by Pamela Aidan
“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.
Chapter 7
The Frailty of Woman
Although he would much rather have met and prevailed over his challenger, Darcy derived some small satisfaction from the fact that he had played Manning to a draw before they were called away to join the other guests. It was really quite ridiculous, he chided himself as he brushed down his buckskin riding breeches, but the underclassman who yet lurked in his soul and had suffered innumerable stings at Manning’s hands could not help but rejoice a little.
The afternoon’s expedition to a local sample of the mysterious stone circles that dotted the countryside had been enlivened by Lord Sayre’s offer of mounts to those who wished to ride rather than sleigh. Therefore, with the partial success against his old antagonist behind him and the prospect of an afternoon out in the elements before him, Darcy strolled across the castle’s courtyard with a lighter heart than he had experienced in some time. His crop tucked under one arm and his beaver at a jaunty angle, he was pulling on his riding gloves when he arrived just in time to catch an exclamation by Miss Farnsworth on the perfection of the weather.
“You think it ‘fine,’ Judith?” Lady Chelmsford addressed her niece in disbelief. “Fine for what, pray, besides freezing one to the bone?”
“It is not so very cold, Aunt,” Miss Farnsworth answered in an amused voice, “and you are to ride in a sleigh with hot bricks, after all. I do not think Lord Sayre would allow that you freeze, ma’am.”
Darcy raised a hand to his eyes as he looked up into a bright, crystal blue sky. He had to agree with Miss Farnsworth; it was a beautiful day. The air was chill, but the sun’s rays were warm on his upturned face. Although, truth be told, the sleigh was not inviting. He would much rather ride than —
“I, for one, would rather ride on such a day.” Miss Farnsworth echoed Darcy’s thoughts. “And am grateful to Lord Sayre for the opportunity to do so.” She turned from her aunt to smile at the gentlemen in the group and must have detected some sign of approval on Darcy’s face, for she paused. “I see you agree with me, Mr. Darcy. You must lend me support, sir.”
“But you are such an Amazon, my dear,” Lady Felicia interposed with a smile of condescension at her cousin. “Always chasing about the countryside. You must make allowances for the less hardy of our sex, who have no wish to compete with the gentlemen in what is their natural sphere.” She turned to Darcy. “Mr. Darcy was merely amused.” A look of surprise and pain passed fleetingly across Miss Farnsworth’s face, but not before it had summoned up a wave of indignation in Darcy’s breast. So this was how it was to be! With a precise coldness he stepped round Lady Felicia and offered his hand to her cousin.
“May I assist you to horse, Miss Farnsworth?” he inquired.
“You are very kind, Mr. Darcy.” She accepted and, with his assistance, sprang lightly into the sidesaddle, expertly gathering up the reins.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” He allowed himself a slight smile. Miss Farnsworth was a pleasing picture in her smart riding habit, and her confident, easy air upon a strange horse could not but elicit admiration. “I second your sentiments and choose to ride as well. Gentleman or lady, one can enjoy the prospects of the country far better from the back of a horse.”
“I have always thought it so.” She smiled back at him, inclining her head in thanks.
Darcy returned her courtesy and turned back to the other gentlemen. Monmouth and Trenholme had also elected to ride, and as their mounts were being led into the courtyard for them, Darcy swung up upon the rangy bay that was handed to him. The animal seemed biddable enough, but as he settled into the saddle and checked the stirrups, he could not help but wish for Nelson underneath him. Satisfied that all was in order, he looked on as the other guests arranged themselves in two sleighs and noticed the absence of one of their number. Nudging the bay forward, he inquired, “Is Lady Sylvanie not joining us, Trenholme?”
