by Pamela Aidan
Perhaps this was not wise. Darcy’s eyes narrowed on his friend’s back as he followed him up to the dining room. He knew very well that Dy’s dilettante façade hid a keen mind, which despite his protestations, was as capable of designing a bridge as of composing a sonnet. They had vigorously competed with each other at University, and Darcy remembered, if his friend did not, the multitude of prizes Dy had won at Cambridge. All the while, he recalled uneasily, giving their tutors fits.
In the intervening seven years, Dy had managed, with a studied elegance and frivolous manner, to make Society forget about them as well and account him no more than a charming fribble. Darcy had often wondered why the charade, but Dy had smoothly deflected all his attempts at satisfying himself on the question. How or why his friend had determined to conduct his life in such a fashion remained an untouched subject between them, but as it did not corrupt the firmness of their long friendship, Darcy had chosen early on to leave the question unanswered. But his forbearance in pressing Dy upon his idle existence was, he had found, not always reciprocated. If I am not extremely careful, he cautioned himself, Dy will discover from my own lips what I wish most to conceal.
They entered the spacious dining room, and Brougham immediately commandeered the coziest table. “Here, just the ticket, Fitz.” He pulled out a chair for Darcy and then sat down at the one that offered the best view of the entire room. “Let us get our tea ordered, and then you can tell me all about your expedition to the country.” As the waiters discharged dish upon dish of what Boodle’s considered a suitable tea for its gentleman members, Darcy and Dy entertained each other with the commonplaces and ribbings that long friendship allowed. When they were finally left to themselves, Dy sobered somewhat and grew more candid as he caught his friend up on the economic rumors and political speculations that truly mattered to men in Darcy’s position.
“What an amazing fount of information you are,” Darcy commented dryly as Brougham finally paused for a long draw on his tea. “One could almost suppose it a passion.”
“Oh, nothing so fatiguing! One hears things, you know. Assemblies, routs, hunts, gaming hells…all the same, nothing but chatter. I just happen to have a devilishly retentive mind.” He cast Darcy a soulful look and sighed. “Merely one more curse I must bear.”
“And what are the others, pray?” Darcy laughed outright at Dy’s bid for sympathy. “A very considerable fortune, a fine person, and —”
“Please, desist! You are embarrassing me! Which is particularly annoying as it was I who intended to embarrass you. Now, tell me about Hertfordshire,” Brougham demanded.
“Are you sure you do not mean Herefordshire?” Darcy threw back at him while scrambling for his dropped guard.
“No, I am sure you said Hertfordshire. Come, come; tell Papa what you did. Confession, you know…good for the soul and all that.” Brougham looked at him intently.
Darcy found himself twisting the napkin in his lap. Dy’s face was all sincerity, touched with a wry humor that warmly invited his confidence. The idea of enlisting his old friend’s help seemed, at first, entirely incredible. But as they sat in silence, sipping at their tea, it slowly took on the appearance of reason. He would not tell him all, of course. Nothing about…well, nothing but what Dy needed to know to help him with Bingley.
“You know my friend Charles Bingley?”
Brougham nodded his head. “Young chap from up north with more ready than sense. You have done him more than a few good turns from the look of him lately.”
“He took a year’s lease on a small property in Hertfordshire and got himself entangled with a young woman from a most unsuitable family.” Darcy wove his tale, careful to leave unmentioned his own fall into a tender fascination. “So,” he concluded, “as the man has turned quite intractable on the subject and will not listen to reason, I am engaged in a game of subterfuge. Planting doubts, that sort of thing. I find it is exceedingly uncomfortable.”
“I would imagine so! Not your game at all, Fitz. Do you think he suspects anything?”
“No, I do not believe so. At least, I doubt it. He trusts me implicitly, you see.” Darcy flushed and fell to examining his ruby-crowned ring.
“Likely you are right that he does not suspect. ‘The heart that is conscious of its own integrity is ever slow to credit another’s treachery.’ Ah, sorry, Fitz!” Brougham apologized at Darcy’s pained expression. “Did not mean it the way it sounded. Well, you do have a serpent by the tail! What is your next move?”
