set!” Monmouth whistled. “Then it is not a wonder that I haven’t seen him. M’father would disinherit me if I were ever to—”
“Monmouth, Darcy!” Sayre’s voice boomed out at them. “Hurry along, lads!”
Darcy gazed about him as he came into the room, more curious to behold Sayre’s library than his card tables. In shock he looked from one side of the room to the other. “I thought this was your library, Sayre.”
“It is, old man.” Sayre looked up briefly from the cards he was shuffling.
“Then where are your books?” Darcy motioned to the empty bookcases.
“Sold ’em!” His Lordship replied. “Got a pretty little sum for them, too. Who would have thought anyone would want them enough to pay for them?” He laughed. “Better the ready in my pocket than those old, fusty things doing me no good on the shelf.”
“Sold them! Sayre, were there not some very old manuscripts among the collection?” Darcy looked at His Lordship in amazement.
“Possibly…probably. Had a fellow in to give me a figure who was fool enough to let me see his excitement over what he had found. Got another thousand out of him.” Sayre began to deal the cards. “Shall we begin, gentlemen?”
The last card was turned at three in the morning, and Darcy was thankful that he had been able to hold his own despite his fatigue and come out twenty guineas to the good. Not up to his usual play, he confessed in a yawn, dropping the golden coins on the dresser as Fletcher divested him of his evening clothes.
“Humph!” the valet snorted. “Better play than His Lordship hoped for, I’ve no doubt! Begging your pardon, sir,” he added quickly, before moving to the washing stand to pour out the steaming water from the ewer.
“No, continue, Fletcher,” Darcy encouraged, trying to stifle another yawn. “You have had an entire evening, and I expected you would have formed some opinions.”
The valet carefully replaced the ewer before he turned and cocked his head at his master. “It would have been well with His Lordship if he’d heeded old Polonius, sir. Not only have Lord Sayre’s habits dulled ‘the edge of husbandry’ but they threaten to lose him his patrimony altogether.”
Darcy nodded thoughtfully. “Hinchcliffe told me as much before we left London, and I have seen evidence of it with my own eyes. He has sold off his library, Fletcher!”
“His library, sir?” Fletcher’s face showed only mild surprise. “It stands to reason. Have you seen the gallery yet, Mr. Darcy? The gilt frames have all been removed—sold, I understand—and replaced with wood and paint.”
“‘All that glisters is not gold,’” Darcy thought aloud as he paced the room. Upon reaching the window, he leaned against its frame and stared out into the moonlit night. “I did see his weapons collection, and it is truly impressive. I would venture to say it is untouched.”
“Yes, very true, sir, but according to my information, it is the only part of the Sayre estate either here or in London that has not suffered depredation.”
“Hmm.” Darcy considered Fletcher’s information. “Yet tonight he held out one of his most valued swords as a prize at cards. His losses never reached that point, but—here, what is this?” He straightened and peered out into the darkness.
“Mr. Darcy?” Fletcher joined his master at the window to see a hooded and cloaked figure moving swiftly along the wall of the barren garden before disappearing from sight below them.
“A servant?” Darcy speculated.
“No, sir, not from the swing of the cloak. It speaks of a superior wool, and likely lined as well.” Fletcher’s brow furrowed. “I regret to admit it, but I could not discern with any certainty from the cut or from this angle whether the garment belonged to a man or a woman.”
Despite his curiosity, Darcy could no longer deny the necessity of sleep; his next yawn was so wide even Fletcher heard the crack of his jaw. He was so very tired. It was a miracle that he’d not lost his shirt at the night’s play. The rest of Fletcher’s gleanings would have to wait for the morrow. He drew off his shirt as he walked to the washing stand, toeing off his pumps as he went. Quickly seeing to his ablutions, Darcy accepted his nightshirt from Fletcher and sent him off to his own rest with instructions not to disturb him until noon. The door behind his man had barely clicked shut before Darcy blew out the candles and slid his weary frame between the bedclothes of the stately piece of furniture that was the guest bed. Adjusting the pillows and quilts to his liking, he lay back with a sigh.
Lady Felicia! He almost sat up again with the sudden return of his problem to mind. Had she awaited him long, or had she accepted early that he would never come? Why did she act so warmly? He had detected no great sorrow when he had left her worship those months ago. There had been a short flurry of gossip, as there always was, but they had gone on civilly after, and he had detected no particular sign of regret at his leaving. And what of discovery? Did she have no fear of exposure? Did she so discount his honor or believe Alex so besotted that he would deny the report of his own cousin? Darcy’s eyes drifted shut, his fatigue an irresistible weight. And what was Sayre about? A luxurious house party and satin-clad servants when he was on the verge of bankruptcy? It made no sense! And he was so…very…tired. With a low groan, Darcy rolled over onto his stomach and, pulling a pillow into his embrace, surrendered to the insistent claims of his weary mind and body.
Fletcher’s knock at precisely noon furnished Darcy with reason enough finally to abandon his efforts to draw more rest from his tumbled bed. He never could sleep into the morning, his early-formed habit of rising with the sun warring against the injudicious use of the previous evening. Looking into the sitting room of his suite, he beheld his valet, trailed by a footman with a tray of steaming dishes whose aromas performed a miracle on his perception of the day. A dressing gown was retrieved posthaste, but not before Fletcher had the dishes uncovered and a cup of coffee poured and waiting for him.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Fletcher greeted him quietly. “No other of His Lordship’s guests is stirring, and none of the maids or the gentlemen’s men is to attend before two. You may enjoy your meal at leisure, sir.”
Darcy looked up in surprise from his plates of steak, a rasher of bacon, toast, and cups of boiled eggs. “Two! I suppose I should not be surprised that Sayre keeps Town hours in the country.” He speared a bit of the steak. “Well, Fletcher, what else should I know?”
