by Pamela Aidan
“As you wish, my lady.” He bowed to her again, and with a last smile at him, she passed out of the room.
“Shall we retire momentarily, gentlemen,” Sayre asked, “and meet in the library in a half hour?” He looked round as they nodded and bowed their leave. “Good, good! I wonder shall we come to playing for that sword tonight, Darcy?”
“That is for you to decide, Sayre,” Darcy replied absently, still somewhat entranced by his last view of the lady.
“Then perhaps it may be tonight. We shall see, shall we not?” His Lordship rubbed his hands together. Darcy bowed his leave and headed to his chambers for more comfortable attire in which to engage in the battles of chance that would end the evening.
His mind still occupied with review of the evening’s pleasures, he arrived at his door, entered by his own hand, and progressed to the dressing room before he even noticed Fletcher’s absence. The candles were almost guttered out, although fresh ones were lined up neatly beside each candleholder. Clothes for the evening’s gambling were laid out, as were a comfortable pair of shoes. All, indeed, was in readiness, but of Fletcher there was no sign. Even a call down the backstairs from the dressing room elicited no response. Darcy shut the door to the stairs and strode to the nearest branch of candles. He quickly replaced the near-spent ones with fresh and, grasping the base, turned to an examination of the dressing room. Everything was in Fletcher’s meticulous order, down to the placement of his hairbrush and comb upon the dresser.
Uncomfortable with the absence of his valet, Darcy put the branch of candles down upon a nearby table with a disturbed frown and began to pull at the knot of his neckcloth. Perhaps he had been unwise to send Fletcher on the scent of whoever had done the bloody deed at the King’s Stone. The man was a wonder at gathering information, but the hand behind that abomination would hardly be free with the details. Given the violent evidence, he might well have foolishly put Fletcher in danger.
“Damn and blast!” he exploded, the curse directed at his careless use of an excellent man as well as the knot that man had tied about his neck. He went to the mirror and began again on the knot. “Patience, Darcy,” he reminded himself and was rewarded with the knot coming loose. He unwound it and flung it off, his coat and waistcoat following, although not without some trouble and a few heated observations on the intelligence of the fellow who had decreed that men’s attire should fit so closely. Returning to the dresser, he pulled at his fobs, unpinned them and put them down on the table, and toed off his pumps. He looked again at the door to the backstairs, but no sound issued from behind it of steps, either hurried or labored. He shed his breeches and sent them to join his coat. Sitting down on the shaving chair, Darcy pulled on the pair of trousers that had been laid out for him and then rose to button them. He glanced again at the door, willing Fletcher to be on the other side, but it remained as it was. He sighed in consternation. There seemed to be nothing for it but to continue on to the library.
Lacking only his shoes and a waistcoat, Darcy walked over to where Fletcher had laid them and slipped his foot into a shoe as he reached for the waistcoat. A crinkling sound greeted his ears, and something was definitely preventing him from seating his foot properly. He leaned down, scooped off the shoe, and brought it closer to the candlelight. There, wedged into the toe, rested a piece of paper. He pulled it out and, laying it under the light, quickly smoothed the creases and read:
Mr. Darcy,
Sir, if you are reading this note I have not yet returned from pursuing the explanation for a Curious Occurrence that may have some bearing on your concerns. I set your coat sleeve to soaking in the washing room belowstairs immediately upon your departure for supper and before I had set the dressing room to rights. When I returned abovestairs, I found that your brush and comb were not where they had been left. What this may portend, I cannot yet say, but I intend to find out! I have made myself agreeable to His Lordship’s staff and am regarded with some awe by the ladies’ maids and my fellow valets. (The fame of the Roquet has spread even to Oxfordshire!) That is, except for One, whom I shall watch tonight very closely. I hope to be back in attendance on you, sir, when your time with the gentlemen this evening is concluded and with Something of Value to disclose.
