An Assembly Such as This (28 page)

“I am certain you know Lord Brougham,” Lady Melbourne continued, “as he is always here, there, and about.”

“Yes, of course, Your Ladyship. It was that shooting party of Grenville’s the last time, wasn’t it, Lamb?”

“I believe you are right, Brougham. Caught nothing but a cold that day, but marvelous geography, as I remember.” Lamb’s features relaxed somewhat at the memory but cooled again before he turned pointedly to his parent, saying, “Madam, you must not neglect the rest of your guests. I shall take these two in hand.”

The flash of fire in her eyes was unmistakable. “Then I shall leave you to it!” Lady Melbourne curtsied, and in a swirl of skirts left them.

“A formidable lady,” Dy murmured as they watched her leave.

“Indeed!” Lamb returned with feeling. “But now, gentlemen, I must ask you a question: Did you seek us out” — his hand swept the room — “or were you press-ganged by Her Ladyship?” Dy chuckled at the allusion but made no answer, leaving Darcy to smooth their way.

“Lady Melbourne is not a woman I should wish to gainsay.” Darcy hesitated, then added wryly, “Even were I given the opportunity.”

A genuine smile then spread across Lamb’s features. He offered his hand to Darcy. “Well said, sir, and quite politic of you! Perhaps you are in the right place after all! But, in truth, you have come tonight to hear the diva my mother has promised, not to argue politics; is that not so?”

Darcy took his hand in a firm grasp. “You have it, sir, although I am not uninterested in the ‘broader concerns’ as Her Ladyship described them. Rather, I believe we should find ourselves on opposite sides of the room on many issues.”

“The Darcys were ever a Tory lot,” Lamb groused in jest. I suppose there is no hope of you throwing for Canning against Castlereagh? I thought not!” he concluded at Darcy’s polite grimace. “And I know far better than to solicit Brougham here, who has as much interest in politics as does a fence post.” Dy’s answering bow elegantly acknowledged Lamb’s perspicacity in the matter. “Ah well, it is all one with the events of the day. You have heard that our illustrious regent will not appear tonight?”

“Lady Melbourne said as much,” Darcy replied. “The duties of state have commanded his attention, no doubt.”

“No, actually it was the demands of His Highness’s tailors that commanded his attention! After he summoned his ministers upon a matter of ‘vital concern’ and kept them waiting upon his arrival for the entire day, a note was sent round to the effect that his tailors had delayed him and that now his mama was in want of him; and they should all go home! So tonight he takes his aches and pains and imagined maladies to be soothed at Windsor.” Lamb looked at Darcy keenly. “I suppose you can guess that I am not in charity with His Highness at the moment, I nor anyone else in this room.” Lamb paused as Darcy cast his gaze over the occupants of the salon. The mood was decidedly rancorous. Angry words often broke through the hum of strident voices as Britain’s Whig aristocracy and politicians gnashed their teeth over the regent’s latest ill treatment of his avowed friends and supporters.

“It was not well done of His Highness, certainly,” Darcy agreed. “Although I cannot be unhappy with the result of his negligence. What shall you do now?”

“We have not totally consigned ourselves to returning to the wilderness as yet! We have had our forty years and more of wandering under His Highness’s father and rather thought that, with the son, we had finally arrived at the Promised Land. But the blasted Jericho walls refuse to fall down! Canning is determined to continue storming them, though, and deny Castlereagh and Perceval. I shall, of course, support him.”

A discreet cough reminded both men that Lord Brougham was a party to their conversation. “Oh, pardon me, Lamb! Didn’t mean to interrupt! Just a thought, though. Trumpets!”

“Trumpets?” Lamb looked uncomprehendingly at him and then to Darcy.

“Trumpets,” repeated Brougham firmly.

“Brougham,” Lamb growled impatiently, “what are you playing at?”

“Didn’t
storm
Jericho to bring the walls down, now did they? Blew trumpets and shouted, as I recall.” Brougham looked down modestly, examining his perfectly pared fingernails. “P’rhaps you fellows ought to look into it.”

