“Then I hope you enjoy leading the apes.”
Kitty looked as if she’d been slapped. Indeed, indignation stained her cheeks red. “I do not intend to die a spinster.”
“Oh, Kitty, you are so green! That’s what I found charming in you. Your husband, whoever he is, will have a lover—perhaps a dozen of them. And if you think he does not dally, that only means he is less honest about it than I.”
Kitty’s face contorted at the bleak portrait Mr. Dashwood painted of men’s fidelity. Even Elizabeth cringed at his cynicism.
“Not all men share your dishonorable nature,” Darcy said.
“Of course you would say that, Mr. Darcy. You must—your wife is present.”
“I think we have all said quite enough,” Elizabeth declared. She took her sister’s hand. “Come, Kitty. Mr. Dashwood can add nothing worth your hearing.”
Kitty stood motionless, seemingly unable to wrest her gaze from Mr. Dashwood’s face. It held complete indifference. Her own exhibited an expression so full of sorrow and incomprehension and hurt and grief that Elizabeth suffered to witness it.
“Come,” Elizabeth repeated gently.
They went downstairs, where Mr. Dashwood’s footmen were covering the mirror in preparation for its transport to Norland. Kitty paused to cast a final look of regret toward the drawing room above.
Elizabeth put her arm around her sister’s waist and directed her toward the door. “You are better off without him, Kitty,” she said. “Though the broken engagement pains you today, you shall be relieved by it tomorrow.”
Kitty nodded and allowed herself to be led away. Elizabeth’s own gaze rose one final time to the drawing room door. Her mind’s eye compared again the Dashwood on the sofa to the Dashwood above the fireplace. Their uncanny resemblance struck her. Which one of them would time prove the greater miscreant?
Her money said the one swallowing brimstone.
Eighteen
“As he required the promise, I could not do less than give it.”
—John Dashwood to Fanny Dashwood,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 2
“You returned home early.” Darcy, having himself just entered the townhouse, helped his wife remove her wrap.
“Mr. Dashwood was there.”
“I see.”
He had expected to arrive home to an empty townhouse but had found the ladies returning at the same time. Elizabeth had escorted Georgiana and Kitty to a ball, where all hoped the amusement would elevate Kitty’s spirits. In the fortnight since she broke her engagement, Kitty had done her best to project an air of cheerfulness to those around her, but she was a poor actress. Anyone could see that Mr. Dashwood’s mistreatment had left wounds that would not soon heal.
Kitty said little as she and Georgiana removed their own wraps. He’d never known a young lady to return home from a ball in such subdued spirits. Out of deference to Kitty’s feelings, Darcy withheld further comment on the owner of Norland in her presence. But he gave free rein to his own thoughts. A plague take Mr. Dashwood! The scoundrel had also been the reason Darcy cut short his evening at White’s.
In a span of mere weeks, Mr. Dashwood had risen to prominence as the Bacchus of the beau monde and had attracted to himself an entourage of like-minded new friends bent on testing the limits of how far decent society would excuse dishonor in men of fortune and rank. The Polite World was at once repulsed and fascinated by the new Pied Piper of London, scandalized by the spectacle but unable to tear away its attention. Drawing rooms and coffeehouses reverberated with tales of his exploits—speculation as to the identity of his mistress, lurid accounts of parties he’d hosted, amazed descriptions of his capacity for drink and boldness at games of chance. It was said his appetites, for everything from wine to women, were insatiable.
The Darcys were no longer the only ones drawing comparisons between Harry Dashwood and his notorious ancestor. Sir Francis enjoyed fresh renown in the discourse of the ton, and it was speculated that Harry would achieve even greater heights—or depths—of infamy. The Hell-Fire Club was openly discussed in gentlemen’s clubs, and even ladies became acquainted with its name, if not its more salacious details. It was even said that Harry was Sir Francis reborn, his new band of merry men the former Monks of Medmenham, all reincarnated from the ashes of the underworld to fan the flames of Hell-Fire on earth once more.
