by Violet King
Mr. Wickham kept his head bowed and the domino over his face. Mr. Bragg cocked his head at Wickham and pursed his lips. He glanced back at Darcy and Miss Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy walked a fine line, having Miss Elizabeth on his arm with no stated promises between them. It was the worst luck his college acquaintance had seen him. He made quick introductions, and then before Bragg could engage any of the others in conversation, said, “If you will excuse us for a moment, Miss Bennet, Miss Lydia,” Mr. Darcy said. He bowed.
“Darcy—!”
“Your shipping project...” he whispered in Bragg’s ear.
Mr. Bragg brightened. “I had thought you disinterested!” he said. “Come.” He talked rapidly about Chinese porcelain. Darcy kept his gaze fixed on Wickham, lest the man try to run. Though as tightly as Miss Lydia clung to him, Darcy doubted the man would make a clean escape.
“Darcy, you have not heard a word, have you?”
“I… Perhaps if you were to explain it again?”
“Over a cigar and whiskey away from the ladies.” Mr. Bragg laughed. “She is lovely. I never thought I would see the day when you showed special interest in a lady. Are congratulations in order?”
Miss Elizabeth held him in no approbation, but she was under his protection. He could not let a feckless dreamer like Mr. Bragg attempt to court her. Mr. Darcy ventured, “Miss Bennet is chaperoned. Any agreements are between myself and Miss Bennet, you understand.”
“Not yet then.” Mr. Bragg held a hand out between himself and Mr. Darcy. “Far be it from me to put my nose where it does not belong. But I would not wait so long to make my intentions known if I were in your place. I have never heard of the Bennet family, but any woman who can meet your exacting standards must be a paragon.”
Were his standards so high? His own father and Lady Catherine had admonished him to seek a lady worthy of his station. Miss Elizabeth was not a woman of his station, but Mr. Darcy was tired of living for other people’s expectations. “Miss Bennet is unique. One might say remarkable.”
“Then do not let her get away.” Mr. Bragg leaned in. “It is well known the Regent is a romantic. Should she be inclined to accept your proposal, I suspect it would delight Prince George to offer support for your union.”
“I will handle affairs between myself and Miss Bennet in the proper manner,” Mr. Darcy said firmly.
“Yes. You have always been the sort for a proper manner.” Bragg patted Darcy’s arm. “Do not despair. She must have an inkling. A man believes his heart a mystery, but a lady always knows.”
Had Miss Bennet an inkling of his feelings for her? Her remarks about the folio of theorems he had gifted her seemed to hold a hidden meaning, but Darcy had not allowed himself to hope. Not in the wake of Miss Lydia’s statement that Miss Elizabeth had no interest in him. And he had not made the best impression at first. He had not wished to, and whatever feelings he had, the eccentric ways that so compelled him also made Miss Elizabeth an unsuitable wife.
Mr. Darcy stared out over the assembled lords and ladies, men and women of wealth and good lineage, and imagined any of them on his arm. His stomach twisted. Then there was Miss Bingley who had all the trappings of accomplishment. He felt ill.
“Nervous? This lady is someone of note to make Mr. Darcy nervous. Fear not. Show her what is in your heart, and all will be well.”
Mask after mask. Customer costume, all hiding the truth beneath. Was that not an accurate statement for all of their lives?
Mr. Bragg mercifully caught sight of a young, elaborately coiffed milkmaid and said, “The next set will begin soon. If fortune smiles, her dance card is not yet filled.” He nodded to Darcy and said, “I wish you the best, Darcy. Be bold. The moment is yours, but only if you take it.” Mr. Bragg made his way back into the crowd.
Darcy stood a moment longer. Be bold. Perhaps Bragg had the right of it. Miss Elizabeth did not appear to be close with her sister Lydia. Further, Miss Elizabeth had no issues with speaking her mind. If Mr. Darcy asked, she would tell him plainly what she thought of his suit. In the worst case, he would know how she felt.
A shiver passed over Mr. Darcy. The hair on his arms rose, and the back of his neck tingled. Was someone watching him?