“The ladies have decided on a sleigh ride this afternoon. They wish to view some standing stones famous in the area. Then, poetry and cards are planned for this evening.”
“Poetry and cards.” Darcy sighed. “It could be worse.”
“Sir, it is incumbent upon me to add that dancing and charades were other items on their list.”
“Charades!” Darcy put down the cup he had just lifted to his lips. “Oh, please, not charades!”
“I am sorry, sir, but there will be charades. The ladies were most insistent on that point.”
“And would you know who the Charade Master or Mistress is to be?”
Fletcher drew himself up. “Of course, sir. It is to be Her Ladyship, Lady Sayre. Lord Sayre has his own plans for later each evening.”
“Gaming,” Darcy stated flatly as he broke off a piece of toast and popped it into his mouth. Fletcher nodded in assent but held his peace. “Thank you, Fletcher. I shall be only a few more minutes here.”
“Very good, sir.” The valet bowed and made for the dressing room while Darcy chewed meditatively on his meal. Charades! Well, there was no help for it; he could hardly ask to be excused. He looked at the clock on the mantel. Plenty of time to dress and write to Georgiana of his safe arrival. Safe arrival, to be sure, but a rather peculiar series of experiences since! Picking up a silver spoon, he rapped the tops of the eggs and carefully removed the cracked pieces, revealing perfectly prepared interiors. Good Lord—charades!
Fletcher’s careful ministrations completed, Darcy occupied the remaining time until his fellow guests should arise with composing a letter to his sister. Such close correspondence as he had heretofore maintained with Georgiana had always made such missives a pleasure, but her new easiness did not aid him in the setting down of his narrative on the ivory sheet before him now. A portion of his difficulty with its composition lay in the nature of their parting. The changes his sister had lately exhibited and the loss of understanding between them caused him to question the suitability of his habitual manner of addressing her. The remainder lay in the somewhat curious conduct of the gathered company as well as in his purpose for being one of their number. How, after all, did one tell one’s sister that one was—what was the abominable phrase?—“hanging out for a wife”?
In the end, he wrote of his misadventures upon the road and favored Georgiana with a short description of his hosts and their other guests, ending with an adjuration to enjoy whatever entertainments their aunt might suggest and to regard Lord Brougham’s advice with the greatest solemnity, no matter in what manner it was given. Sanding down the letter and folding it, he looked about him for his seal, but search as he might, he could not find it among the items in the writing desk. Odd that Fletcher had neglected to notice its absence.
Pushing back the chair, he rose and crossed into the dressing room. It would likely still be in his jewel case, since he had had no use for it upon his journey. Flicking up the clasp, Darcy opened the case, his eyes scanning the interior. Ah, yes, there it was, right next to…The silken threads lay serenely where he had placed them. Bypassing his seal, his fingers hovered over the strands. The temptation to retrieve them and return them to his waistcoat pocket was irresistible. He knew that if he touched them…No! Quickly, he snatched up the seal and snapped the case shut. At all cost, he must stay to his resolve. He returned to his letter and, lighting the wax wick, let fall two drops before stamping it with the seal. Then, affixing the franking wafer, he left it and his seal on the desk for Fletcher to see to. It was now two o’clock, and drawing down his cuffs and waistcoat, he turned toward the door just as a tattoo was rapped upon it from the hall.
“Manning!” Expecting almost anyone else but the Baron, Darcy greeted him with surprise. During their days as hall mates, he and Manning had not gotten on well and, as a consequence, had not kept in touch since the older fellow’s graduation.
“A rack or two of billiards suit you before this afternoon’s expedition?” The Baron’s cool green eyes surveyed him. “I take it you’ve breakfasted.”
Darcy nodded and motioned Manning to lead on. “Your long friendship with Sayre and close relation through Her Ladyship must make you familiar with Norwycke and its environs.”
“I know my way quite well, yes,” Manning replied. “The billiard room, the salons, the dining room, certainly.” Darcy’s companion sent him an appraising glance, then added, “Several of the maids’ chambers are within my scope also should you desire direction.”
“You are too kind,” Darcy murmured back, tamping down firmly on his welling distaste.
“Not at all, Darcy,” Manning rebuffed him as they entered the wood-paneled sanctum that sheltered a grandly carved green baize billiard table.
Darcy followed his companion to a glass-fronted case that displayed a selection of cues, noticing as he passed several patches of discoloration in the paneling. It was only after he had chosen his stick that the shapes of those discolorations suggested an answer to their puzzling presence. Pictures no longer graced the walls, leaving behind their proportions in the darker shade of the paneling they had shielded from the sun. The nails were missing as well, indicating to Darcy that the pieces were not returning. More evidence, he noted while chalking his cue, that Hinchcliffe’s information and Fletcher’s observations had been accurate as usual.
“Do you play billiards with the same intensity as you fence, Darcy? I cannot recall.” Manning’s regard attempted to discompose him. It had been thus between them at University. For reasons known only to him, Manning had amused himself by assuming the role of Darcy’s personal inquisitor. Little that the younger man had done had passed Manning’s notice without disparagement.
“Quarter is neither asked nor given,” Darcy replied evenly, refusing to be goaded.
Manning laughed. “As I anticipated. Single-minded as ever, eh, Darcy?” Darcy met his gaze coolly, the lift of one brow his only response. The Baron laughed again. “But you have learned to school your temper, I see. How long will it last, I wonder?” He lifted the rack and motioned expansively. “I offer you the break, sir. Make of it what you can.”
The solid crack of the break was particularly gratifying to Darcy, as was the explosive curse of his opponent once the balls came to rest.
