These Three Remain fdg-3

by Pamela Aidan

  “Nothing more?” He fingered the strands, their cool silkiness sliding so familiarly between his fingers.

  “We spoke a little of a book he had sent and encouraged me to read. I recall nothing more; although, for a moment…” She hesitated and then looked at him curiously. He followed her bemused gaze to his hand and flushed to see he had unconsciously entwined the silk threads about his fingers. As indifferently but rapidly as he could, he unwound them and laid them back on the table. “Oh, you may have them to add to your others, if you wish,” she assured him with a small, quick smile.

  “For a moment…?” he prompted her and turned his back on the wretched temptation.

  “For a moment” — Georgiana’s young brow wrinkled in perplexity — “he appeared unwell…but not ill, precisely. I cannot say; it happened so quickly. You know him so well.” She looked up at him. “What could it have meant?”

  “Humph,” he snorted. “It meant that he had determined to embark upon an errand he knew to be officious and impertinent.” He looked away then in some exasperation, confounded with the inexplicable workings of Dyfed Brougham’s mind. Did Darcy really “know him so well”? He leaned down and bussed his sister’s forehead. “Good night, my dear.”

  “And to you as well, Brother.” Her smile for him was shaded with uncertainty.

  He left her to spend a restless night knocking about his chambers, at once unable to sleep and distrustful of the dreams sleep might bring. The morning had been a loss, for try though he might to deal with the backlog Hinchcliffe had laid before him, he could wade through little of it before drifting into a reverie or dozing off to sleep. Giving up, he had stretched out on the divan in his study and recouped an uncomfortable but dreamless hour before Witcher’s diffident knock had awakened him to the arrival of Bingley’s card.

  The look of constrained relief on Georgiana’s face at his appearance in the drawing room gave him pause, and as he took her hand to kiss, he could feel an unwonted tension about her. “Georgiana?” he murmured, keeping an eye on the door that would shortly open upon their visitors.

  “It is nothing, Brother.” She flushed, withdrawing her hand from his grasp.

  “Nonsense!” Darcy returned, but gently. “Give over; what is it?”

  Her flush deepened. “Miss Bingley,” she confessed ashamedly. “I —” The drawing room door opened at that moment, revealing the subject of his sister’s confusion. No more could be said.

  Darcy stepped forward. “Miss Bingley.” He offered her his bow and then turned to her brother and put out his hand, “Charles! So, you are returned.”

  “Darcy! Yes!” Bingley took his hand and shook it vigorously. “London, or rather, the Season called, and Yorkshire was no place for us, you may believe! Miss Darcy.” He turned and bowed to Georgiana. “It will be our very great pleasure to attend your Unveiling next week.”

  “Charles! Miss Darcy’s portrait’s Unveiling, if you please.” Miss Bingley rolled her eyes. “We are all anticipation, Miss Darcy.” She turned an indulgent smile upon her object. “It will be the most brilliant Unveiling of the Season. Do I understand aright that Lawrence himself attends?” Not waiting for an answer, she looked to Darcy. “Why, that is the greatest of good fortune, is it not, Mr. Darcy? Your sister’s introduction to Society is already a Subject; Lawrence’s presence will guarantee the Unveiling’s success. I predict Erewile House will be inundated with well-wishers!”

  Darcy felt rather than saw Georgiana’s tremor of dismay at Miss Bingley’s fulsome compliment. Incredible that the woman who professed to love her so well had not the slightest notion of his sister’s true nature! She took her up as one might a pretty doll and with no more care than that for her mind or feelings! He drew back from Miss Bingley and turned to her brother.

  “You are, of course, most welcome, but it will not be as well attended as you might expect. We have lately decided that only close friends and family will receive invitations.”

  “Oh, you cannot mean it!” Miss Bingley claimed his attention with a shrill gasp as she took his offered chair. “Miss Darcy —” she appealed to Georgiana.

  “But I do,” Darcy broke in, regarding her in arched irritation. Damn and blast if he would allow her to tease Georgiana any further about it! “It was Georgiana’s wish.”