“We are to attend Lady Melbourne’s soiree tonight.”
“The divine Catalani! Fitz, you are in luck. I myself have sent my acceptance to this soiree. How can I assist with the enchanted Mr. Bingley?”
“Help introduce him to new enchantments. You know how awkward I am at these things, Dy. But wait,” Darcy responded quickly to the knowing look on Brougham’s face, “by that I mean proper young ladies. If you introduce him to any of Lady Caroline’s intimates, I’ll call you out, just see if I don’t!”
Brougham threw up his hands in mock horror. “Heaven forbid, Fitz. But just where, at a soiree hosted by Lady M, do you propose I find these ‘proper young ladies’?”
“I should not think it much of a challenge to one ‘cursed with such a retentive mind’!” Darcy quoted back to him. The apparent reasonableness of taking Dy into his confidence was beginning to fade.
“Yes,” Brougham drawled, “there is that. I shall do my best, my friend. Now, do we go together or shall I ‘happen’to meet you there?”
“We shall meet you there, but I won’t pretend it is not planned. I shall tell Charles that we’ve arranged to meet at, say, half past nine near the card room.”
“Done and done! Nothing like a bit of intrigue to liven up the evening. Can I drop you at Erewile House?”
The two rose from table and sauntered through the various rooms of the club, pausing now and then to exchange a word with one or the other’s acquaintances, but in general making their way to the front door. Brougham’s curricle was called for, and the horses pointed toward Grosvenor Square.
“You haven’t told me about Georgiana,” Brougham accused Darcy. “Lord, she must be quite a young lady by now.”
“Yes…yes, she is. I intend to bring her back with me to Town in January.”
“Not for a Season! She cannot be that grown!”
“On that we agree! No, I only wish to allow her some of the delights of Town. She so enjoys music and has cultivated a very fine taste.”
“And you wax eloquent whenever you speak of her.” Brougham’s face took on a distant look. “I envy you, Fitz. I envied you even when Georgiana was a troublesome little moppet who innocently spoiled our plans for fun. Remember that summer I spent at Pemberley after our first year at Cambridge?”
“How could I forget? It was you who found her! The sight of her in your lap as you rode into the courtyard I shall never forget.”
Brougham’s sigh was so quiet that Darcy almost missed it. “Fitz, now I have a confession to make. It was I who hid the blasted doll she was looking for. If I had not found her —” He stopped abruptly. “Well, I did, and that, as they say, is that. And here we are!” He brought the matched bays to a neat stop and leaned over to unlatch Darcy’s door. “Lady M’s card room at half past nine. I’ll be the one with the posy in his buttonhole.” He saluted Darcy with his whip. “Au revoir!”
Darcy stood in the gathering dusk, frowning after the curricle until it turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Then, shaking his head slowly, he mounted the steps to Erewile House.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” The bedchamber door had barely shut behind him when Fletcher, in a fine agitation, nearly sprang upon him from behind it.
“Great heavens, Fletcher!” expostulated Darcy, more than a little startled. “I have not rung for you yet.”
“No time for ringing, Mr. Darcy. We must begin! Your bath will be ready momentarily. Shall we decide on your attire for the evening? Did you have anything i
n mind?” Darcy surveyed his chamber, noting with amused alarm that most every item of evening attire he owned was draped or stacked here and there. A pile of freshly starched cravats lay docilely beside his jewel case. His several pairs of evening shoes were polished to perfection. It all had the look, he thought, as his gaze returned to his valet, of a military campaign.
“I believe you have been seriously misinformed, Fletcher. It is only a soiree, not a summons to Carlton House.”
“Indeed, sir” — Fletcher sniffed — “if it were only Carlton House! But it is, rather, Melbourne House, a much more refined address, sir.”
“Umph” was all Darcy replied as he started toward the dressing room, Fletcher in his wake. His valet’s ministrations during his disrobing and bathing were performed with the utmost professionalism and speed. A whispered command to a kitchen lad here or a low-pitched inquiry to himself there, and Darcy found that he was bathed, wrapped in a dressing gown, and in his shaving chair in amazingly short order.
