An Assembly Such as This (25 page)

“Yes, but with restraint. Brummell will, undoubtedly, be there, and it would be better not to attract his opinion at all than to suffer his wit. You must go then?”

“Regretfully, yes. Oh, do not get up!” he hastened to add as Darcy made to rise. “I can make my way to the door.”

“Nonsense.” Darcy left his chair and summoned a footman. “Mr. Bingley’s things, please.” He turned back to his friend. “Charles, I have spoken to Hinchcliffe.”

“Not about his behavior toward me! Darcy!”

“No, no…about his nephew. He shall be ready to apply to you in a few months or so; I have Hinchcliffe’s assurance on it.” They had reached the hall and Witcher, who stood with Bingley’s hat, coat, and gloves at the ready.

“Thank you, Darcy.” Bingley managed a smile that, though small, devastated Darcy with its sincerity. “I appreciate your advocacy in this immensely. You have ever been my good friend.”

Darcy did not wait for the great front door to click shut before he turned and sought again the sanctuary of his library. He nearly threw himself into his chair and sat motionless as a servant scurried in to stoke the fire on the hearth.

“You have ever been my good friend.”
He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching.
Are not the wounds of a friend blessed?
He directed his question heavenward. Better a moment’s pain than a lifetime of disgust and regret because that friend did nothing!

A sudden need to
do
something, anything, gripped him. Darcy sprang to his feet. Striding over to the sword case, he tore off his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, and threw them on a chair. Swiftly unlatching the case, he examined the collection and, reaching in, selected a perfectly balanced rapier. Taking a lamp from his desk, he continued his pace out of his library and into the hall.
Where to go?
Hesitating only briefly, he struck out for the ballroom. He encountered no servants on his way and slipped into the great room without a sound. Setting the lamp upon a Sheraton console hugging the wall, he moved out onto the floor, executing wide, slashing figures as he went. The muscles in his shoulder protested a month’s disuse in the exercise, but he ignored them and continued the regimen until they loosened and he was sure of his blade’s balance and reach. Then, bringing the blade upright to his lips, he assumed the
en garde,
holding his body in the curiously taut yet easy pose of the experienced swordsman.

He lunged. An imaginary opponent parried his move. He lunged again. This time his thrust was parried, and he faced a lightning riposte. Darcy brought the rapier up and blocked the attack, then twisted his wrist, using his blade to set his opponent off balance. It did not succeed. Block…block again, thrust. He laughed.
That had shaken him!
Darcy lunged as the other backed a step, then two.

The flame of the lamp glinted again and again off his sword as Darcy worked through the classic forms of advance and retreat. Back and forth across the dark floor he chased, harried, and otherwise engaged his imaginary foe until beads of moisture stood out on his forehead and his sword arm decried the weight of his blade. With a final, sweeping arc, he brought it up in salute and, bowing, honored the empty darkness that had opposed him.

His sides aching, Darcy caught up the lamp and, slipping silently down the hall, brought it and the rapier back to the library. He returned the sword to its case and retrieved his discarded clothing. Tired as he was, he knew he was not yet ready to succumb to sleep.
His book!
He would read until sleep demanded his surrender. From where he stood, he could see
Fuentes d’Oñoro
standing at attention and, next to it, his father’s long-ago gift to him, Whitefield’s sermons. Reaching across to the shelves, he pulled out
Fuentes d’Oñoro
and, tucking it under his arm, blew out the lamp and made his way to his bedchamber.

W
ith his accustomed precision, Darcy placed his signature on the last document of business he expected to encounter before leaving London for Christmas and Pemberley and handed it back to Hinchcliffe to sand and seal. At last, he was free from the tedious aspects of his return to Town and could give his attention to more pleasurable activities! Although, he acknowledged to himself as he closed up his ledgers and books, this evening’s soiree at the home of Lord and Lady Melbourne in Whitehall would not answer all his ideas of pleasure. Only the much-heralded appearance of L’Catalani could have enticed him to accept one of Lady Melbourne’s invitations, for in general he followed his advice to Bingley and avoided her set as much as was possible.

It was not only that lady’s encouragement of the prince regent’s eccentricities that caused Darcy to maintain a distant attitude. The intrigue and rumors of irregularities within the walls of Melbourne House reached back over thirty years, to the birth of the viscount’s heir, and continued into the present in scandalized
on-dits
concerning the conduct of that heir’s new wife. Darcy had been present at the marriage of the Honorable William Lamb to Lady Caroline Ponsonby on one of his rare visits to Town during his father’s illness. Lamb he had regarded as a good sort, levelheaded in his pursuit of a political career and of a more serious cast than his antecedents might lead his constituents to expect. But his marriage to Lady Caroline, already celebrated for her unconventional flights of behavior, was, to Darcy’s thinking, ill-advised. In this he had been proved a sage, and Darcy considered, as he nodded his permission to Hinchcliffe’s request to lock up the books, which lady might be the more likely to stage a scene at the soiree, the temperamental diva or the highly strung Lady Caroline.