  “Would you care to take some refreshment, Miss Bingley, Mr. Bingley?” Georgiana interposed with a smooth, firm voice. Bestowing upon her a surprised but approving smile, Darcy seconded the suggestion. “Yes, you must want for some tea. I have no doubt Mrs. Witcher has it and more already prepared.” He motioned Bingley to a seat and pulled at the bell cord. “Now, Charles, you must tell us how you occupied yourself these weeks in Yorkshire.”

  As Darcy buttoned on his waistcoat before his mirror that evening, he could not decide if he was glad Brougham had not come by that day or if he was out of humor with him for staying away. Dy was a will-o’-the-wisp, it was true; but to come at him as he had on the fencing floor and later in regard to Georgiana, and then to disappear? It was the outside of enough! Still, if he had come, what might have transpired? Likely a disagreement distasteful to them both and an estrangement of their friendship, for Darcy was at this very moment preparing for the Monmouths’ select gathering, and nothing Dy would have said would have dissuaded him.

  In point of fact, he was already experiencing enough disapproval of his prospective evening from his valet without Brougham’s to add to it. On Darcy’s first informing Fletcher the night before that he was going out to a formal affair, his valet had brightened considerably and set about surveying his wardrobe with something like his customary enthusiasm. Today, though, his spirit for the project of presenting his master in the height of fashion had flagged decidedly. “His Lordship and Lady Monmouth’s did you say, sir?” he had repeated in some disbelief upon discovery of his master’s hosts for the evening. “Are you quite sure, sir?” his valet had queried him as he shaved him for the second time that day.

  “Yes, Fletcher.” He had looked up at him ironically. “I am quite sure that is who extended me the invitation.” Knowing there was more, he ventured, “Why?”

  “In a word, Norwycke Castle, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher had grimaced in disgust. “And since then, His Lordship and, most especially, Her Ladyship have been observed to be traveling with a rather, ahem, diverse company, sir.”

  “So Monmouth told me. ‘Philosophy and politics’ was his description. Hardly akin to what lurked in the shadows of Norwycke, Fletcher!” To this observation, his valet had ventured a skeptical sniff. “ ‘One may smile, and smile,’ sir,” he had replied and returned to the plying of his razor. Nothing more was said, but each piece of Darcy’s evening clothing had been handed to him with an air of reluctance, and the knot at his throat was nothing of particular note or elegance.

  Later, as the hansom took Darcy to Monmouth’s town house, the combined effect of Fletcher’s and Brougham’s disapproval worked to produce in him a species of regret that he had accepted the invitation. But it was of a weak sort, for he also found himself curious about how the former Lady Sylvanie Sayre had gotten on after the horrific events at Norwycke Castle and also not a little intrigued by what the temper of the intellectuals and artists who had gathered around her might be. Such company gave the evening an air of piquancy, and piquancy or danger outright was infinitely preferable to what consumed him now, twisting his vitals ever and again into their familiar, painful knot. If he was to…If Elizabeth were to…The door to Monmouth’s town house opened, candlelight and the murmur of a dozen conversations spilling out into the street. Desperate to escape the pain, Darcy laid hold of the invitation before him to think and feel something other than the wretched chasm of his loss and followed the beckoning from inside.

  “Darcy, welcome!” Lord Monmouth greeted him from the top of the grand staircase that dominated the hall. “Do not dally down there!” he commanded as Darcy gave his hat and coat to the footman. “Come up, man! Her Ladyship is most anxious to
see you!”

  Darcy wound his way through the crowded hall and gained the steps, but his progress was impeded by the number of guests on the stairs, some going up or down, others holding intense conversations or serious flirtations on the risers. Monmouth still awaited him at the top, a broad smile yet upon his face. Tris always had liked crowds of people around him, and judging from the number here, Sylvanie had succeeded in making her social mark as a successful hostess. His Lordship should have been quite pleased. It still seemed strange to Darcy that Sylvanie would desire to resume their acquaintance. His refusal of her sensual offers at Norwycke and his undeniable part in the discovery and ultimate suicide of her mother must surely have made any contact between them painful or, at the least, exceedingly uncomfortable. Yet she had pursued an acquaintance with Georgiana that had required Dy’s intervention to discourage, and now she desired above all things to see him.

  “Tris.” Darcy bowed and then gripped the hand Monmouth held out to him. “Amazing number of people you have here for a ‘select group’ of philosophers and politicians!”

