Suspense & Sensibility

'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,