Mr. Darcy glanced around. A man dressed as a jester in wine red, gold, and blue, caught his attention. He wore a white mask with rouged cheeks and exaggerated eyebrows and lips. His fingers glinted with a medley of gold and silver rings glittering with jewels, though whether they were paste or real Mr. Darcy had no way of knowing.
Mr. Darcy tried to catch his gaze, and the jester took a step back, raising two gloved fingers to his cheek. Reginald had done the same thing when startled.
It was impossible. Reginald was dead, and the gesture of raising two fingers to one’s cheek was common enough. If Reginald were alive, he and the man would be of a height. And then there was the issue of the rings. Logic told Darcy to ignore the signs. His brother was dead, and many men and women at this ball wore rings.
And yet...
Hope and fear twisted together in a horrifying knot in Darcy’s gut. His skin was cold. He would make a fool of himself, but if he did not attempt to speak with the jester, Darcy would always wonder. He called out, “Reggie!”
The jester froze. It was only for a second. The jester shook his head, but as Darcy moved towards him, the jester backed away until he pushed himself into a group of other costumed men who called after him for his rudeness.
Mr. Darcy gave chase.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Elizabeth shouted from behind him.
Darcy’s heart pounded in his ears. The joy at the possibility of his brother being alive was overwhelmed by a more salient and terrifying fact. If his brother was alive, what was he doing here? Why had he lied to his family? Was he in the employ of the man who had attempted to kill Mr. Wickham and planned to kill Prince George?
29
“Is this not the most wondrous theater, Lizzie?” Lydia went on. “After we have gained the favor of the Regent, perhaps he might show us his box. I have read each of the boxes has a statue in the center, and they are gilded on the inside and out.”
Elizabeth listened with half an ear to her sister while keeping a sharp eye on Mr. Darcy. The costumed priest seemed jovial enough. Elizabeth was not yet adept in reading Mr. Darcy’s expressions, but she sensed a definite discomfort as the man whispered something and clapped Mr. Darcy in a most personal way on the shoulder.
“When the Regent arrives, I believe they will announce him, though we cannot know whether he will come to the common entrance or another door. Oh! This is so exciting!”
“We are not here to gawk but to protect the Regent’s life,” Elizabeth whispered harshly.
“Yes. Yes. I know. But the Regent has not arrived, so there is no need to be grim and somber for the sport of it. Leave that to Mr. Darcy.”
“Considering all Mr. Darcy has done to help us, his seriousness is both well warranted and appreciated.”
Mr. Darcy’s friend walked away, but instead of returning to them, Mr. Darcy stared out over the ball. Whatever the other man had said had upset Mr. Darcy, and Elizabeth wished she were allowed the familiarity to offer comfort. Then, he shouted something and set off at a brisk walk into the crowd.
He had seen something? The poisoner? If so, he would not face that danger alone. Elizabeth, forgetting propriety, grabbed Lydia’s hand. “Come!”
“Miss Lydia!” Mr. Wickham shouted and grabbed Lydia, pulling her from Elizabeth. Elizabeth, afraid of losing sight of Mr. Darcy, let go of her sister and pushed into the crowd. Mr. Darcy’s costume, by virtue of not truly being a costume but instead formal attire in black and white with only a simple white mask over his eyes, was at least easy to keep track of. But a group of revelers, dressed in exaggerated Eastern garb—red turbans and shawls for the ladies and similar headwear in gold and blue on the gentlemen—stepped between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. By the time Elizabeth elbowed her way through the group, Mr. D
arcy was gone.
Elizabeth, panicked, looked back the way she had come, but with the press of people, she could see neither her sister nor Mr. Wickham.
So many people. Her heart pounded.
“Miss?”
Elizabeth turned towards the voice, dropping into a curtsy. It was the false priest Mr. Darcy had been speaking with earlier.
“Miss Bennet is it?”
“Yes. You are a friend of Mr. Darcy’s? Have you seen him?”
“Earlier. Mr. Darcy is a good man.”
It spoke well of a man when his friends gave approbation in his absence. Elizabeth said, “I know.”
“Will you accept his proposal?”
“Excuse me?” Was that what he and Mr. Darcy had been discussing? Mr. Darcy intended to propose! Here? He will ask your hand in marriage. Elizabeth shook her head. “Who are you to ask such a thing?”