Your very obedient servant,
Fletcher
With some relief, Darcy picked up the note and crumpled it before taking it to the bedroom and tossing it into the fire. The flames licked greedily at the titbit, reducing it to ash in seconds while he watched. So, someone had been in his rooms! Evidently nothing was missing; Fletcher would have known immediately if anything was gone. But why had the intruder come if not to steal something, and then left after merely handling Darcy’s hairbrush? And how had Fletcher come to suppose a connection between his hairbrush, of all things, and his discovery at the King’s Stone? He walked back into the dressing room and finished readying himself for the night of gambling below. He would have to clear his mind of these matters if he were to return to these rooms unscathed by tonight’s play; and loath as he was to appear to succumb to Sayre’s enticement, he would very much like to win that exquisite sword. Darcy blew out most of the candles, leaving a few burning against Fletcher’s return and, with a fervent wish that they should both have some luck tonight, left his chambers.
“Mr. Darcy! Mr. Darcy, sir!” Fletcher’s urgent voice and a tentative jab at his shoulder brought Darcy straight up in the chair with a start.
“Fletcher!” he began groggily, but a yawn interrupted him. “Where the devil have you been? What time is it?”
“It lacks a quarter until three, sir,” Fletcher returned apologetically. “I beg your pardon, but it could not be helped. You found my note, sir?”
“Yes.” Darcy rose from the hard chair he had chosen to ward off sleep and stretched until several joints protested with loud cracks. “In my shoe! Singular place to leave it!” Staving off another yawn, he motioned to the dresser. “Now, what is this about? ‘A round, unvarnish’d tale,’ if you please!”
“As I wrote in the note, sir…When I had returned from the laundry, I found that your brush and comb had been moved. It was clear to me that some person or persons had wantonly invaded your privacy.” Fletcher’s face was heavy with the import of his words. “Mr. Darcy, what would someone want with your hairbrush?”
“I cannot imagine, Fletcher,” Darcy responded dryly before succumbing to the insistent yawn, “and I do not wish to play at Questions at a quarter until three in the morning.” He leaned over and poured a glass of water from the bedside carafe.
“A charm, sir.”
“What!” The water spilled over the rim of the glass as Darcy looked up in sharp surprise. “A charm! Are you serious?”
“Never more so, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher returned his incredulous look grimly. “Whoever invaded your rooms was looking for something with which to fashion a charm. Strands of hair from your brush served the purpose quite nicely, but I fear that was not all that was taken.” Fletcher paused, his jaw working in consternation before continuing. “I believe, although I am not certain, that the cloth with which I stanched the blood from your shaving cut two nights ago is also missing.”
“Good Lord!” Darcy breathed as he sank down on the edge of the bed. Yesterday morning he would have dismissed such a theory with contempt; but after the events of the day, it made eminent sense. It was of the same nature as the abomination at the Stones. Against whom that horror had been directed he could not say with certainty, but of this there was no doubt that he was the target!
“Just so, sir,” Fletcher responded, his eyes sympathetically meeting Darcy’s as a man with his friend. “In truth, a ‘thing of darkness.’”
Hot indignation swept through Darcy’s chest. That anyone should think to control his fate, whether by natural or by unnatural means, galled him to the very core of his being. So it had been with Wickham, the incessant maneuvering and pressing, and so it was in this. That the origin of the “power” called upon in this a
ttempt to compel him to bend to another’s will was diabolical he counted as nothing more than evidence of the perversity of the mind from which it had sprung. It was the intent behind it that angered him to the quick.
He shot up from the bed; and with jaw hard-set and eyes dangerously narrowed, he walked the length of the room. “Of this detestable thing, I, then, am the object.” He stopped at the door to the dressing room and peered intently at his brush and comb lying atop the dresser before swinging abruptly back to Fletcher. “But who is our Prospero, and what does he hope to achieve with this? What does he want from me?”
Fletcher broke the momentary silence that had descended after his master’s last question. “Sir, I would venture that there are two likely possibilities. The first is —”
“Money!” Darcy finished the sentence. “It takes no excess of intelligence to apprehend the dire need for coin at Norwycke Castle. But are you asking me to believe that Sayre is behind this?”