That last, of course, was fiction surpassing anything Mrs. Radcliffe could write, but the gentlemen at White’s Club tonight had talked of little else. Darcy had quickly become weary of the subject and departed.
Kitty and Georgiana bade them good night almost immediately and went to their own chambers. When Elizabeth’s sister was out of auditory range, he turned to his wife.
“How was Mr. Dashwood this evening?”
“About the same. No—worse. Poor Kitty couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him. Fortunately, he spent most of his time at the card tables.”
“He gambles so much at the clubs that I wonder he troubled himself to attend a private ball to hazard his fortune.”
“He seemed to be there with his Ferrars relations. Lucy Ferrars dragged him away from vingt-et-un long enough to dance a set with Regina, and another with herself. Now that he is a free man once more, I think Mrs. Ferrars works harder than ever to orchestrate a match between Mr. Dashwood and her daughter. They had their heads quite close together several times.”
“She is not bothered by his licentiousness? Or his mistress?” The identity of Harry’s paramour remained secret, but her existence was by now generally known.
“So long as he has money, matters of character would constitute secondary considerations—if, indeed, considerations at all—regarding any gentleman who paid court to Regina. Lucy intends a profitable match for her daughter, and suitors are not exactly circling.”
“They probably fear being devoured if they get too close.”
“Darcy!” Despite the admonishment, she laughed. “Indeed, Miss Ferrars needs to catch a wealthy husband, for it may require a fortune to feed and clothe her. But your remark applies as much to Mrs. Ferrars as to her daughter. In many ways, she is as hungry as Regina. I almost feel pity for Miss Ferrars—she’s a simple girl at the mercy of an avaricious mother to determine her future happiness.”
“She is a willing participant in her own auction. Like most of society’s debutantes.”
“If they aspire to no better than Mr. Dashwood, they can have him.”
“Did Mr. Dashwood have the effrontery to address Kitty?”
“Thankfully, no. But tonight marks the third time this week she’s encountered him in public. The mere sight of Mr. Dashwood is upsetting enough to her, especially since his immoderate habits seem to be taking their toll on his physical person. You should have seen him this evening, Darcy. He looked most unattractive—his complexion red, his cheeks heavy, his new clothes already too snug. I think he’s gained more than a stone in only a fortnight.”
“Too much of that brimstone concoction. Or too many lemon ices from that ridiculous larder he built. Perhaps he and Miss Ferrars are well suited, after all.”
“His appearance cannot help but remind Kitty of how much altered Mr. Dashwood is in character from the man she thought she knew. But beyond that, their mutual attendance at functions sends society’s gossip vultures circling. Their eyes stalk Kitty relentlessly, waiting to pounce upon the slightest word, expression, or gesture that could betray her present feelings toward him, so that they can describe her suffering in minute detail to their friends the next day. How can she possibly enjoy herself under that kind of scrutiny? And even if her heart were able to accept the attentions of another admirer, what gentleman will approach her under such intense exposure? When we left, not a single partner had invited her to dance.”
“If her time in London is no longer bringing Kitty pleasure, let us offer to take her home. The season is nearly over. By next spring, she will be ready to hear the addresses of a more worthy suitor, and t
he ton will be ready to let her.”
“You are committing to doing this again next season?”
“If Kitty can bear it, I can.” Actually, the thought made Darcy’s head ache. Their months in London had been a failure all round—he had not even managed to find a suitable clergyman to fill the Kympton living. They would all have done better to stay in Derbyshire.
“I will suggest it to her. I believe she wants to go home, and would have asked us herself were it not for my mother’s exhortations to punish Mr. Dashwood’s wrongdoing by setting her cap for someone better.”
“Mr. Dashwood is unlikely to care whom Kitty eventually weds.”
“True. But marriage is my mother’s solution to most problems.”
The sound of a carriage arriving drew their attention. It was late for a visitor. Darcy crossed to one of the sidelights that flanked the door and looked out toward the street.