  “Oh, these.” Monmouth waved dismissively. “These are mere window wares, my friend. The important ones are in the Green Room, where Sylvanie holds court. Come!” Monmouth drew him along, threading a way for them through the hallway toward a pair of great double-hung doors. “A moment!” He smiled when they had arrived and then rapped on one of the doors. The handle began a slow revolution, and the door cracked open. Quickly, His Lordship put a hand upon it and pushed in, surprising the servant on the other side into taking a hasty step backward. “Fool!” Monmouth growled as he ushered Darcy into the room. “Lord, how I hate dealing with day-hired servants; they never seem to grasp the smallest bit of instruction or even recognize those who pay their wage! But here we are, the inner circle!” He stopped another servant and, lifting two glasses off his tray, handed one to Darcy. “Some refreshment, old man, and then Her Ladyship. Cheers!” He lifted his glass in salute and downed half the punch before Darcy had even responded. Making a perfunctory motion with his glass, Darcy brought it up to his lips and was struck immediately by the strong smell of whiskey. Drawing back, he looked at his friend.

  “A whiskey punch, Monmouth?”

  “An Irish whiskey punch,” replied a brogue-laced voice from behind him. One of Darcy’s brows hitched up as he turned to discover the identity of his informant.

  “Ah, O’Reilly.” Monmouth acknowledged him. “Allow me to introduce you to a very old friend. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of the Darcys of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Darcy, Sir John O’Reilly of County ———, Ireland.”

  “Your servant, sir.” Darcy bowed.

  “And yours, sir,” Sir John responded, his demeanor warming slightly. “So, Darcy. Come to talk politics or philosophy?”

  “I have not yet decided, Sir John, as I am a newcomer to Monmouth’s ‘select’ gatherings,” he confessed with a wry tilt of his chin toward his host. “I believe it would be the wiser course to listen and learn before giving my opinion on either subject.”

  “You must not possess a drop of Irish blood if that is your way.” Sir John laughed. “Lack of familiarity never stopped one o’ my race from holdin’ forth on a subject. Not knowin’ what he is talkin’ about only encourages an Irishman to wax more eloquent upon it.”

  “I do not know whether I should agree with you, sir, or not.” Darcy joined in the laughter Sir John’s witticism had provoked in those immediately around them. “But I expect if I am careful to listen, I shall learn that as well.”

  “Very politic of you, Mr. Darcy.” Sir John nodded at him. “You’ll do. If you will excuse me? Monmouth.” He winked at His Lordship and then melted into the crowd.

  “Drink up, Darcy.” Monmouth indicated his still untasted punch. “Sylvanie awaits.” Darcy raised a brow at his glass and then sampled its contents under His Lordship’s amused regard. It took all his willpower to suppress the choke and gasp his throat demanded of him. As it was, irrepressible tears sprang to his eyes. “Ha!” Monmouth clapped him on the back. “Not a whiskey drinker, I see!”

  “No, not usually,” he managed to reply as he wiped at his eyes. A servant appeared at his elbow.

  “May I take that, sir?” he asked, bowing and then producing an empty tray.

  “Yes, here.” Darcy put down the unfinished glass.

  “Very good, sir.” The servant bowed again and whisked it away.

  “Humph,” observed Monmouth, “a day-hire who actually knows what he is about! Well, then.” He grinned. “Now you are ‘baptized,’ you may wander freely, old man. Oh, yes!” Monmouth responded to his look of surprise. “Without the smell of ‘water of life’ on your breath, you would be held in suspicion. All is right and tight now! But, My Lady first.” With that His Lordship took Darcy’s arm in a firm grip and set off with purpose for the other end of the drawing room. It was just as well, for the whiskey had, by this juncture, reached Darcy’s head, and for the moment, the room appeared somewhat confusing. They passed the servant who had taken his glass, and something about him struck Darcy as so curious that he halted their progress to stare after him. “What is it, Darcy?” Monmouth asked.

  “The servant, the one who took my glass.”

  “Yes?” His Lordship prompted impatiently.

  “For a moment…he seemed familiar,” he finished lamely.

  “Likely you have seen him in service at other houses; as I said, he is a day-hire.”

