“Darcy, all of the names on that list are men believed to have been members of the Hell-Fire Club. Not Sir Francis’s inner circle, the superior members known as his ‘Twelve Apostles,’ but inferior—junior—members.”
And Harry Dashwood was associating with them. Worse—had hosted a gathering of them at his home. To what purpose? A lark? A means of rebelling against his mother? A darker motive? Darcy could only begin to speculate.
“Is the organization still active?”
Chatfield shook his head. “Not to anyone’s knowledge. But it is a secret society, after all, so who would know with certainty? I can tell you this—my source indicated that the government does not want to see the Hell-Fire Club rekindled. Given the current state of war with France, England cannot risk a group of depraved geniuses exerting the kind of political influence they enjoyed before the War of American Independence. Which is why your list generated no small amount of interest—one wonders how those names came to be collected, and why.”
Though Darcy considered Chatfield a good friend and trusted him implicitly, he thought it best not to reveal Mr. Dashwood’s involvement with the men in question. At least, not at the moment. Until he had a chance to confront Harry himself, he would not jeopardize Mr. Dashwood’s reputation, or Harry’s friendship with Lady Chatfield’s brother, by informing the earl or anyone else of the gathering he’d observed.
And question Mr. Dashwood he would—this very day, if possible. If Harry indeed played with hell-fire, he dabbled in more danger than he realized. Someone needed to intervene before he got burned.
“I am in your debt,” Darcy said. “I am afraid, however, that at present I cannot divulge the list’s origin without betraying a trust.”
“I understand.”
“I hope my silence on the subject will not create difficulties between you and your acquaintance at the Home Office?
“Nothing too unpleasant. Though should you come into possession of evidence that the Hell-Fire Club is re-forming, he would be very interested in that intelligence.”
“Of course.”
He was not the only one.
Fourteen
“My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.”
—Mr. Willoughby to Elinor Dashwood,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 44
“Oh, why did we not come here earlier?” Kitty sighed bitterly. “Grafton House is always busy this time of day. We never should have stopped at Layton and Shear’s first.”
“It is the sign of a successful season,” Elizabeth responded. “Do you think yourself the only girl in London preparing her trousseau? We were fortunate to secure an appointment with the mantuamaker before next week.”
Elizabeth refrained from reminding her sister that the detour to Layton and Shear’s had been entirely Kitty’s idea. She had seen and passed on a lilac sarsenet during a previous visit to the Henrietta Street silk mercer, and this morning, having awakened with renewed interest in her trousseau after finally seeing Harry again, she repented the decision. She had insisted on returning to the shop directly they began the day’s errands, anxious lest some other young lady purchase the last yards minutes before them.
Layton and Shear’s had been crowded, forcing them to wait at the counter nearly half an hour before anyone could attend to them. When their turn did come, the shopkeeper immediately set their fears to rest by assuring them the desired sarsenet was still in plentiful supply. Kitty nonetheless bought a full ten yards, just to be safe. Georgiana, who had entered the shop with no personal errand, rewarded her own patience with a new pair of stockings.
From Covent Garden, they had proceeded immediately to Grafton House, only to find their favorite linendrapery teeming with even more customers. As they sized up the queue, they overheard one woman grumble that she had already waited a full three-quarters of an hour.
“Did you hear that, Lizzy?” Kitty moaned. “I had wanted to return to the house by now, in case Harry calls.” Despite his promise to call the day before, Mr. Dashwood had not appeared, an omission which doubled Kitty’s anticipation of seeing him today.
“We could come back here on the morrow,” Elizabeth offered.
“Tomorrow?” Kitty’s whole being reflected horror at the suggestion. “There won’t be a yard of fabric left here tomorrow!”
Thirty minutes’ time brought little change in their circumstance. Apparently, someone had neglected to inform them that this day had been designated specially for the indecisive to shop. Those waited upon ahead of them were thrown into acute distress by the choice between lawn or cambric, calico or muslin, patterned dimity or striped. One young lady, after examining every bolt of poplin in the shop, asked to see all of them a second time, then a third, before deciding upon a sprigged muslin instead. Her friend ordered gauze in silk, cotton, and linen rather than settle upon one. Elizabeth prayed neither would also ask to inspect lace or handkerchiefs.