“A theologian is among us!” Lamb shook his head derisively. “I never would have guessed you for a parson, Brougham, any more than a politician.” He looked then at a group whose disappointment in the day’s events was threatening to spill over acceptable bounds. “Although your point is taken, and I shall endeavor to be more accurate with my metaphors. Gentlemen” — he gestured toward his discordant guests — “I must leave you to your own devices and take charge of the room before Bloody Revolution is declared. Then the Tories
would
have our carcasses! Darcy…Brougham.”

As Lamb walked away in the direction of the thundering voices, Darcy turned to his friend. “Great lot of help you were!” he muttered in disgust.

“Don’t be an ass, Fitz. I got rid of him for you; did I not?” Gone was the vacant-eyed fribble of moments before, and in his place Darcy beheld a man with an edge of steel to his voice. “All we need do now is walk out the door.”

“Dy, what is this?” he demanded sharply.

“A very interesting evening, I would say, and not over yet!” The smile Dy cast upon Darcy was broad and guileless, giving him to doubt his previous impression. “But we have left your friend Mr. Bingley unsupervised quite long enough, I should think.” Dy strolled to the door, turning back to Darcy as the servant opened it. “Oughtn’t we go find him?”

“Bingley!” Conscience-stricken, Darcy advanced to the threshold, and together the two hurried down the corridor and across the hall, and shouldered their way up to the crowd-thronged archway leading to the ballroom. All that could be seen of the great room beyond were the blazing candles held aloft in glittering chandeliers of cut glass festooned with twinings of holly, ivy, and gold cord in honor of the approaching season. The music of the ensemble within gave Darcy pause; it was not the staid and stately measures that usually denoted a
ton
ball, nor the tunes of popular country dances. Rather, the music held a distinct rhythm based on three that Darcy found pleasing to the ear.

With Dy close behind, he politely made his way through the onlookers crowding the door. Achieving the last ring of spectators before the floor, Darcy made a final plea to be let through and, lifting his head to begin his search for Bingley, was brought to a standstill. Wide-eyed, he turned to his friend.

“What is it, Fitz?” Dy asked, and then followed Darcy’s stare as it returned to the ballroom floor. “Hah!” he laughed. “I had heard rumors but did not credit them. Well, one should never doubt a scandalous story if Lady Caroline is at its center. It is called the waltz, Fitz.”

“It’s indecent!” Darcy expostulated in fascinated disgust.

“That may be, but it will, no doubt, become all the rage.”

“Rage or no —” A wave of opprobrious gasps mixed with appreciative cheers and lewd laughter interrupted his declaration. The music stopped, leaving the couples on the floor in apprehension and all eyes straining for the source of the excitement. A private entrance to the room lay open to Darcy’s left, and from its secrecy he saw emerge the tawny-crowned person of Lady Caroline Lamb on the arm of a gentleman quite unknown to him. From where he stood he could see only her face, her delicate chin raised high, her eyes glittering in amusement and daring. As she and her companion made their way through the throng, it parted before them, and Darcy noted more than a few faces of both ladies and gentlemen color and turn away from the procession.

Suddenly, an older woman sank in a faint, the gentlemen nearest to her crying out in dismay. Several young ladies followed her example, and soon the floor was littered here and there with insensible females being coaxed back to consciousness by alarmed young men who, nonetheless, craned their necks to catch another glimpse of the source of the uproar. More than a few women were being propelled from the room by insistent husbands or fathers amid shouts for carriages and cloaks.

“What the devil is going on?” Darcy demanded of the chaos around him. Dy tugged at his sleeve and solemnly pointed back down the room to where Lady Caroline and her swain had finally broken free from her mother-in-law’s guests. Darcy’s jaw dropped in disbelief while his own face flooded crimson. “Great God in Heaven, she’s…she’s…Her clothes!”

“Yes…what little there are of them,” interposed Dy in a lowered voice. “I believe the effect is achieved by sprinkling the sheerest of gowns with water.”