“I made no accusations, sir!” Fletcher shook his head. “I have no proof against His Lordship or his brother.”
“Trenholme! Now there is a piece of work!” Darcy considered him with disgust. “But he was vilely drunk at supper and needed assistance to remove himself to his rooms.”
“Or appeared so,” Fletcher added thoughtfully. “But I say again, I have no charge to make against him or his valet, except for lack of attention to what is due his profession. That young man has nearly been my shadow ever since we arrived. Wants for sense, that one. To think I’d freely reveal my skills…” He sniffed with disdain.
“Neither Sayre nor Trenholme wants for sense, and this business exhibits none!” Darcy interrupted his valet’s fall into professional pique. “How should a trumpery charm ‘charm’ enough of my resources from me to stave off the losses and debts Sayre has incurred? He must know, the others, too, for that matter, that I never gamble to excess. Does our Prospero think to influence me to make him a gift of Pemberley with a bit of blood and hair?”
“More than ‘a bit’ of blood, sir, from your description!” At Fletcher’s arched brow, Darcy stopped his pacing.
“The King’s Stone!” Darcy’s eyes widened. “Could this be what that was about as well?”
“It is possible, Mr. Darcy, certainly; or it may be something else entirely. But I do believe that the similarities between them indicate the same hand or hands.”
Darcy nodded his silent agreement with Fletcher’s speculation, but its usefulness appeared to him to be limited. “The other possibility…?” He let the question dangle.
A flush spread over Fletcher’s face at Darcy’s question, and after clearing his throat, he offered tentatively, “The other, ahem, the other possibility is that it is a…ah, love charm, sir.”
“A love —!” Darcy choked and drew breath for a swift and vehement rejection.
“Mr. Darcy, I beg you, do not discount it.” Fletcher put up his hands to forestall his master’s ire. “I have made some inquiries among the ladies’ maids — discreet inquiries, sir,” he added quickly at the affronted look Darcy gave him, “and it seems that most of the unwed females at Norwycke Castle are…well…on the hunt, so to speak, sir.”
“That information is not in the nature of a revelation, Fletcher,” Darcy replied tersely. “The contrary would be more curious!”
“True, very true, sir, but it is the desperation of the hunt that catches one’s attention.” The valet paused, waiting for Darcy’s permission to continue on this delicate subject.
“Go on.” Darcy sighed.
“The unfortunate Miss Avery has had two unsuccessful Seasons,” Fletcher began, ticking off a finger. “Lord Manning has given up hope in that venue, holding Miss Avery’s shyness to blame, and is now trotting her around to the notice of his various moneyed acquaintances. If an offer is not forthcoming within a year, she will be packed off to a small estate in Yorkshire to live out her days in obscure spinsterhood.
“The next,” he continued, ticking off a second finger, “is Miss Farnsworth. Lady Beatrice is beside herself with anxiety that her daughter’s headstrong temperament will land her in disgrace or make her repugnant to any man of position or reputation. The sooner Miss Farnsworth weds and is under a husband’s control, the sooner Lady Beatrice may wash her hands of her and, by the way, concentrate on her own future.”
“She hunts as well.” Darcy stated baldly a fact to which he could well attest.
“Yes, sir!” Fletcher nodded in surprise but did not question Darcy’s knowledge. “The fourth is Lady Felicia.”
“She is affianced to my cousin!” Darcy snapped at him in warning. Fletcher bit his lip and looked at him, commiseration apparent in every line.
“I know, sir,” he quietly continued after a moment, “but the lady is not content with the adoration of your relative. She is accustomed to the attentions of a court of admirers, of which you, sir, were at one time a member. That you are, of your own choice, one no longer, rankled her pride sorely. According to her maid, she has vowed to have you and your cousin.”
With a black look of revulsion, Darcy turned away and leaned his forearm against the window, the honest darkness beyond it preferable to that which was being revealed within. The small chamber clock struck three. He waited until the echo of the last stroke had died away before asking, “And what of Lady Sylvanie?”
