by Jaide Fox
With an effort, he turned his thoughts elsewhere, but his encounter with Bronte plagued his thoughts throughout the remainder of the day. Finally, beleaguered almost beyond bearing, he decided to go out to his club for the evening to find something to occupy his mind. Without a great deal of surprise, he found Darcy already ensconced at the table they generally occupied. As he arrived, Darcy flung his hand on the table and got up.
"My luck's out tonight. Think I'll take a turn outside and try again,” he muttered, departing without once glancing in Nick's direction or acknowledging his presence.
One of the men at the table laughed. “You know what they say about luck."
Nick's eyes narrowed as he watched Darcy stride from the room.
The game broke up shortly after Darcy's departure and the players got up and drifted off. Nick took a seat, summoned the waiter to bring him a drink and a new deck of cards and settled back in his chair, thinking.
As they had all day, his thoughts drifted to Bronte once more. His body reacted instantly and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wondering if he should simply give in his body's demands and make a trip to his favorite brothel.
His body promptly cooled, and he frowned, vaguely irritated. He felt an odd sense of disquiet also, though he couldn't quite put his finger on just what it was that was bothering him.
When the waiter had brought his drink, he sipped it, musing, idly shuffling the cards. Finally, he decided the disquiet was centered around Bronte. He just wasn't entirely sure why he felt the uneasiness. She'd seemed quiet when he'd left her, but he'd felt her come. There was certainly nothing unusual about being lethargic afterward.
A couple of his acquaintances drifted over to the table and suggested a game.
He nodded absently, settling back in his chair to finish his drink while one of the men went in search of a fourth. He returned some time later with Darcy.
Nick glanced up at Darcy as he took a seat across from him.
Darcy's gaze skated away. He lifted his hand, summoning a waiter, and ordered another round of drinks.
Nick frowned, passing the deck of cards to the man beside him, who dealt them. “I haven't seen you in a couple of days,” he murmured, his gaze on Darcy.
The two men on either side of him glanced at him and then at Darcy. Darcy looked up, a frown on his face. “What?"
Nick arched one dark brow. “Preoccupied?"
Darcy stared at him blankly for several moments, a red tide slowly climbing his throat to his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “No. I just didn't hear you,” he growled irritably, focusing on his hand. He discarded a couple of his cards. “Two."
"It's not your turn."
"Oh. What were you saying, Nick?"
Nick studied him for several moments feeling an unaccustomed sense of violence invade him. “I don't suppose you've seen Bront—Lady Dunmore recently?"
"Saw her this morning. Why?” Darcy asked challengingly.
"What time?” Nick asked coldly.
Darcy shrugged. “Noonish, I guess."
The two men glanced up quickly at the scrape of Nick's chair as he rose abruptly. “If you'll excuse us, gentlemen?” Nick murmured, coolly polite. “Might I have a word with you, Darcy?"
Darcy's eyes narrowed. “Something private?"
"Precisely. Outside."
Darcy led the way. The moment he'd cleared the door, he turned on Nick. “What?"
Nick's fist slammed into his face so hard he staggered back several steps. Regaining his balance, he let out a roar of rage and charged Nick, catching him around the waist and slamming him into the back of the building. Briefly, they tussled before they separated.
Darcy managed to catch Nick across the jaw. The blow jerked his head to one side, throwing him off balance and out of the path of Darcy's second flying fist, which struck the wall instead.
Letting out a growl of rage and pain, Darcy stepped back, trying to sling feeling into his hand. Nick recovered first, slamming his fist into Darcy's belly hard enough to double him over.
They'd been slugging it out for a good fifteen minutes when a whistle sounded close by, entirely too close for comfort. They froze, one fist raised, the other grasping a throat. “The watch,” Darcy gasped.
Nick swore. Releasing Darcy's throat abruptly, he brushed at his clothing, straightening his jacket as he strode purposefully toward the gate on the opposite side of the club's garden. Combing his fingers through his hair, Darcy followed him.