Kitty occupied herself chiefly by fidgeting, to the point where Elizabeth was required to twice reach out to restrain the swing of her reticule. She then set about an intense scrutiny of every patron remaining between them and the counter, as if assessing how many minutes each might dally over her purchases. When that diversion ceased to amuse, as it did very quickly, her gaze drifted to the window.
“Lizzy! It is Mr. Dashwood—outside, looking through the glass!” She waved. “Do you think he sees me?”
She begged Georgiana to hold their place so that she might go speak with her fiancé, apparently willing to forsake all others on his behalf, but not her position in Grafton’s queue. Georgiana readily consented, and Kitty and Elizabeth stepped out of the claustrophobic shop and into the street.
Mr. Dashwood continued to peer through the window.
“Harry, this is such a pleasant surprise!”
Mr. Dashwood glanced at her with mild curiosity, then wordlessly continued his examination of the linendraper’s display.
Kitty’s face flushed with mortification. Her gaze darted round to see whether anyone else had witnessed the deliberate slight. Unfortunately, two young ladies—they of the sprigged muslin and triple order of gauze—had emerged from the shop just in time to observe the insult. With titters of “cut direct,” they scampered off to circulate the latest on-dit.
Kitty next looked to Elizabeth. Her eyes beseeched her older sister for guidance. Elizabeth took matters into her own hands.
“Mr. Dashwood, I should think you could spare your fiancée a moment’s attention.”
Harry stared at Elizabeth seemingly without recognition. “My—” His gaze ricocheted between Elizabeth and Kitty, before at last coming to rest on the latter. “Why, of course. Do pardon me, Miss—my dear. I was deliberating so deeply whether I liked those gloves in the window that I was quite insensible to all else.”
His excuse did not fully satisfy Kitty but appeared to mollify her for the present. Elizabeth was rather less disposed toward forgiveness. His weeklong avoidance of Kitty, his manner during his most recent call, this latest rudeness—since securing Kitty’s hand, Mr. Dashwood’s conduct toward her sister had altered in a manner that did not bode well for Kitty’s future happiness.
“Are not your present pair serviceable?” Elizabeth said frostily.
Mr. Dashwood looked less tired than when she last saw him—seemed, in fact, full of youthful joie de vivre straining to burst forth. A fresh haircut showed his eyes to advantage, and they reflected an intensity she’d not observed in him before. He must have caught up on his sleep since the midnight gathering she and Darcy had spied upon. She, on the other hand, was still dragging herself through the day. Given that he was the cause of her present lethargy, she resented him his liveliness.
“I find them a bit tight,” he said. “Besides, I have just ordered two new coats and half a dozen pairs of pantaloons, and thought new gloves would complement them well.”
“Why stop there? Add shirts
and cravats to your order and you will have a trousseau to rival Kitty’s.”
“I have—a dozen of the former, and twice that number of neckcloths.”
Elizabeth wondered at Mr. Dashwood’s sudden wardrobe overhaul but simply added it to the rest of his recent inexplicable behavior. “We were disappointed by your failure to call yesterday. My sister, especially.”
Kitty finally found her voice. “Yes, Harry. You had promised.”
“I did? I—well, I suppose it just slipped my mind. I am terribly sorry to have kept such a pretty girl waiting.” He cast her a rakish look. “If you will favor me with some attention tonight, I’ll make it up to you.”
Elizabeth blinked, taken aback by the suggestive undertone of his statement. Had it been deliberate? Given the accompanying look, she suspected it had. Fortunately, Kitty had not caught it, though Harry continued to regard her with an expression that threatened to make Elizabeth blush.
“You may join us for dinner tonight, Mr. Dashwood,” Elizabeth said quickly, emphasizing the word “dinner” more heavily than she intended. “If you are not otherwise engaged.”