The music was beginning again, and several giggling couples had joined Lady Caroline and her escort on the floor when a high-pitched wail from behind them caused Darcy and Dy to whirl about just in time to be pushed out of the way by a stately-looking woman who strode to the fore, shrieking all the while in a flood of Italian.

“L’Catalani,” whispered Dy, “and she is
most
displeased.” Darcy’s Italian was somewhat neglected, but he understood enough to recognize the tenor of the lady’s complaint. Comparisons of Lady Caroline with certain Covent Garden strumpets and the depth of the insult her appearance in such dishabille had offered to the diva were thoroughly explored before the Melbourne footmen arrived to escort the lady to her carriage. On her way she passed the rigid figure of the lady’s husband, to whom she gave a most pitying look before exclaiming, “The English! Bah!” and hurried out the door.

One glance at Lamb’s face was all Darcy could stomach, and as the man walked determinedly toward his wife, Darcy grabbed Dy’s arm. “Bingley must be found immediately, and then do what you will, for we are leaving.”

“A very sensible notion.” Dy had to shout to be heard above the din. “How can I be of service?”

“My coachman and groom are waiting at the Bull ’n’ Boar. Find them and tell them to ready my carriage immediately. Bingley and I will meet you at the corner.”

Dy nodded crisply and plunged into the stream of guests struggling to depart. Darcy turned back to his search and, aided by his height, became quickly convinced that Bingley was not in the ballroom. He made, then, for the supper room, pushing his way through without apology until he finally stood before its open doors and peered in.

“Bingley!” Charles looked up at his name being bellowed across the room and, with an expression of undisguised relief, excused himself from Miss Cecil and hurried to Darcy.

“Where have you been, Darcy? I’ve been trying to entertain Miss Cecil for nigh onto an hour, ever since they started that new dancing, which, I hope you will not take this amiss, is not quite the thing, if you get my meaning.”

“Charles, we must leave, now!” Darcy interrupted. “Something extremely untoward has — is — We’re going!” he commanded in exasperation. Charles gave him a startled look but offered no resistance. Making a hurried bow to Miss Cecil, he followed Darcy into the hall and to the steps, where after issuing an imperious command, Darcy was able to obtain their hats and cloaks. They barely waited for the doorman to perform his duty before Darcy had them stepping out into the frigid night air.

“What in Heaven’s name happened?” Bingley demanded, slapping his hands against his sides as they made their way down the sidewalk. “Why are so many leaving, Darcy?”

“Because not everyone has taken leave of their senses!” was all the answer Darcy was willing to offer. The evening had been, in truth, an unmitigated disaster. How had such a simple plan gone so very wrong? A shout caused the two men to look to the street, where they beheld Darcy’s carriage pulling smartly up to the curb. Harry leapt down and opened the door. The vehicle’s noble occupant leaned out, filling the doorway.

“Brougham’s Hackney Service! Can I take you two gentlemen anywhere?”

“Brougham…Bingley. Bingley…Lord Dyfed Brougham. Now move aside, Dy!” Darcy followed Bingley into the carriage and then turned to his groom. “Harry, let’s go home.”

“M
r. Darcy!” a much surprised Witcher exclaimed as he opened the great front door of Erewile House to admit his master and two companions several hours in advance of when he had been expected.

“Brandy in the library, if you please, Witcher.” Darcy flung his cloak and other accoutrements into the hands of the downstairs footman and motioned his friends to do the same. “And direct whatever kitchen staff is about to see what may be had to eat.”

“Nothing for me, Darcy,” Bingley broke in. “Had enough of those dashed biscuits to founder a horse while I was entertaining Miss Cecil. Or trying to,” he added in an undertone.

“Well enough! Gentlemen, if you please?” Darcy indicated the stairs to the library and then led the way. Once inside, his friends disposed themselves in the comfortable chairs to await the ordered trays. A thoughtful silence pervaded the air as Darcy leaned down and stoked up the fire in the hearth.