They turned to glare at one another once they were on the street.
"Exactly what the hell was that all about?"
"Later. I'd as soon not meet up with the watch, thank you."
* * * *
"If you'll pardon my saying so, sir, that is tomorrow's dinner,” Kingsley said as he reached the door and opened it, thus assured he had a rapid escape if Darcy didn't take the hint well.
Darcy raised up far enough to glare at his manservant through his good eye. “Then send someone round to the butcher in the morning for another roast,” he growled irritably. “Can no one around here do any damned thing without having to be told?"
Relieved that Darcy had taken it so well, Kingsley allowed a smile and bowed himself out, deciding not to point out that, as the master of the household, it was his place to tell everyone what he wanted done, or at least those servants whose job it was to belay the message to the lower staff.
Darcy lay back again, but he realized fairly quickly that he wasn't going to be able to get comfortable on the couch. It was just too damned short. He sat up again, deciding to go bed. His head was pounding. He doubted very much that he'd be able to sleep, but there didn't seem to be much point in staying up.
Pulling the slab of raw meat from his eye, he blinked it a few times to try to get rid of the blurriness and finally gave up and left the salon, climbing the stairs to his rooms. His manservant, he discovered, was in the process of tidying up his room.
Pleased to see the man where he was needed for once, Darcy sprawled in a chair and summoned him to remove his boots.
"You will be retiring, sir?"
"I can't go out looking like this,” Darcy muttered.
"No, sir,” Kingsley agreed. “I'm sure it would distress the ladies. If I might offer a word of advice?"
"What?” Darcy asked, wondering if Kingsley knew of something that might relieve the swelling.
"Next time, duck."
Darcy's one good eye narrowed. “Are you trying to be humorous, Kingsley?"
"No, sir. I have no sense of humor,” Kingsley said promptly.
"Well, spare me your advise."
Kingsley nodded and fell silent. When he'd helped Darcy into a robe, he hesitated. “You haven't taken to boxing the watch?"
"I'm a little old for that particular form of entertainment."
Kingsley nodded. “Perhaps you should give up boxing? I must say, it doesn't seem to be your forte, and if you're to be confined to your quarters to nurse a black eye on a weekly basis you will have some difficulty pursuing that young lady who's caught your eye, won't you, sir?"
Darcy studied him for several moments. “How do you know I'm pursuing a young lady?” he finally asked, curious.
Kingsley smiled thinly. “Oh, if you'll forgive my saying so, sir, I can always tell when you're on the hunt."
"Well, I'm not!"
Kingsley's brows rose. He nodded, forbearing comment.
"At least ... this is different."
"If you say so, sir."
"I do say so, damn it!"
"Very good, sir. Will that be all, then?"
"Yes. Go away. Wait! Have you got anything for a blinding headache?"
"I believe we have some laudanum, sir."
Darcy shuddered. “Never mind. Wait! Why do we have laudanum? I never touch the stuff."
"Your mother suggested it, sir."
"In my household?” Darcy demanded indignantly.
"It was outrageous, sir, but what else was I to do?"
"I expect that's at Mr. Cain's lodgings, sir."
"Oh."
He discovered when he'd climbed beneath the covers that the bed wasn't nearly as comfortable as the one he was used to. Sighing irritably, he lay back against the pillows, wondering what the hell had gotten into Nick lately. His head was pounding so ferociously, however, that he found he was having difficulty concentrating.
He wasn't wrong about being able to sleep. Except for the very few times in his life that he'd been sick, or wounded, he hadn't been to bed before two or three AM since he'd attained adulthood and gotten his own rooms.
Several hours passed while he lay with his eyes closed, holding the meat to his throbbing cheek. Slowly, the throbbing in his eye and cheek subsided and the thundering in his skull became a distant storm. Climbing out of bed again, he poured him a nightcap and sprawled in his chair.