As Fletcher expertly tested the edge of his blade, Darcy settled back into the chair. The routine nature of shaving — Fletcher always executed the strokes in the same order and manner — ever allowed him a few precious moments of reflection. This evening there was much to reflect upon…too much, if he permitted his mind to wander where it would. Dy’s sudden appearance had the mark of Providence. Brougham was much more capable of guiding Charles through the labyrinthine intricacies of a gathering of Society’s flowers than he could ever be. Aside from a true appreciation for the acclaimed diva, his only interest in the soiree was as an opportunity to distract Charles from his infatuation in Hertfordshire. The attention of the young ladies to a new, rich face appearing among them would be, for Charles, heady wine indeed. That, in addition to the doubts Darcy had planted in the other quarter, would, he hoped, channel Bingley’s wavering convictions into proper courses. Tomorrow, he would send a note to Miss Bingley, and if she could restrain her disparagement of Hertfordshire and do as he had instructed, Charles would be safely out of danger, and he could go home to Pemberley.
“There, sir. Your towel, sir.” Fletcher dropped a soft Turkish towel into his hand and, turning to the tray of toiletries, selected a bottle. “The sandalwood, I should think, sir.” Darcy nodded and received a daub of the scent mixed with alcohol into his palm.
“Have you decided on your attire, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy pulled himself out of the comfort of the chair and looked into Fletcher’s face, animated for the first time since their return to London. “No, I have not given it any thought, whereas you have given it a great deal, if the condition of my bedchamber be the judge! What do you suggest, Fletcher, keeping in mind that the Beau himself will be in attendance and the regent, too, most likely?” He strolled back into his bedchamber and again surveyed the troops.
“Restrained elegance, Mr. Darcy. And as you, sir, have more claim to that than certain celebrated fellows —”
“I have no wish to compete with Mr. Brummell,” Darcy clarified as he removed his dressing gown. “I mentioned him only in warning and do not wish to occasion any undue notice on anyone’s part.”
“I perfectly understand, sir. No undue notice.” Fletcher paused and fingered the fine white lawn of the shirt he had chosen for his master. “I think the dark blue with the black silk waistcoat. The one embroidered with sapphirine threads, like the green you wore at Netherfield.”
Darcy swiveled round. “No! Something else.” Fletcher held up the waistcoat against the blue, almost black superfine coat and breeches. “Oh,” he breathed. “Blue.” His voice fell to a mumble. “Yes, that will do.”
“Yes, sir.” The valet held out the shirt and slipped it up his arms. Fletcher’s enthusiasm increased with each article of clothing Darcy assumed, a marked contrast with his demeanor since returning to London. Evidently, his valet also had interests residing in Hertfordshire, and Darcy was vaguely sorry for it. What a disaster that trip had become! He looked down as Fletcher finished buttoning the waistcoat and went to select a neckcloth. Yes, it was very like the one he had worn at Netherfield. Was it only two weeks ago? The metallic threads alternately glittered and dulled as he moved before the dressing mirror. How hopeful he had been of a good result from the evening.
Fletcher returned, and Darcy sat down, lifting his chin to allow the valet room to practice his artistry. While his man folded and knotted, his mind involuntarily slipped back to that evening, to those few moments he had possessed himself of her hand and they had moved together in harmony rather than opposition. The flow of her gown around her, the flowers entwined in her hair.
…so lovely fair
That what seemed fair in all the world seemed now
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained
And in her looks, which from that time infused
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before,
And into all things from her air inspired
The spirit of love and amorous delight.
With a start, Darcy recalled his thoughts from the unprofitable path in which they had strayed and, shaking himself, received a pained adjuration from Fletcher: “Please, sir, do not move just yet.” The lines were ones he had found marked by the embroidery threads that he had stolen from the Milton in Netherfield’s library. An idiotish fancy, he told himself as he turned from his valet, but the self-excoriation did not stop him from retrieving the threads from the book at his bedside. As he gently wound them about his finger and then poked them down into his breast pocket, the words they had lain against, not unlike the woman they brought to mind, caught and held him.