“Oh, no,” he replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm, “Her Ladyship does not deign to accompany us ‘to gawk at stones.’ Didn’t favor the idea from the start, from what Letty — Lady Sayre — says. So, since she could not carry her point, she does not come. Insufferable little —”
“Bev!” Lord Sayre’s voice snapped through the crisp air as he approached them. “Please excuse the interruption, Darcy,” he said, smiling deprecatingly, “but my brother is misinformed, as is often the case with siblings.” He reached up and laid a hand on Trenholme’s wrist, gripping it tightly before turning back again to look up at Darcy. “Lady Sylvanie is indisposed. Just moments ago her maid informed me that she is suffering from a sick headache, brought on, most likely, by the spiced apple torte at supper. It is always so when she eats anything containing cinnamon, but she was so far tempted last night that she partook of a bite. Alas” — he sighed sympathetically — “that was all that was needed to bring it on.” Sayre released his hold upon his brother. “But do not fear, Darcy, she will be recovered by the time we return, I am certain.”
Darcy nodded and signaled his mount to back up, then turned him to join Monmouth and Miss Farnsworth in awaiting the beginning of the expedition. Finally, the occupants of the sleighs were ready, and the drivers set their pairs in motion. When the horses put shoulders to harness, the jerk of the sleighs caused squeals of laughter to arise from the ladies. Exclaiming prettily, Lady Felicia fell against Manning as the sleigh jerked again, freeing the runners from ice that had already formed under them. Darcy could not, for his cousin’s sake, like the knowing expression on Manning’s face as he helped her to rights. But the lady had initiated the exchange, and he reminded himself that he did not stand in the place of her father or her fiancé. If Chelmsford would not rein in his daughter…
The sleighs lumbered out of the courtyard, but after they’d scraped and rumbled over the drawbridge, their speed and grace were revealed. The runners sighed as the teams drew the sleighs, scissoring through the glistening snow beside the packed track on which the riders now urged their mounts. It was, truly, a glorious winter day! The surge of pleasure, almost joy, which Darcy felt in it surprised him. As if reading his mind, his horse shook its head vigorously and snorted its approval of the path stretching before them, seeming to beg his indulgence in a proper gallop. Laughing at its honest enthusiasm, he allowed the horse to break into a faster gait, but it was not long before Monmouth and Miss Farnsworth were beside him.
“Ho there, Darcy!” Monmouth hailed him. “Your beast has got the rest all clamoring for a run.” He flicked his glance meaningfully toward Miss Farnsworth.
“Do not
hold back for my sake, gentlemen.” She answered his implication a bit stiffly. “I daresay I could keep up with you.”
“Miss Farnsworth!” Monmouth protested. “I have no doubt of your horsemanship with your own cattle and in good weather, but under the conditions, ma’am —”
“A trifle, I assure you, my lord.” Miss Farnsworth laughed and urged her horse past them, but it was evident that she was somewhat piqued at his concern. Monmouth shrugged his shoulders at Darcy and Trenholme, then laid crop to flank. His action startled his mount, which responded with a sideways jump. Man and horse recovered, but the rider’s action had not pleased his beast. In a moment, Monmouth’s horse had worked the bit between his teeth and was off.
“Tris!” Darcy bellowed as Monmouth’s horse made a dash for the lead. Miss Farnsworth’s mount, disliking the commotion of voices and hoofbeats approaching from behind, laid back its ears and swung its hindquarters out into the middle of the path, contesting the way. Foreseeing serious consequences if she were left to her own devices, Darcy set his heels into his own animal, hoping he could reach the lady before the inevitable.
“Watch out! Out of the way!” yelled Monmouth as he sawed at the reins to no avail. Miss Farnsworth looked over her stylishly clad shoulder to see the Viscount bearing down upon her at a reckless speed. Her face turned white, and she immediately began pulling on her reins, urging her mount over with a generous application of her crop. This action did not sit well with the animal, who not only ignored all her commands but began to engage in a series of tight hops that positioned its hindquarters for a concerted defense of its lead position.
Monmouth’s horse swung to the right, determined to pass the other, who was equally determined it should not. As he drew near, Miss Farnsworth’s horse neighed out a warning and bunched its muscles. In a flash, the animal flung a well-aimed kick, causing Monmouth’s beast to stumble and scream out in anger.