“If not, tell me now. I will speak with him to spare him the embarrassment of his asking.”
“Any conversations concerning matrimony are between me and Mr. Darcy, sir.”
“My apologies,” the man said. He ran his hand over his overly stiff hair. “Please forget I asked. My curiosity gets the better of me. It is one of my greatest failings.”
Elizabeth felt a moment of sympathy for the man. She admired Mr. Darcy, and to her shock, she realized she would not reject a courtship. But to speak of proposals so soon? Until recently, she had despised Mr. Darcy. And with the Regent’s life in danger, it was neither the time nor place to ask nor answer such questions. Mr. Darcy could not intend to propose, no matter what he had told his friend.
“My sister,” Elizabeth lied, waving towards the punch table. “Excuse me.”
“Yes.” The man bowed. “My apologies.”
Elizabeth fled. When she reached the tables, an older woman holding a mask in her hand grimaced at the selection. She complained to her companion, “The Regent in attendance, and no shellfish!”
At the next table was negus. Elizabeth took a glass and looked back the way she came. Mr. Darcy’s priest friend was gone, thank all that was holy.
“Miss. I have no intention to be forward, but are you lost?”
Everyone at the ball was formally introduced, else politeness would forbid anyone from asking all but their closest acquaintances to dance. Still, Elizabeth was struck again by how forward the people were in London. This was the second young gentleman to approach her in minutes! Perhaps it was the masks.
“I am waiting for my sister,” she responded, shortly.
This young man was dressed as a jester. He wore a brightly colored mask over his eyes, and his hair was hidden by a large piebald hat. From the top arced five points with alternating silver and gold balls sewn to the end of each.
Unlike Elizabeth’s mask which only had holes for the eyes, the jester’s had a slit between the lips. Instead of being held in place, it was secured to his face by a pair of ties that hooked over the ears. When he spoke, the mask muffled his voice, and Elizabeth had to lean in to make out his words. “And the young gentleman you entered with? Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
“I had no idea Mr. Darcy was so popular in London,” Elizabeth said. “Why, everyone I meet seems to be his friend!” Elizabeth tried not to betray her apprehension as she raised the glass of punch to her lips, taking a sip.
“We were close as children. He is reserved in his temperament, but no one has a truer heart.”
“Who are you?” Elizabeth demanded. “Mr. Darcy often keeps his own counsel, and he has made no mention of you.”
The jester stepped closer to Elizabeth. “Forgive me,” he said. “ I have not spoken with Fitz for over a year, and it seems in that time he has made some significant changes.”
Changes? Elizabeth recognized she ought to send this young gentleman on his way, but her curiosity was sparked. “Mr. Darcy and I have been acquainted for but a short time.”
“That is surprising. He seems quite comfortable with you.”
He did?
“To be frank, I have never seen him show a special interest in any young lady. He had his usual boyhood fancies, but even in those, he spoke and comported himself with restraint. Our aunt influenced him too well when he was young.”
Our aunt? This jester was a relative of Mr. Darcy? Or perhaps the jester was related to the mysterious Lord Cunningham? Elizabeth said, “You have the advantage of me. You speak of Mr. Darcy’s childhood, but he has never spoken of you. What is your name, sir?”
“My lady Artemis, I would not presume to strip your mask. Please allow me the same favor.”
“Yet you ask questions of and intimate a blood relationship to Mr. Darcy, my...” What was he to her? Someone who stirred her emotions too much for propriety, who defended her and kept her secrets even as he sometimes drove her to murderous rage.
“Interesting. Mr. Darcy has not made his intentions known?”
“What has he told you of his intentions?”
“Nothing. We have not spoken in almost a year, as I have said.”
“He has no intentions.” Enough with this conversation, spinning and spinning but going nowhere. Elizabeth lowered the mask from her face. “My name is Elizabeth Bennet. Either do me the courtesy of an introduction or leave, sir.”
To Elizabeth’s shock, the jester laughed. His mask muffled the sound, but his shoulders shook and the sound of his mirth was more than evident. “Now I understand. You are a match for him. Fitz must be in fits!” The jester slipped a finger beneath his mask to wipe his eyes.