“Here now,” Bingley’s straining curiosity broke the quiet. “Will someone tell me what happened that turned the soiree out into the street? My lord” — he turned to Brougham — “I apply to you, sir, as Darcy will not breathe a word of it.”

Brougham looked over to their host, his brows peaked in question. “He’s bound to read it in the scandal sheets tomorrow, Fitz.”

“True, but it is to be hoped we got out in time.”

“In time for what? What scandal is this?” Bingley looked back and forth between them. “I demand to know!”

“In time, my dear Mr. Bingley, to avoid having your initials printed in the newspaper as a participant in the bacchanalia we just left,” Brougham dryly informed him. “For you, sir, I have every hope, but for Fitz…Well” — he sighed dramatically — “it is unlikely
he
will escape mention. Not after having brought Brummell to his knees! Oho, I think not!”

Darcy met Dy’s snicker with a thunderous frown, but at the last bit his countenance dropped. “Brummell! I had forgotten! The blasted cravat!” He fell into a chair and nursed his temples.

“
Darcy
bested the Beau?” Bingley sat up straight and peered at both men, trying to detect if they were playing him a joke.

“Win, place, and show! Unmanned the trumpery fellow to the point that he retired the Sphinx! By the by, Fitz, when do you give Fletcher the news?” Darcy’s searing glare and Bingley’s guarded disbelief encouraged Brougham into further displays of mirth, which were curbed only by a knock on the library door.

“Enter!” Darcy growled, and in moments several trays of food wafted their way through the door and onto tables. He rose and poured a round as the servants quietly left, and handed the glasses to the others. “I would propose a toast, if I could think of one,” he muttered, “but at the moment —”

“To friendship,” Brougham interrupted him in a quiet but firm voice. Darcy studied him for several heartbeats; the regard Brougham returned him was both steady and warm. Under such an onslaught, it was not long before a grin reluctantly tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“To friendship, then!” he responded, and held out his glass. Brougham brought his up, and Bingley eagerly joined his to them both, vowing the same. Tossing back the contents with a laugh, the three fell upon the viands supplied by Darcy’s staff and then settled back into the comfortable depths of cushions before the hearth.

While Dy regaled Bingley with an account of the events of the evening far more humorous than he recalled experiencing, Darcy watched Charles closely. It had not gone at all well. In point of fact, it had well nigh been a disaster, and he could not help but wince at the thought of what the morning papers would bring. As Charles was alternately amused and astounded by Brougham’s narrative, Darcy sensed an underlying wistfulness in his friend’s demeanor. When he answered Dy’s questions concerning Miss Cecil, Darcy’s unease was confirmed as Charles tentatively compared the lady unfavorably with one he had but lately met in Hertfordshire.

“Hertfordshire! Darcy told me. Will you offer?”

“Dy!” Darcy warned.

“On the estate. Make an offer on the estate.” Brougham made a face at him, then turned his attention back to Bingley.

“I had been considering it,” Bingley replied, oblivious to the exchange, “and had almost made up my mind. But now I am not sure. Darcy advises me to take more time and look about.”

“That is, in general, excellent advice; but there may be other considerations.”

“Yes,” Bingley agreed, rather too quickly for Darcy’s peace. “I thought there might be, but Darcy…Well; I could be mistaken.”

“I see…” Brougham let the thought dangle. “Quite right to be sure of your ground before charging your fences. Did I tell you about Samson, Fitz?” Brougham leaned back into his chair. “Lost him at Melton, the old sod!”

“No!” Darcy responded feelingly to the regret in his friend’s voice. At Bingley’s question, he explained, “Brougham’s favorite horse, and gotten by the same sire as my Nelson. What happened, Dy?”