Kingsley was right, damn him. His face was bound to look worse tomorrow than it did now, which meant he wasn't going to be able to stick his nose out for at least a couple of days unless he wanted to answer some damned uncomfortable questions. If he hadn't known better, he would've suspected Nick had done it for just that reason.
He considered that for several moments and finally decided he could absolve Nick of such an underhanded trick. After all, Nick was bound to know he would almost certainly be in the same boat.
Which meant that Nick hadn't spent a lot of time considering the situation.
It was so unlike Nick to act impulsively that Darcy examined that conclusion for several moments before he finally decided that he was right. The fact that Nick had engaged him in a bout of fisticuffs right outside the club bore that conclusion up. They hadn't done anything like that in years.
But what had put Nick into such a rage that he hadn't taken the time to consider his next move?
He'd been distracted. He hadn't really been paying that much attention because he hadn't been able to get his mind far from his aching balls or his throbbing cock since he'd visited Bronte earlier in the day.
Nick had asked about Bronte, though, just before he'd gotten that look on his face and asked to speak to him outside. Once he remembered that, it didn't take him more than a second to figure out the rest.
He glared at the liquid in his glass, more than half tempted to dress and go over to Nick's and resume the conversation. After a little thought, however, he decided he was too damned sore. Besides, he was going to be tied to his rooms for a couple of days as it was. God only knew what sort of mischief that pack of horny bastards that were after Bronte would be up to in the mean time.
Downing the last of his drink, a smile of satisfaction curled his lips as a thought occurred to him.
He could be reasonably certain Nick wouldn't be running with that pack. He'd managed at least two well placed facers.
Chapter Eleven
Sunday's roast did a better job on his swollen, bruised face than Darcy had expected. He wasn't particularly pleased with the effect the powder Kingsley produced had, however. To his mind, it looked a bit too ghoulish to his taste. With resignation, he settled in for another day and night of utter boredom.
By the following day, however, he decided most of the swelling had gone down. The bruising still looked like hell, but he could see out of both eyes.
The powder still looked ghoulish, but he dabbed a little on anyway, deciding it would at least make him look better from a distance. As long as he didn't get close enough for anyone to get a really good look at him he didn't think he would raise any eyebrows.
He was chagrined to discover Nick leaving as he arrived at Bronte's house. Deciding to ignore the provocation, he nodded politely, strode past him without a word and climbed the stairs to the stoop.
The butler answered the door after a few moments. Three fairly sizable footmen stood just behind him. “I'm here to see Lady Dunmore."
"I'm afraid Lady Dunmore isn't at home to visitors at the moment."
Darcy frowned. “Just tell her it's Mr. St. James."
"I'll tell her ladyship that you called. Good day, sir."
Darcy glared blankly at the door as it was closed in his face. After a few minutes, when the butler didn't return, he knocked again. The butler looked even stiffer this time. “Did you give her my message?"
"Her ladyship is indisposed, sir."
The door was shut again.
Darcy was on the point of pounding on the door for the third time when it occurred to him that maybe Bronte was indisposed. Shrugging, he turned and went down the steps once more, deciding he would see if he could find some little trinket to send her to cheer her up.
Nick was waiting for him when he reached the sidewalk once more.
They eyed one another speculatively.
"I see you had no more luck than I,” Nick said finally.
Darcy glanced toward the house. “The butler said she was indisposed."
"She looked fine the last time I saw her."
Darcy glared at him. “And when would that be?"
"None of your damned business."
While they were eyeing each of measuringly, a coach pulled to a stop nearby and Lord Smythe stepped out. Straightening his jacket, he nodded to them pleasantly and strode past them and up the walk.
Darcy and Nick turned to watch. The door opened. Lord Smythe was ushered inside.
Darcy and Nick exchanged a look.
"I saw three footmen besides the butler. I think I can take two of them,” Darcy said musingly.