“Lord Chatfield is here.”
“Are you expecting him?”
“No.” He frowned. “I hope nothing is amiss.” He and the earl had their regular fencing appointment on the morrow. If Chatfield sought him out tonight, he must have business that could not wait. He opened the door before his friend had so much as raised the knocker.
“Darcy!” The earl’s expression revealed surprise at being admitted to the house by the master himself.
“I was in the hall and heard your horses. Do come in.”
“I hope I don’t disturb you too late?”
“Of course not.”
The earl greeted Elizabeth, who echoed Darcy’s assurances of Chatfield’s welcome at any hour, then turned to Darcy. “I wonder if I might trouble you this evening to discuss a matter of business?”
Elizabeth excused herself so that the two gentlemen might speak privately. Darcy led Chatfield to the library, where he hoped his curiosity would be quickly assuaged. The earl was so well connected, Darcy could not guess the nature of business that would require his aid above that of greater men Chatfield numbered among his friends, nor that would necessitate such urgent action as the timing of this visit suggested.
As Darcy had planned to spend the evening away from home, the fire in the library had not been lit, and the air held a chill. Rather than summoning a servant, whose intrusion would delay the earl’s business further, he knelt before the hearth to light the fire himself. Chatfield, meanwhile, took his customary seat but did not occupy it with ease. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands gripping his hat rather too tightly for the long-term welfare of its brim.
“I have never known you to appear so grim, Chatfield.”
“I have never had so much cause.” He released a sound of disgust. “I have been these past two hours closeted with Lady Chatfield’s brother Phillip. The countess and I are both deeply concerned about the company he keeps of late.”
Darcy began to suspect the origin of his friend’s distress. “Mr. Dashwood?”
“Mr. Dashwood.” He paused, watching Darcy nurture the fledgling flames. “It appears that Sir Francis’s spiritual heir has indeed restarted the Hell-Fire Club, and Phillip is one of its members.”
“If you speak of these absurd tales of reincarnation—”
The earl shook his head. “I speak of facts. Since you shared that list of names with me, the authorities have maintained watch on those gentlemen. They, in turn, have led the observers to Mr. Dashwood. He is the other common link for the men on that list, is he not?”
“Yes,” Darcy confessed. “I drafted the list after observing all of those men calling at Mr. Dashwood’s townhouse. Pray forgive my not revealing that at the time. When I showed you the list, he was still engaged to Miss Bennet, and I did not want to cause him unnecessary trouble. Even now, I have no proof that verifies the existence of a new Hell-Fire Club.”
“I do. Phillip admitted as much to me when I confronted him today. Mr. Dashwood has brought those old members together with younger ones to corrupt a new generation. He’s hosted gatherings at his house and other locations Phillip would not name, to conduct activities also held in secret. Much to my frustration, Phillip will drop only smug hints about their goings-on, considering any further communication a betrayal of a leader he has come to idolize beyond my comprehension.”
“I cannot myself understand the attraction of the Hell-Fire Club for any of them, Mr. Dashwood included.”
“They are callow boys who play at the games of men they should revile, not revere.”
Satisfied that the blaze was well established, Darcy rose but remained standing near the hearth. “Is Phillip being watched?”
“I assume so. As I told you before, there are many in Parliament and the upper reaches of the government who do not want the Hell-Fire Club influencing England’s politics again.” He stared into the fire. “I fear for him, Darcy. Powerful individuals are committed to stamping out this new Hell-Fire Club before it ignites into a full-blown version of its former self. I’m afraid Phillip’s involvement will ruin him—politically, socially, perhaps even financially or physically, the way these fellows gamble and drink. Moreover, I fear for his soul. Surrounding himself as he is with moral corruption—” He met Darcy’s gaze. “Lady Chatfield grieves to see the changes wrought in her brother already.”
Darcy nodded. “We witnessed Mr. Dashwood’s transformation.”