“Another good day’s work, Hinchcliffe,” Darcy complimented his secretary. “You have overseen everything admirably. I could never have accomplished so much without your attention beforehand.”

“It is my pleasure, sir,” the somber man replied with a slight inclination of his gaze. “Has the date of your departure for Pemberley been settled, sir? I should like to begin the arrangements.”

“Tuesday the 17th, I should think, if I can see Lawrence on Monday. Have I received a reply to my inquiry?”

“It arrived this afternoon, Mr. Darcy.” Hinchcliffe opened the ever-present leather case, extracted a rather crumpled, paint-stained note, and read, “ ‘Mr. Thomas Lawrence will be pleased to entertain Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy at half past two of the clock on Monday, the 16th of December at his residence, Cavendish Square.’ Shall I send a confirmation, sir?”

“Yes, do so. If my interview goes well and he agrees, he shall paint Miss Darcy when she comes to London with me in January.” He smiled into Hinchcliffe’s surprised countenance. “Indeed, I have every confidence that I will be able to convince her to return with me. Not a Season, of course — she is too young — but there will be quiet gatherings enough and operas and plays and” — he paused, then added quietly — “and it will be good to have her among us, will it not?”

“It will, indeed, Mr. Darcy.” The softened look that passed briefly over Hinchcliffe’s face confirmed what Darcy had known for years. He may have had a secure hold upon his secretary’s loyalty, but it was his sister, born the year he came into their service, who held Hinchcliffe’s devotion.

The library clock struck four, and as if on cue, Witcher opened the door, but not with the expected announcement of tea. “Mr. Darcy, sir, Lord Dyfed Brougham to see —”

“Yes, yes, I’m here to see you, Fitz; and I know you are home. Don’t try to brush me off with any Banbury tales, ’cause I’m on to ’um!” The elegant but imposing figure of Lord Brougham filled the doorway and then sidled past the butler. “Good show, Witcher, but Fitz’ll see me, won’t you, old man?” He rounded on Darcy with a confident grin.

“Dy, have you nothing better to do than rattle my servants?” Darcy shook his head at his old university friend.

“Nothing else whatsoever! Except, perhaps, to plague you!” Lord Brougham stretched out his hand and gripped Darcy’s in a hearty shake. “Where have you been this last month? I came to Town to find your knocker down, and all Witcher would tell me was that ‘Mr. Darcy is visiting in the country.’ I offered him a pony if he would say where, but Mr. Witcher here” — Lord Brougham tossed his chin toward the butler — “would mumble not a word.”

“Let that teach you not to try to bribe loyal family servants,” Darcy shot back at him with a laugh.

“Well, all those years at University didn’t teach me anything, so I doubt me this will. Hopeless case, don’t you know!” Brougham dropped carelessly into one of the hearthside chairs and looked around him. “I’ve caught you at the books, have I, Fitz?”

“No, in point of fact, we just finished; and I was expecting tea —”

“Tea! Now there’s an idea!” He sat up with a bound. “Let’s you and I toddle over to the club. I daresay you haven’t looked in at Boodle’s since you returned from…Now just where were you?”

“Hertfordshire.”

“Lord, you don’t say! Hertfordshire!” Brougham mused distractedly. “Whatever for, Fitz?”

“I’ll tell you when we get to the club.” Darcy turned to his butler, who well acquainted with Lord Brougham’s high spirits, was smiling discreetly behind his hand. “My things, Witcher, if you please. It appears I will be taking tea at Boodle’s.”

The two men clattered down the front steps of Erewile House and into Lord Brougham’s curricle, which in minutes conveyed them, under his expert whip, to the hushed hallowedness of Boodle’s. The club’s imperious doorman ushered them inside, where various footmen rushed quietly to relieve them of their greatcoats, hats, and gloves.

Facing his friend across the black-and-white mosaic floor of Italian marble, Darcy cocked a brow. “Where to, Dy?”

“Someplace where we can talk privately and not scandalize the older members. Corner of the dining room, I should think.” Brougham winked in response to the veil of reserve with which Darcy immediately cloaked his face. “Oh, nothing so very bad as that, Fitz! Unless you’ve been kicking your heels up in — where was that? Herefordshire?”

“Hertfordshire, as you well know,” he replied dampeningly.

“Oho! We do have some ground to cover, I see.” Brougham started toward one of the gleaming wooden passageways that arched over stairs leading from the entry hall to the club’s upper floors.

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.