“Lady Sylvanie and her maid are a complete enigma, sir.” Fletcher’s voice tightened, evincing no little degree of agitation.
“An enigma, Fletcher!” Darcy faced him, folding his arms across his chest in bitter amusement. “This is a day filled with surprises! How so, an enigma?”
“The servants are unusually cautious concerning the lady and her maid.” Fletcher clasped his hands behind him in an uncharacteristic show of perturbation and then, to Darcy’s amazement, took up the pacing of the room that his master had ceased. “That is not to say I have not discovered some of their story, but more may well be…impossible!” he admitted with chagrin.
“Fletcher!”
The valet abruptly halted his immoderate ramble and, coloring, presented himself in correct form before Darcy. “As you know, sir, Lady Sylvanie is the offspring of the old lord and his second wife, a woman from an obscure but noble Irish family. Lord Sayre was delighted at the birth of his daughter, the young lady becoming quite his favorite, but he lived to enjoy her for only twelve years. His Lordship’s sons, though, did not look upon their stepmama with filial affection; and their half sister they cordially despised, especially Mr. Trenholme, who was closer to the girl in age. When His Lordship passed away, the new Lord Sayre packed mother and child off to Ireland with a pittance upon which to live and both he and his brother engaged to forget their very existence.”
“Altogether infamous!” Darcy expostulated, bridling with anger as Fletcher spoke. “But I do not doubt you, for I had never heard of a second wife — or a sister — all the years I knew them at school.”
“Such was the state of affairs, sir,” Fletcher continued, “until a little less than a year ago, when a letter arrived from Ireland announcing the death of the Dowager Lady Sayre. The message was accompanied by legal documents that Lord Sayre immediately placed in the hands of his solicitor, who forwarded notification of their contents to His Lordship’s most pressing creditors.”
“Legal documents?” Darcy sat down upon the bed again, relieved to put his mind to the solving of a tangle not associated with acts drenched in bloody superstition. “An inheritance, or interest in some financial venture? It would have to be something substantial.”
“Land, sir,” Fletcher supplied. “A legal suit over the ownership of some land initiated by Lady Sylvanie’s Irish grandfather decades ago had been but lately settled in Chancery in the family’s favor. The sale of this property might go some way in solving His Lordship’s financial problems.”
“But the land would devolve upon Lady Sylvanie, not Sayre,” Darcy objected.
Fletcher shook his head. “The la
nd was deeded to Lord Sayre in the dowager’s will.”
“To the man who dispossessed her!” Darcy snorted derisively.
“Indeed, sir, but on one condition only. It seems that the property is not of such a value that the interest on its sale would afford Lady Sylvanie more than ‘respectable’ independence in the hinterlands of Eire. Therefore, the lady’s mother made it over to His Lordship to do with as he will on the condition that Lady Sylvanie be brought back to England and that he do all in his power to arrange her a marriage into a wealthy, prominent family, with the added proviso that the lady be freely agreeable to the match. When the deceased lady’s solicitors in Dublin are informed of Lady Sylvanie’s ‘happy’ marriage, the will’s provisions will be enacted.”
Darcy stared unseeing into space as his mind turned over Fletcher’s discoveries. Of course he knew that the lady was in want of a husband, just as he was in want of a wife. Fletcher’s tale did no damage to his esteem of her. Rather, his sympathy was further engaged, and his admiration increased at the plight of the lady and her proud handling of the situation fate had dealt her.
“There is no mystery in this, Fletcher.” His focus returned to his valet. “Her Ladyship’s mother furnished her daughter with a means to a future in the only way that her stepsons were likely to heed.”
“The mystery, sir, is that the lady has refused to entertain any of the prospects His Lordship has lured to Norwycke Castle, and no one can answer for it!” Fletcher answered, obviously vexed with the resistance he had encountered. “Neither His Lordship nor his brother has yet been able to prevail upon her to choose a husband from among their acquaintances or attend any public or private assembly in which to meet other eligible gentlemen. The two are said to be enraged with behavior that can only make their own situation more desperate the longer the lady refuses.”