“Stupid accident, really. I have been over Melton any number of times, know it like the back of my hand; save that this year one of the local landowners took his fields out of the run. I arrived too late to have a look at the new fields and, for certain ‘considerations,’ which I shall not name, rashly joined the fray.” He paused to sip at his brandy and looked solemnly across to Bingley. “There was a hedge, you see, tallest I have ever tried and, unknown to me, a ditch on the other side like to reach China. Samson took the hedge like a hero, but the ditch caught us both by surprise. We went down hard, but Samson took the brunt of it, allowing me to roll away with only a twisted ankle and a bruised shoulder. I had always laughed at the formality of Melton: the pistol and shot in the saddlebag and all that. But I tell you now, that day I was glad of it. To condemn him to hours of such pain while I dragged myself off to find a farmer…and all because of my folly —” Brougham stopped abruptly and looked down into the amber liquid in his glass before taking a swallow. “Be sure of your ground, my friends, be damn sure.”

The crackle of the fire in the hearth was all that disturbed the silence for a few moments after Brougham’s adjuration. From under lowered eyelids, Darcy observed Bingley’s response to Dy’s story and was gratified to see the thoughtful turn of his manner. He glanced then over at Brougham, nodding his head in thanks for his help.

Dy gave him an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders accompanied by a quick, tight smile and then rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, I must bid you good night. This has been a very eventful, not to mention
revealing,
evening. I think it safe to say we saw more of some people than we bargained for.” Groans interrupted him, but he persisted. “And were
exposed
” — more groans — “to some new experiences.” As Bingley chuckled over his puns, Brougham offered him his hand. “Mr. Bingley, a pleasure, sir!”

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Lord Brougham!” Bingley clasped his hand and bowed over it, utterly pleased to have been granted entree into His Lordship’s interest.

“Fitz” — Brougham turned to Darcy — “I doubt I will see you again before you leave for Pemberley. You
will
give my love to Georgiana?”

“Have no fear!”

“Good! Send me a note when you return to Town, or I shall have to try to bribe Witcher again, much good will it do me. Oh! Give Fletcher my very best regards and congratulations. Would it puff him up too much if I sent him a token of my esteem? The expression on Brummell’s face was one I shall meditate upon with glee for days to come.”

“I am tempted to put him into your hands entirely! Charles” — Darcy turned to him — “excuse me a moment while I accompany Brougham to the door.” At Bingley’s nod, Darcy ushered his friend out into the hall, pausing only to assure himself of the click of the library door. With a jerk of his head, he led Brougham down the hall to the steps.

“Dy” — he laid a hand on Brougham’s arm — “my sincere condolences on Samson; he was a magnificent animal.”

“Yes, he was, was he not?” Brougham sighed as they descended the stairs. “As I said, ‘a hero’! It could have been
me
with the broken neck. Any chance of Nelson getting his like?”

“I shall look into it, I promise you.” Darcy glanced about and, seeing no servants, continued, “But I really wished to detain you in order to thank you. Your story has given Bingley pause, I think.”

“Do you really?” They reached the front hall, where Witcher and the footman on duty hurried forth with His Lordship’s outer apparel. “Interesting, that!”

“Why? What do you mean?”

Brougham slipped on his cloak and placed his beaver jauntily atop his head. “Because the story was for
your
benefit! There is more to Hertfordshire than you have told me, old friend. I know you wish to do Bingley a service in this affair, and he may well be in need of it, but ’ware yourself, Fitz. Make sure of your ground and doubly sure of the nature of your interest.” Brougham clapped him roughly on his shoulder. “Good night, then, and Happy Christmas! Witcher” — he turned a broad smile upon the old man — “my compliments to your lovely wife, and a Happy Christmas to you as well.”

“Thank you, Your Lordship, and a Happy Christmas to you, sir!”

As Witcher closed the door upon Brougham, Darcy climbed the stairs back to the library, distracted by Dy’s parting remark.

“Darcy.” Bingley’s sudden appearance from the shadows at the top of the stairs sent Darcy’s thoughts skittering. “It is getting rather late. I believe I shall take myself off as well.” Darcy turned, and they both descended the stairs. “What an evening!”

“Agreed, and one I intend never to repeat!” Darcy rejoined. “I shall take my chances at Drury Lane to hear L’Catalani in the future.”

