He shrugged vaguely. "No." He stared at some distant point. "Perhaps. I do not know."
What kind of mess had he gotten himself into? Was he in debt? Had he compromised a young lady? Darcy’s mind raced with all the possible fixes in which an imprudent young gentleman could find himself. Despite recent events, Darcy still felt a strong interest in Mr. Dashwood’s welfare. He wanted to assist Harry if he could.
"Mr. Dashwood, if you would but confide in me, perhaps I can help you out of this scrape."
Harry sighed and shook his head. "No. I–It may all prove to be naught."
"I wish you would reconsider."
"There is nothing to tell. At least, not presently." He crossed to the door. "Please excuse me, sir. I have to go home. There’s something to which I must attend without delay."
Twelve
"Suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we have just witnessed in him."
— Elinor Dashwood to her mother,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 15
Darcy stood still for only a moment after the door closed behind Mr. Dashwood.
"Mrs. Hale?" he called. "I require my greatcoat. I am going out."
The housekeeper hurried into the hall, followed closely by Darcy’s valet bearing his cloak. "Shall I have the carriage brought round, sir?"
"No." If he was going to follow Mr. Dashwood, he did not have time to order his own carriage. Besides, the family crest on its door would give him away. "Summon a hackney."
Mrs. Hale’s face betrayed a flash of puzzlement before returning to the standard-issue whatever-you-say-sir expression of all well-trained English servants.
He jammed his arms into the coat sleeves. "Tell Mrs. Darcy that I left with Mr. Dashwood and may be quite late."
"Tell her yourself," Elizabeth said as she reached the bottom step. "But if you are leaving with Mr. Dashwood, where is he?"
The sound of Harry’s carriage departing answered that query. She raised a brow.
"Perhaps not so much with Mr. Dashwood, as behind him," Darcy clarified.
Her eyes widened. "You are following him? I shall need my mantle."
"You cannot come with me."
"Darling, Mr. Dashwood has already left. We haven’t time to argue."
"How disappointing. He actually went home." Elizabeth leaned back in the hackney and pulled her cape about her more tightly. The warm spring day had given way to a cool night, and she wished she’d thought to bring her muff. She’d have to remember it the next time she flew out of the house on a whim to spy all night on a future brother-in-law. "But will he stay?"
"That is precisely what I intend to learn."
Darcy instructed their driver to remain at their present position, about thirty yards down the street from Mr. Dashwood’s townhouse. The location offered a clear view of Harry’s front door, a sight enhanced by the light of the full moon. Mr. Dashwood had just entered the house; his driver had then taken his carriage away. Fortunately, steady traffic in Pall Mall had helped prevent either man from noticing the Darcys’ surveillance.
Candlelight brightened an upstairs window a few minutes after Mr. Dashwood’s entry. "That is Dashwood’s suite," Darcy said.
"If he simply goes to sleep, we are in for a dull night," she replied. Mr. Dashwood had looked so tired that he might just do that.
The window remained lit for some time, prompting in Elizabeth a desire to consult the hour. After her conversation with Professor Randolph some weeks back, she’d begun occasionally carrying the watch she’d received from him. She now withdrew it from her pocket and tilted it to catch the moonlight.
Darcy frowned. "What are you doing with that?"
"Determining how long we have been sitting here."
"No, I mean, why are you carrying that thing around with you?"
"Why not?"
"I dislike the idea of its being so close to your person."
"Now, Darcy, you are the one who keeps saying it is nothing more than a watch. If that is true, then what harm lies in carrying it?"
His silence transmitted his displeasure. He turned his attention back to the townhouse. A hackney stopped two doors down from Harry’s, releasing a pair of older gentlemen who stood talking on the street long after the carriage departed.
"An hour, by the way," she said. "We have been sitting in Pall Mall over an hour. It is nearly half-past ten. How much longer ought we — "
"The light just went out."