  A rustling sound replaced that of the conversations around them. A path between them and their destination opened to reveal Lady Sylvanie Monmouth rising from her seat surrounded by a coterie of men and women, all of whom exuded an intensity of passion for whatever subject had just been suspended. They all turned curious, glittering eyes upon him as Her Ladyship smiled and held out her hand to him. If he had called her a faerie princess before, it had been a weak metaphor. No, it was the Queen of Faerie who smiled upon him. Her luxurious black hair tumbled in ringlets about her creamy white shoulders, and as she moved toward him, her diaphanous emerald gown revealed more than any man but her husband should have known. The memory of what she had offered him at Norwycke raced through his frame.

  “Mr. Darcy, welcome!” Her voice fell warm and intimate upon his senses. “How we have longed to see you again!”

  Darcy could not be certain whether it was Sylvanie or the whiskey which had kindled the warmth that was now spreading throughout his frame, but the curst tight knot that had taken up residence in his chest a week before seemed to come loose. The welcome in her every movement as she approached him soothed his battered pride, then excited in him an appreciative anticipation. He smiled back at her and bowed, said, “Lady Monmouth,” and rose to a face made even lovelier by a light of gentle amusement.

  “So formal, Mr. Darcy?” she returned with a low-pitched laugh. “But we are more intimately acquainted than that, are we not?” She nodded to Monmouth, who bowed his leave with a smirk and took himself off to another part of the room. “We are not so careful to observe all the old proprieties here.” Lady Monmouth took his arm, drawing him back to where she had been seated. “The world is changing and ablaze with new ideas that have no patience for that which is past.” She glanced up at him, gauging his reaction, he supposed, but the delicious warmth suffusing him from within and caressing his senses from without overrode any impulse he might have had to take issue with her words. “Here, I am simply Sylvanie to your Darcy.” Lady Monmouth resumed her seat on the divan and indicated to Darcy the space beside her.

  As he took the place next to her, her admirers, who had drifted away at her desertion of them, strolled back, their eyes lighting upon him with a keen interest. Among them, though, were some who regarded him with a troubled uncertainty, while others cast upon him looks that bordered on hostility. One in particular, an intense-looking gentleman whose stance seemed to indicate resentment of Darcy’s favored status, leaned near her ear and murmured something as she signaled a servant for more refreshm
ents to be brought. “My dear Bellingham,” she replied smoothly in undertone, “all is well!” She turned a wry smile upon Darcy. “They are all eager to know you! Will you allow me the introductions?”

  Nodding his uneasy permission, Darcy reached for a glass of wine from the tray that appeared at his elbow. True to her word, all noble titles were abjured, and Sylvanie made her introductions by surname only. Nonetheless, Darcy recognized several who were titled lords or ladies, though minor ones. Those with a claim to some little fame for their art or writing were introduced as such, those with political aspirations with the names of their connections. As he had anticipated, they were a diverse lot, although radical might have been a better epithet, he decided. Further, many of them, as was his first new acquaintance of the evening, were Irish. Even as Darcy hoped he harbored no prejudice toward that fractious population, he could not have been unaware of the problems the radicals among them had been presenting to the government as it sought to prosecute a united effort against Napoleon. An indifferent Tory by birth, he had delved no more deeply into modern political philosophy than with an appreciative reading of Burke. Content as he was in the careful observance of his personal creed of responsible obligation to King on the one hand and to his own lands, tenants, and people on the other, the “Irish Question” had never intruded on his consciousness. If he read this gathering aright, it was about to do so.

  “‘What have you got in your hand,’ Darcy?” Bellingham demanded of him, his eyes narrowly focused on his face. Darcy stared back at him, a brow raised in warning.

  “Bellingham!” Sylvanie responded sharply but then continued in a more conciliatory voice. “All is well.”

  “It is a simple enough question.” Bellingham ignored her, his gaze intent upon Darcy. “What have you got in your hand?”

  “It appears to resemble a glass of wine.” Darcy brought the glass to his lips and drained half of it, all the while holding Bellingham’s eyes with his own. “Yes, definitely wine! But pray, enlighten me, sir, if you deem it otherwise.” He held the glass out to him.