“Oh, that’s right, we never
did
hear the diva! But really, Darcy, I have never seen such opulence and elegance in my life! Everything was in the height of fashion and taste. Although there were more than a few whom I would not hesitate to call ‘high in the instep,’ many were quite amiable. And Brummell, Darcy! To think
you
cast him in the shade!”

“Yes, well, the less said about that, the better I will like it.”

“As Lord Brougham said, there is not much likelihood of that! He is a great gun, is he not? Such condescension.” They reached the bottom, and Bingley took his things from the footman. “Great pity about his horse. Makes one think, does it not?”

Darcy looked steadily into Bingley’s now sober countenance. “Making sure of your ground before you take the fence?”

“Yes…quite.” Bingley took a deep breath. “I begin to see the wisdom in your counsel. I was rushing my fences, not sure of the ground, and disregarding the warnings of a friend,” he confessed. “I must think about Miss Bennet rationally, as you have advised me.”

Darcy ruthlessly suppressed his elation at Bingley’s words. “That is all I could wish for, Charles,” he responded quietly. “Proper reflection on the matter will, I am certain, yield a satisfactory answer.” Although the smile Bingley returned him was weak and wistfulness had returned to shadow his eyes, Darcy allowed himself to hope that his campaign was nearing a triumphant conclusion. If Miss Bingley could add to his counsel a suitably disinterested testimony corroborating Miss Bennet’s indifference, the matter would be resolved, he was sure of it. A note must be sent immediately.

“Good night then, Darcy. Dinner at Grenier’s on Sunday?”

“Make it Monday after I beard Lawrence in his den, and I shall be there.”

“Lawrence!”

“Yes, I intend him to paint Georgiana when I bring her back with me after Christmas. The next morning, I hope, will see me set out for Pemberley.”

“Then it must be Monday! Good night, again, Darcy. Mr. Witcher.”

Darcy waited until Bingley had climbed into the hack summoned for him and the driver urged his horse forward before turning from the door.

“Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?” Witcher asked, recalling him from his bemusement.

“Yes, Witcher. Dismiss the staff to their rest and have breakfast ready at ten, I think.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I ring Fletcher?”

“Yes, do so! And Witcher” — he stopped the butler as he reached for the bell pull — “I shall have a note ready to send round early in the morning. No answer is desired.”

“Yes, sir.” Witcher pulled on the rope, and Darcy once again mounted the stairs to discharge two last duties. The first was a note to Miss Bingley; the second would be a confrontation with his now celebrated valet. When Darcy finally gained his chambers, it was to find his nightclothes neatly laid out upon his bed, hot and cold ewers of water standing at the ready, and his toiletries lying in neat ranks upon the washstand. Gone was every stitch of the clothing that had been marshaled for his inspection earlier that evening. Unappeased by Fletcher’s meticulous industry, Darcy closed the chamber door with decided force and strode quickly to the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, summoning a grave look upon his face. The dressing room door sprang open almost before he had settled his features.

“Mr. D —”

“Fletcher, I wish to have a word with you!”

At Darcy’s tone, Fletcher’s eyes at first went wide and then quickly lowered. “Yes, Mr. Darcy, sir.”

“I distinctly recall warning you that I had no wish to compete with Mr. Brummell nor to occasion any undue notice on anyone’s part.” His indignation rekindled, Darcy warmed to his subject. “I believe those were my exact instructions, were they not?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Darcy.”

“Mr. Fletcher, you have failed me, then, on both counts.”

Fletcher’s head came up, expressions from guilt to uncertainty and on to caution passing over his features in quick succession. “In truth, sir?”

“In excruciating truth, Fletcher! You have made me the ‘glass of fashion and the mold of form,’ and I do
not
thank you for it! As it happens, I should have liked to have passed unnoticed at Melbourne House this evening; but, thanks to this blasted cravat, there was no chance of that. I find myself now in a most disagreeable position.” He began pacing the room. “ ‘
Measure for Measure,’
you said. Little did I realize that you meant Brummell! Were you aware that he knows you by name, man?”