Both of them now peered toward the darkened residence. It appeared as if Mr. Dashwood may have indeed retired for the day. No other signs indicated movement elsewhere in the house.
"Well, this was scarcely the night of debauchery we had been led to expect." Elizabeth slipped the watch back into her pocket. "I’m ready to return to a warm fire and — Oh! Now there is light one story down."
"That is the drawing room."
She burrowed farther into her mantle. "I suppose this means we shall be stopped here a little longer."
"It was you who insisted on accompanying me."
"I did not realize it would be so cold. Next time I shall dress more warmly."
"Next time I shall come alone."
The gentlemen who had arrived by hackney now walked to Mr. Dashwood’s house and mounted the steps. "Darcy, look! Someone approaches the door."
"Sit back," Darcy instructed. "I do not want them to notice us. One of them is Felix Longcliffe."
"The man from the fencing club? Who is the other?"
"I do not recognize him."
Mr. Dashwood’s servant answered the door and granted the gentlemen admission. No sooner had the door shut behind them, than another visitor arrived by private conveyance. This gentleman had to be at least eighty; he stooped heavily over his walking stick as he shuffled up the steps.
"Do you know him?"
"I believe that coach bears the Flaxbury coat of arms," Darcy said.
Two more carriages pulled up. Darcy didn’t recognize the occupants or their liveries. "Miss Bingley once said that a thorough knowledge of drawing was essential in any truly accomplished young woman. Have I married one?"
Elizabeth almost laughed aloud. She labored to produce identifiable stick figures. "Would you want to have married someone admired by Miss Bmgley?"
He withdrew a small notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. "Sketch the family crests on the sides of those two carriages as best you can."
Her artistic skills, aided by the lighting and angle by which she viewed the originals, rendered illustrations that any five-year-old would be proud to display. Her lines of partition were tidily executed, but her white horse rampant looked more like a small rodent, and the lion couchant resembled a rabbit suffering ear amputation.
"A new barouche just pulled up. How do the first two drawings come along?"
"My finest ever."
Darcy glanced at her efforts. "Perhaps we should simply write down descriptions."
In the course of an hour, twelve visitors entered the town-house. Darcy recognized one more on sight, and all but two of the others arrived in carriages marked by family crests. Most were far older than Harry; the gathering included at least three octogenarians.
The last man to arrive brought with him a trunk. The large ebony box was inlaid with gold images that caught the moonlight as the servants carried it inside.
"A most curious assembly," Elizabeth declared. From the look of the carriages, Mr. Dashwood had some very wealthy and influential friends. "And at an equally curious hour. If only we could see inside the drawing room." Given that the draperies were drawn and the room sat one story up, the possibility seemed unlikely.
The driver, who had done a fine job up until this point of minding his own business while indulging his eccentric but well-paying customers, now shifted in his seat. "Uh, sir? Any idea how long ye might be wantin’ to stay?"
Elizabeth consulted her watch again. "It is nearly midnight," she told Darcy.
> Candlelight appeared in Mr. Dashwood’s suite once more. Its draperies opened.
"Driver, how would you like to earn an extra crown?" Darcy asked.
Thirteen
"How you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension."
— Elinor to Mr. Willoughby,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 44
Lord Chatfield frowned as he scanned Darcy’s list. "You wish to know what all these gentlemen have in common? Is this some sort of riddle, Darcy?"
"I am afraid not." Darcy paced the earl’s library, hoping Chat-field could provide insight into the gathering he and Elizabeth had witnessed — or tried to witness — the night before. Their hackney driver had scaled a tree to peer inside Harry’s window but had attained his perch only in time to see a white-robed figure draw the draperies once more. No other clue as to the activities within had presented itself until Dashwood’s visitors had tumbled out — many of them deep in their cups — just before dawn.