“I shall, thank you.” His countenance took on a more appropriate mien. “Will anyone else be of the party?”
“Only Mr. Darcy and his sister.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Splendid. Come round at the usual time.”
Mr. Dashwood arrived an hour later than anticipated. He acknowledged his host and hostess with an odd blend of unnecessary formality for one who enjoyed such intimate acquaintance with them, and excessive familiarity for a gentleman who had not yet officially joined the family. He offered no excuse for his tardiness, but his jovial mood suggested that a previous engagement with a bottle of spirits might have contributed to the delay.
He greeted Kitty warmly—a little too warmly, in Darcy’s opinion, even for a man affianced. There were limits to what a gentleman ought to say to a lady who was not yet his wife, especially in the hearing of others, and declaring that the sight of her caused him to look forward to their upcoming nuptials with “rising expectation” was beyond the bounds of decency. The comment, fortunately, escaped the understanding of both Kitty and Georgiana—so far as he could tell—but Elizabeth had immediately changed the subject.
Georgiana then, through no effort of her own, captured his attention. Mr. Dashwood expressed delight at dining with two such beautiful ladies, and enquired why no gentleman attended her this evening.
“I have no particular gentleman I cared to invite,” Georgiana said.
“I’m sure many gentlemen would care for your particulars.”
“Mr. Dashwood!” Darcy’s shock was so great, it almost rendered him speechless. “I must have misheard what you just said to my sister.”
Kitty looked bewildered by her fiancé’s audacity. Georgiana grew flustered and ducked her head to avoid both Mr. Dashwood’s and Darcy’s gazes.
“Pardon me, Miss Darcy,” Mr. Dashwood said, his expression anything but contrite. “I am afraid I forgot myself.”
“I trust it will not happen again.” Darcy let the matter drop for now so as not to embarrass the ladies further. But he intended to have a word with Mr. Dashwood in private later in the evening.
Once at the table, Mr. Dashwood entertained them with an anecdote peppered with so much vulgar cant that the ladies could hardly follow it—for which Darcy was grateful, because its subject was as inappropriate as the language in which it was expressed. The more he talked, the quieter everyone else grew.
When a servant approached to refill Harry’s wineglass, Darcy discreetly motioned him away. Elizabeth caught the gesture and met his eyes across the table.
Is he drunk? she mouthed.
Darcy nodded. Inebriation was the only explanation he could conjure for Mr. Dashwood’s extraordinary behavior. Either Harry did not hold his liquor well, or he had consumed a great deal more of it before his arrival than Darcy had originally suspected. Regardless, Darcy now intended to draw the evening to an early close, but tactfully enough to spare Kitty the humiliation of seeing her fiancé bounced from the house. As soon as the ladies withdrew, he would pour Harry into his carriage and send him home.
And call upon him bright and early tomorrow morning.
The meal, however, continued longer than Darcy anticipated. Somehow, between all the slang words and mild oaths to which Harry introduced his stunned audience, he also managed to eat more than Darcy had ever before witnessed him consume. Excessive drink evidently made Harry ravenous, as Darcy had sometimes observed in others. Mr. Dashwood partook of every dish, indulged in second helpings of most, and polished off three lemon ices at the end of the meal.
“You seem very fond of ices, Mr. Dashwood,” Elizabeth observed.
“Exceedingly fond. A shame that they’re so hard to keep in the summer, just when one wants them most. At Wes—my country home, I have a first-rate icehouse that supplies enough ice year-round to keep the cook’s larder as cold as a witch’s tit—”
Or as cold as Elizabeth’s frozen expression.
“—so I can enjoy ices, or just about anything else, whenever I like. But this townhouse I’m saddled with has the most inadequate larder. The ice melts so fast that flavored ices won’t keep at all.” He broke off, suddenly pondering an idea. “Say, I bet a larder built deeper into the ground—well below the house—would hold the cold better. Ha! I’m going to make arrangements tomorrow to have one dug immediately! Then I can enjoy ices at midnight, if I wish.”