This jester had to be telling the truth about being related to Mr. Darcy. How else could he incite Elizabeth to such an immediate rage? “That is a jest, sir, not an introduction.”
“Raghnall. My friends call me Raghnall.”
Scottish was not the preferred language for codes, though Elizabeth had deciphered a few in that language. She recognized the name. Raghnall. Reginald. Reginald Darcy. Impossible. He was dead, except...
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said.
Reginald Darcy froze. “He told you.”
Elizabeth saw red. To blazes with this man, to lie and cause such pain to his family. And now, to treat the entire affair as a joke. “They believe you dead.”
“Georgie knows the truth.”
“It has been near half a year. They mourned. They still mourn.”
“Georgiana keeps her own counsel, and Fitz, he will pick up and move onward as he always does—”
“You believed a letter about butterflies and plots would be enough assuage your sister’s fears, and that your brother would pick up and carry on with no harm from your ‘passing’? You are the worst. You broke their hearts!”
“Butterflies? She told you? My sister would never—!” Reginald took a step towards her. “Miss Bennet—”
“Stay away from her!” From her left, Mr. Darcy’s voice cut over the sound of the other revelers. She expected him to be red with fury, but he was pale, and his hands shook. “Miss Elizabeth, please, look at his fingers. Do not let him touch you.”
Elizabeth looked. Reginald Darcy wore rings on every finger, a mix of gold and silver, all glittering with paste jewels.
“Fitz, what are you on about?” Reginald looked at his brother. “I would never come between you and the lady you’ve chosen. She has spirit. I like her.”
“Reggie, I cannot protect you from your actions.”
“I never asked that of you, Fitz. You have always taken too much on yourself.”
“Your brother cannot be Mr. Smith,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Wickham would have known him.”
“Reggie.... Mr. Darcy’s voice cracked.
“Mr. Smith?” Ignoring his brother, Reginald turned back to Elizabeth. “Smith is a common name.”
“The letter you sent to your sister, was it a warning?”
“I cannot speak of this here. Miss Bennet, you have an astute mind. If you have read my letter, then you know why I am here. This is but one of Chrysalide’s butterflies. A poisonou
s one.”
Chrysalide on our shores.
“You know of his plans.”
“What plans?” Mr. Darcy interjected. “Elizabeth, you need to step away from my brother.”
“It was the cipher within the cipher,” Elizabeth tried to explain. “But none of this explains what you did to your family.”
“If the French knew I was alive, they would know I had warned the crown, and then we would have no chance to stop them. Please, I know I have done little to earn your trust, but you must believe me.”
“Announcing the Prince Regent,” the master of ceremonies’ voice boomed over the gathering. As he spoke, the ballroom hushed. “George the Fourth.”
Elizabeth looked at the staircase. The Regent was not there.
From the stage, the musicians played the first bars of “God Save the King.”
“Oh!” Someone gasped and pointed towards the stage. The dancers had been cleared away, and flanked by a pair of guards, the Regent stepped into the center. He leaned on an ornate cane, limping from what appeared a recent injury. Even so, his carriage was erect, and he managed a smooth bow. He was dressed in full regimentals, bright red and glittering with gold braid and jewels. A thin mask of bright red covered his eyes. The mask was the same color as his elaborate uniform.
“Excuse me,” Reginald bowed.
A ring. A needle. A prince.
Elizabeth grabbed Reginald’s arm. “Stop.”
Reginald looked back at Elizabeth. “Miss Bennet, unhand me. It is a matter of life or death.”
“Take off your rings,” Elizabeth said. “Give them to Mr. Darcy.”
“What is this?”
“A matter of life or death. Please. For your brother’s sake if not mine.”
“If you insist.” Reginald held out his free hand. “Darcy, come here and take these.”
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. If Elizabeth was wrong, and Reginald was working for Mr. Smith... What if Reginald triggered the poison ring? Would Reginald murder his own brother? Elizabeth wanted to believe in Reginald, and her heart bled for Mr. Darcy. Bad enough when his brother was dead. Darcy could mourn a dead brother. But a living traitor?