Elizabeth still slept, but Darcy had risen after only a few hours. Eager to identify the men who had called upon Dash-wood, he’d consulted his peerage books to match their coats of arms with family names, then had come to his friend. Lord Chat-field knew absolutely everybody worth knowing in London — from peers and politicians to poets, scientists, and scholars. The earl’s own gatherings were legendary for drawing together seemingly disparate individuals for evenings of stimulating conversation. If any common interest linked the names Darcy had written down, Chatfield would know.
"Steepledown… Flaxbury… Westinghurst… Many of these men enjoyed considerable political influence years ago, but one hears little about them now." The earl leaned back in his chair and studied the list more closely "Parkington is well known as an art collector. He owns an extensive collection of sculpture. I’ve never seen it, but I understand much of it is of a, shall we say, suggestive nature — definitely not something for public display. He was a notorious libertine in his day."
"So was Longcliffe." After encountering him at the fencing club, Darcy had made some enquiries about him. He was also a heavy gambler.
"Bellingford… Bellingford… Why is that name familiar?" Chatfield absently tapped his finger against the paper. "I seem to recall a scandal several years back. Something about a mistress. Whatever it was, it ended badly." He regarded Darcy apologetically. "I am sorry — I wish I could be more helpful. Might I ask where this list came from?"
"I would rather not say. At least presently."
"That’s quite all right. I just thought the context might shed enlightenment." He scanned the names once more. "Darcy, may I keep this list for a day or two? I know someone who might be able to help us. I assure you, I will be most discreet."
"By all means."
Chatfield called upon Darcy the very next afternoon. The normally genial man appeared more serious than was his custom.
"Are Mrs. Darcy or your sisters at home?"
"No, they are gone out shopping."
"Good. I have news on the matter we discussed yesterday that I would not wish a lady to accidentally overhear."
Darcy ushered his friend into the library and closed the door. The earl declined Darcy’s offer of refreshment, or even a seat.
"I hardly know where to begin."
"No one will interrupt us. Start wherever seems best."
Chatfield paused. "Perhaps I’ll take that wine, after all."
Darcy pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter on the side table. The interview was not off to a favorable start for Mr. Dash-wood. Chatfield was one of the most forthright men Darcy knew; his present hesitation presaged ill tidings.
"I shared your list with an acquaintance of mine," the earl continued, "a fellow highly placed in the Home Office. I kept your name in confidence, of course, though he was very curious about the source of the list — for reasons I shall soon relate."
"I thank you for your discretion." Darcy handed him the glass and poured one for himself.
Chatfield took a fortifying draught. "You have, I presume, heard of the Hell-Fire Club? Sir Francis Dashwood and his so-called Monks of Medmenham?"
"I know of it generally — what any young man hears from his schoolmates. But no real particulars."
"No one knows all the particulars, save those who participated in its activities, and most of them are long dead. The ‘monks’ kept the details of their rituals secret. Given what is known of their exploits, I cannot imagine what they considered too terrible to reveal. It was a most shocking organization."
"Most of the tales I have heard are too outrageous to be believed. Schoolboy exaggerations of sexual exploits and Black Masses."
"They are not exaggerations. The Friars of Saint Francis conducted obscene mockeries of Christianity. According to accounts, the rituals involved Satan worship, fornicating on altars, drunken orgies, black magic, and other wickedness I cannot even bring myself to say aloud. Its motto was Fay ce que voudras."
"‘Do what thou wilt,’" Darcy translated.
"And apparently, they did. Horrible, horrible business! Yet many of the club’s suspected members were intelligent men who wielded considerable political power, especially during the years just before England’s loss of the American colonies. Their influence secretly extended into the highest reaches of the government."
"But the Hell-Fire Club, so far as I understand, died with Sir Francis more than three decades ago. How does it relate to my present enquiry?"
"Darcy, all of the names on that list are men believed to have been members of the Hell-Fire Club. Not Sir Francis’s inner circle, the superior members known as his Twelve Apostles,’ but inferior — junior — members."
And Harry Dash wood was associating with them. Worse — had hosted a gathering of them at his home. To what purpose? A lark? A means of rebelling against his mother? A darker motive? Darcy could only begin to speculate.