Darcy had long observed the ability of excess liquor to inspire new levels of genius in its imbibers. Brilliant schemes seemed to proliferate in proportion to bottles emptied. “I expect your landlord might object to your excavating his house.”
“Bah! He should thank me. And if he complains too much, I’ll just buy the house.”
Darcy knew full well that trying to reason with a drunk was a waste of breath. Yet he could not help himself. “Is this not a rather expensive undertaking, simply to satisfy impulsive cravings?”
“Perhaps, Mr. Darcy,” he said with a devilish grin, “if you satisfied your own deeper desires occasionally, you wouldn’t be so stiff.” He chuckled. “As for me, I intend to buy many pleasures with my fortune.”
Before Darcy could take issue with Mr. Dashwood’s vulgarity, Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Kitty, Georgiana—I think it’s time to leave the gentlemen and adjourn to the drawing room.”
Past time. Long past time. As the ladies withdrew, Darcy regarded Mr. Dashwood with disgust. He’d hoped to question Harry this evening about the gathering at his townhouse, but Mr. Dashwood’s present condition precluded an intelligible interview. The interrogation would have to wait for a more sober occasion. In the meantime, now that Darcy was at liberty to address Mr. Dashwood man to man, he intended to subject Harry’s performance to a scathing review.
Mr. Dashwood slouched against his seat back and propped his legs on the chair next to him. He picked up his empty wineglass. “Have you any port about?”
“No.”
“What? You’re not all out?”
“I am out of a great many things at the moment, Mr. Dashwood. Patience is chief among them.”
He laughed. “This is where you upbraid me for my sins against decorum.”
“Correct.”
“A flea bite. But do go on, if it will make you feel better.” The younger man’s cockiness provoked Darcy as much as anything had all evening.
“Mr. Dashwood,” he said slowly, “you have insulted me directly. You have insulted my wife by arriving at her home intoxicated and conducting yourself in an appalling manner at her table. You have insulted your fiancee and my sister with ungentlemanly allusions. Because you are drunk, and out of a desire not to cause Miss Bennet any more upset than she has already experienced tonight, I have made allowances for your manners beyond anything I would tolerate from anybody else. But I am done. I suggest you go home, sleep off your liquor, and endeavor to devise some way
of atoning for the enormous affront you have visited upon this entire household tonight.”
He rose and pushed in his chair. “Because, Mr. Dashwood, if this utter disregard for propriety continues, I may advise Miss Bennet and her father to rethink your engagement.”
As far as Darcy was concerned, he was finished conversing with Harry for the evening. He turned to go.
“Do what thou wilt.”
Darcy jerked round, stunned by the utterance. He blinked at Mr. Dashwood. “What did you say?”
Harry sprawled in his seat as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He rolled the stem of his empty glass between his fingers, watching the last few drops of wine swirl in response. “Do what thou wilt.”
Their gazes locked. Darcy read in Mr. Dashwood’s eyes a hardness that hadn’t been there before. At least, not before the gathering in Pall Mall. There was no mistaking him now, no need to give him any benefit of the doubt concerning his recent activities because he himself had just removed all doubt. Harry had indeed hosted a meeting of the old Hell-Fire Club. The only question that remained was why.
“Did you learn that motto from your new friends? The ones who called upon you the night before last?”
He laughed hollowly. “I would call them old friends.”
“Yes, very old,” Darcy agreed. “Old enough to have been Sir Francis’s cohorts—members of his Hell-Fire Club.”
“You mean the Monks of Medmenham.” A sardonic smile twisted Mr. Dashwood’s lips. “You surprise me, Mr. Darcy. I did not credit you with such penetration. But what does an upstanding gentleman like you know about the Friars of Saint Francis?”
“Enough to know that you flirt with danger if you seek to rekindle those fires.” Darcy leaned toward him, resting his hands on the table. “What are you about, Mr. Dashwood? What attraction could that immoral organization hold for you, that you would jeopardize your reputation and honor to experiment with it? Those men you welcomed into your home are honorless scoundrels.”
Suspense and Sensibility Page 13