A knock at the door announced the welcome distraction of a tray from Monsieur Jules. The covers were lifted by another lad from the kitchen to reveal a savory fortification against supper at Melbourne House not being served until midnight.
“Here, sir.” Fletcher came into the bedchamber. “Save for your fob and coat, you are ready.” Darcy examined the valet’s efforts in the mirror with a critical eye. Fletcher’s face appeared alongside his reflection. “Should anyone ask” — he beamed with sartorial pride — “it is the Roquet. My own creation,” he added diffidently.
“Roquet? ‘To strike out of the game?’ And who am I to strike out with this?” Darcy indicated the constriction that encircled his neck in an untold number of knots and folds.
“Whomever you wish, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher bowed to his employer’s raised eyebrow, then took the napkin from the tray and shook it out. “Sir?”
Darcy sat down to his repast, his brow furrowed in speculation upon his valet, who returned his regard with an imperturbable aplomb. “A case of Measure for Measure, Fletcher?” he asked finally, as he took the napkin.
The ghost of a smirk passed over the valet’s face. “Quite so, sir. Quite so.”
Leaning to look out the window of his carriage, Darcy watched as his groomsman jumped down from the box and bounded down Jermyn Street to Grenier’s, armed with a note advising Bingley that he had arrived and to wait until the carriage had pulled up to the hotel’s door. Satisfied, he settled back into the squabs, pulling his evening cloak and the carriage rug closer. The ride to Melbourne House would be of no moment, he thought as he waited in the deep shadows of a cold late autumn’s evening; but the wait for the long line of carriages attempting to discharge their passengers and then the receiving line within could take up well over an hour, even two. Not that he was anxious to arrive at his destination. Thank Heaven, Dy will be there! Someone of sense and decency with whom to converse and to provide an excuse for not attending to every Lady This or Miss That and her mama!
The carriage rocked slightly as the door was pulled open and Bingley’s muffled form climbed in. “Charles!” Darcy exclaimed. “Did you not receive my note?”
A slip of paper was waved before his nose. “Yes, and here it is! The line in front of Grenier’s is frightful tonight. Every man and his uncle is going out or coming in, and you would be waiting until your bricks were stone cold.
Much easier for me to come to you and, with your groomsman along, little danger. Yes, I’ve heard!” Bingley cut off Darcy’s remonstrance. “Horrible business down in Wapping. In all the papers!” He sat back into the seat opposite, unwrapping a thick scarf from around his chin. “Is it true the regent has forbidden anyone to be received at Carlton House after eight?”
Darcy nodded as the carriage pulled away from the curb and his driver began the tedious negotiation of the streets to Whitehall. “Forbidden it to strangers. The door will not be refused to His Majesty’s intimates, of course, as none of them are, as yet, suspected of mass murder,” he added dryly.
Bingley’s answering laugh evidenced a nervous tremor. “Darcy, this soiree. It seemed like a great go yesterday, but the more I thought about it today…” His voice trailed off, and he fell to studying his gloves.
“You shall do very well, Charles,” Darcy assured him. “I have never seen you do aught but land on your feet, no matter where you are. Your talent for entering into whatever society you find yourself is truly remarkable. Incomprehensible, but remarkable.”
Bingley chuckled again nervously. “Well, tonight shall be the test. I almost wish it were Caroline making this venture rather than myself. She would revel in it!”
Darcy grimaced in the dark. “I find your presence much more agreeable. Which reminds me, besides the ornaments of society you will meet tonight, I wish to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Lord Dyfed Brougham. We were at Cambridge together; he ran tame at Pemberley for a summer or more.”
“Brougham, you say? I do not believe I have met him or his family.”
“Unlikely. Brougham is his parents’ only surviving child, and they were older when he was born. The old earl passed away before I had met him our first year at University. Brougham himself is rather a will-o’-the-wisp; one never knows when he may appear. But,” Darcy advised, “he is just the man to guide you through tonight’s gauntlet. Follow his lead, and you are sure to come out with your skin whole.”