Nick seemed to think it over. Pulling his pocket watch out, he checked the time and replaced it. “I'm more inclined to have a discussion with Smythe when he comes out."
Darcy frowned. “On her front lawn?"
"Not that kind of discussion,” Nick said dryly.
"Well, excuse me all to hell, but it's just about the only kind of conversations you and I have been having lately. I thought maybe you'd decided to eschew verbal conversation all together."
Nick studied him in silence for several moments. “I seem to recall that it was you who instigated our first ‘discussion'."
Precisely fifteen minutes later, Lord Smythe exited the house and started down the walk. Nick stepped into his path. “I do believe he cut me,” he said coolly. “What do you think, Darcy?"
"Oh, it was definitely a cut. Walked right past you without so much as a howdydo. I'd be insulted."
"I believe I am,” Nick drawled.
Lord Smythe stopped dead in his tracks, glancing from Nick to Darcy and back again. “I beg your pardon?"
"And well you might. I've got a good mind to call him out myself, Nick. I'm pretty sure he cut me, too. In fact, I know he did."
Nick slid a glance at Darcy. “You'll have to demand satisfaction later. I called it first. Sword? Or pistols, Smythe?"
Smythe paled. “Uh ... I beg your pardon, Mr. Cain, Mr. St. James. No cut was intended, I assure you. I had my mind on.... “He studied their stony faces for several moments, swallowing convulsively. “A trip,” he said on sudden inspiration. “I'm about to leave town and I had my mind on all those last minute details. I'm sure you know what I mean. I only came by to pay my respects to Lady Dunmore and her mother. I hadn't realized I'd given you the cut direct. I assure you that wasn't my intention at all."
Nick considered the explanation. “I presume, since you were so preoccupied, that this is to be a fairly extended trip?"
Smythe was sweating by now. “Oh ... a couple of weeks?"
Nick and Darcy conferred silently.
"You did say you were leaving tomorrow?” Nick asked pensively.
Smythe gaped at him. “I believe I did. Yes. Tomorrow."
Nick smiled thinly. “In that case, I'm pleased to accept your apology."
"For myself, I'm thinking three weeks would be healthier."
/> "It could take that long,” Smythe said nervously.
Darcy grinned. “Good, because I'm thinking it's going to take me at least three weeks to get over being snubbed on a public street."
"I didn't think he'd go for it,” Darcy said with disgust as he watched Smythe climb into his carriage.
"A pity."
Darcy shrugged, glancing at Nick with a touch of satisfaction as Smythe drive off. “How many more, you think?"
Nick was staring thoughtfully at the departing coach. “I shouldn't think the ones hanging out for a rich wife will be too difficult to discourage. I make it four—last count."
Darcy frowned. “You think there's any chance Smythe will mention it?"
"One can always hope,” Nick murmured, turning to look up at Bronte's house. He smiled faintly when he saw a curtain twitch upstairs. He tipped his hat.
Grinning, Darcy bowed.
"Where are your off to then?” he asked, turning to Nick.
Nick studied him thoughtfully for several moments. Finally, his lips tightened in annoyance. “I'd thought the club might be the best place to run into some of the others, but it occurs to me that we might not be welcome at the moment."
Darcy frowned. “The boxing salon's out, too."
"In that case, I believe I'll return to my rooms and sift through the mail for invitations."
"I might as well go with you."
Nick eyed him speculatively. “I suppose you might."
After perusing the invitations for a few hours and debating the merits of each, they finally decided three of them had potential. Darcy departed for his rooms to look through his own mail to see if he'd gotten anything that looked more promising and to change into evening attire. He'd been pacing the floor for an hour before Nick arrived in his coach to pick him up.
"I'd begun to think you'd given me the slip,” Darcy said irritably when he'd settled inside.
Nick merely sent him a cool glance. “It didn't occur to you, I suppose, that to arrive too early is simply not done?"