“I realize that relations between you must be strained since Miss Bennet broke their engagement. But might you speak to him about this? Mr. Dashwood respects you—I could see that the day he came with you to meet Mr. Young. Can you not advise him that continuing this Hell-Fire nonsense jeopardizes his own welfare?”
“I have tried. When he was yet engaged to Miss Bennet, I attempted to explain just that. If he would not heed me then, I doubt he will hear me now.”
Chatfield rose. “Then might you at least persuade him to exclude Phillip from the club? I beseech you, Darcy—if not for me, for Lady Chatfield. My wife cannot rest easy while her brother involves himself in such madness.”
Darcy knew not what to say. He sympathized with his friend. He and Elizabeth had been fortunate enough to rescue Kitty from the contamination of Mr. Dashwood and his Hell-Fire Club, and he wanted very much to help Chatfield extricate Phillip. But how? Mr. Dashwood was past Darcy’s ability to persuade. Indeed, Darcy suspected him past saving altogether.
Yet Darcy could not refuse the earl. Motivated by friendship alone, he would aid Chatfield in any matter it lay within his power to affect. Beyond that, he owed Chatfield several favors for which the earl had never once asked anything in return. To deny his present request, particularly one tendered in such distress, would be an unforgivable breach of honor and friendship.
Beyond that still, the Earl of Chatfield was a peer of the realm, a member of the aristocracy who wielded quiet power. He sat in the House of Lords, but it was the seat at the head of his own table, where he regularly gathered the greatest minds of the day, that invested him with the most influence. Darcy could not say no to any man who so commanded his respect.
“You have my word, Chatfield. On behalf of both you and the countess, I shall do all I can.”
Now he just had to figure out what that was.
Nineteen
“I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject.”
—Elinor Dashwood to Lucy Steele,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 23
Delaford Parsonage
16 June, 18—
Dear Mrs. Darcy,
Edward and I thank you for your letter advising us of our nephew Harry’s present circumstances. Far from considering your report officious, as you feared, we are grateful for your forthright account of recent events, and based on our acquaintance begun at Norland, trust as your motive in relating them the sincere concern for Harry’s welfare that his uncle and I share. Given the broken engagement between your sister and Harry, which we grieve but concur
was necessary, your continued interest in his safety bespeaks an uncommonly generous, forgiving, and noble spirit.
As my sisters-in-law apparently wished to spare us the burden of receiving such unhappy news, we had not been aware of any alterations in Harry beyond what we ourselves observed when he visited Delaford last month. That his character has undergone so material a transformation troubles us deeply.
Whilst, as you know, we had little opportunity during Harry’s school years to develop a particular intimacy with him, the inclination he showed in recent months of establishing a stronger connection with his Dashwood relations leads us to hope that perhaps, as you suggest, some intervention on our part may provide a steadying influence. Perhaps also Edward’s years of ministry to his parishioners may enable him to offer counsel in a manner Harry will accept. Indeed, it sounds as if any attempt on our part to redirect him cannot make the current situation worse.
We believe it best to approach Harry in person rather than by post. As fortune would have it, my sister Marianne and her family depart with my mother for Kent in two days’ time. She and the colonel have offered us both transportation to London and the use of their house while in town. We expect to arrive Friday afternoon in St. James’s Street, where the Brandons and my mother will stay a se’nnight before continuing on their holiday. Edward’s duties shall also call him away at that time, though I will remain longer if I can be of use to Harry.
I shall call on you when we are settled to learn more about my nephew. Until then, I am—
Your most grateful servant,
Elinor Ferrars
Darcy handed the letter back to Elizabeth. Soliciting the aid of Mr. Dashwood’s aunt to prevail upon Harry had been her idea, one to which he, having no better plan for fulfilling his promise to Chatfield, had readily agreed. As Elinor Ferrars had expressed, little could be lost by the effort, and they could satisfy their consciences that every possible recourse toward reclaiming Mr. Dashwood—or at least, Phillip Beaumont—had been pursued. Mrs. Ferrars’s reply, however, had contained surprising intelligence.
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