"Is the organization still active?"
Chatfield shook his head. "Not to anyone’s knowledge. But it is a secret society, after all, so who would know with certainty? I can tell you this — my source indicated that the government does not want to see the Hell-Fire Club rekindled. Given the current state of war with France, England cannot risk a group of depraved geniuses exerting the kind of political influence they enjoyed before the War of American Independence. Which is why your list generated no small amount of interest — one wonders how those names came to be collected, and why."
Though Darcy considered Chatfield a good friend and trusted him implicitly, he thought it best not to reveal Mr. Dashwood’s involvement with the men in question. At least, not at the moment. Until he had a chance to confront Harry himself, he would not jeopardize Mr. Dashwood’s reputation, or Harry’s friendship with Lady Chatfield’s brother, by informing the earl or anyone else of the gathering he’d observed.
And question Mr. Dashwood he would — this very day, if possible. If Harry indeed played with hell-fire, he dabbled in more danger than he realized. Someone needed to intervene before he got burned.
"I am in your debt," Darcy said. "I am afraid, however, that at present I cannot divulge the list’s origin without betraying a trust."
"I understand."
"I hope my silence on the subject will not create difficulties between you and your acquaintance at the Home Office?"
"Nothing too unpleasant. Though should you come into possession of evidence that the Hell-Fire Club is re-forming, he would be very interested in that intelligence."
"Of course."
He was not the only one.
Fourteen
"My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance."
— Mr. Willoughby to Elinor Dashwood,
Sense and Sensibility, Chapter 44
"Oh, why did we not come here earlier?" Kitty sighed bitterly. "Grafton House is always busy this time of day. We never should have stopped at
Layton and Shear’s first."
"It is the sign of a successful season," Elizabeth responded. "Do you think yourself the only girl in London preparing her trousseau? We were fortunate to secure an appointment with the mantuamaker before next week."
Elizabeth refrained from reminding her sister that the detour to Layton and Shear’s had been entirely Kitty’s idea. She had seen and passed on a lilac sarsenet during a previous visit to the Henrietta Street silk mercer, and this morning, having awakened with renewed interest in her trousseau after finally seeing Harry again, she repented the decision. She had insisted on returning to the shop directly they began the day’s errands, anxious lest some other young lady purchase the last yards minutes before them.
Layton and Shear’s had been crowded, forcing them to wait at the counter nearly half an hour before anyone could attend to them. When their turn did come, the shopkeeper immediately set their fears to rest by assuring them the desired sarsenet was still in plentiful supply. Kitty nonetheless bought a full ten yards, just to be safe. Georgiana, who had entered the shop with no personal errand, rewarded her own patience with a new pair of stockings.
From Covent Garden, they had proceeded immediately to Grafton House, only to find their favorite linendrapery teeming with even more customers. As they sized up the queue, they overheard one woman grumble that she had already waited a full three-quarters of an hour.
"Did you hear that, Lizzy?" Kitty moaned. "I had wanted to return to the house by now, in case Harry calls." Despite his promise to call the day before, Mr. Dashwood had not appeared, an omission which doubled Kitty’s anticipation of seeing him today.
"We could come back here on the morrow," Elizabeth offered.
"Tomorrow?" Kitty’s whole being reflected horror at the suggestion. "There won’t be a yard of fabric left here tomorrow!"
Thirty minutes’ time brought little change in their circumstance. Apparently, someone had neglected to inform them that this day had been designated specially for the indecisive to shop. Those waited upon ahead of them were thrown into acute distress by the choice between lawn or cambric, calico or muslin, patterned dimity or striped. One young lady, after examining every bolt of poplin in the shop, asked to see all of them a second time, then a third, before deciding upon a sprigged muslin instead. Her friend ordered gauze in silk, cotton, and linen rather than settle upon one. Elizabeth prayed neither would also ask to inspect lace or handkerchiefs.
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