“That would be splendid!” Darcy’s tentative relief expanded. “But you must know, Mrs. Annesley will make a third of our party, if that is agreeable.”
“Of course, Miss Darcy’s companion! Yes, the excellent Mrs. Annesley is very welcome. She will do nicely to entertain my elderly cousin, who will also make up our party. A fine old lady, but a trifle deaf.” Witcher and a footman appeared with His Lordship’s things and assisted him in the donning as he and Darcy spoke of the upcoming Chess Tourney. “Will you be competing, Fitz?” Brougham asked as he set his beaver at a jaunty angle upon his auburn locks.
“No, I have been asked to judge again this year.”
“Pity, that! I would have liked to have seen you take them on!” He advanced to the door. “Oh, by the by, Fitz” — his brow contracted and his voice lowered so that Darcy had to lean toward him to hear — “you never told Georgiana it was I who hid her doll when she was a child?”
“No,” Darcy replied, amused by his friend’s look of deep concern. “I did not. Why?”
“Good! Good, indeed. Let it remain so! Tah, Fitz!” Darcy stepped through the door, despite the cold blast, and watched Dy run down the stairs.
“Shall I close the door, sir?” the footman asked.
“Yes…yes.” Darcy turned back in bemusement to the warmth of Erewile House.
“My dear Georgiana,” Caroline Bingley pled throatily, “I beg you will be guided by me.” She fingered the page they were discussing of
Darcy looked up from the hand of cards that Hurst had just dealt him and directed a narrowed gaze upon Miss Bingley. Caroline Bingley to guide his sister in her coming out frocks? Not bloody likely! He played his card and leaned back in the chair. Georgiana smiled faintly to their hostess, but a tightness that only a brother could detect laid to quick rest the words of caution that had begun to form in his brain. Darcy’s gaze returned to the clutch of cards in his hand as he waited for the others at the table to finish arranging theirs and meet the challenge of his first play. He had long ago eschewed the practice of arranging a hand by suit; doing so communicated far too much to an observant opponent and was indicative, in his opinion, of a laziness of mind.
“There!” Bingley threw down his answer to Darcy’s card in exasperation. “And may you have the pleasure of it!” A warning “tch-tch” from Hurst did nothing to quell Bingley’s dismay with his hand; rather, it encouraged him to look daggers at his brother-in-law’s head, causing Darcy to wonder what had his friend’s wind up. Hurst removed a card from his hand and, employing it as a shovel, pushed the pile toward Darcy.
“Interesting opening, Darcy,” he grunted as Darcy’s long fingers covered the cards he’d won and flicked out his next play.
“Darcy makes it a study to be ‘interesting’ at the card table,” groused Bingley as he brooded over his hand. “Sets everyone else at a disadvantage, I
Darcy arched a brow at his friend. “Poor spirits, Charles?” A triumphant “aha!” from Hurst as he slapped down his card prevented him from hearing Bingley’s reply, but the set of his friend’s shoulders dissuaded him from pursuing his question. They finished the hand in silence, the conversation from the ladies nearby serving admirably as an excuse for its lack at the table.
“When do you leave for Lord Sayre’s?” Bingley’s sudden question halted all discourse in the room and brought Miss Bingley slowly to her feet.
“Monday next,” Darcy replied as he gathered the cards.
“Mr. Darcy,” began Miss Bingley, “this is rather sudden, is it not? I had not heard you were to leave our company.” Her eyes flashed toward her brother.
“I believe we may get on without Darcy for a week, Caroline, especially if he intends to be always winning at cards,” Charles replied. Then he turned back to his friend. “But it is rather sudden, this idea to go haring off. At least, you never mentioned it to me before today.”
Miss Bingley seconded her brother’s words, adding, “How will Miss Darcy go on if you leave her?”
“My aunt, Lady Matlock, has arrived in Town and will be taking Georgiana under her chaperonage for the week I am gone.” He laid the pile of cards precisely on the table and, picking up the small glass of port at his right, he took a sip, allowing its sweet savor to reveal all its pleasurable nuances before continuing. “My cousins will look in on her, and my friend Lord Brougham has promised the same. I would never leave Georgiana without first seeing to her care.”
Miss Bingley paled at his rebuke and hastily returned to her journal of fashion.
“Well, then.” Bingley coughed and took up the cards. “Shall we continue?” Darcy nodded and reached for the cards Bingley dealt him. His decision to accept Lord Sayre’s invitation to a house party at Norwycke Castle
Darcy’s direction to Hinchcliffe to send his acceptance to Sayre’s invitation had succeeded in both raising that retainer’s brows and compressing his lips into a disapproving line. “Why, what have you heard?” Darcy had demanded of his secretary.
“Finances in complete disarray, sir. Shouldn’t think but His Lordship will have to seriously retrench in the spring. Owes money to tradesmen, bankers, and moneylenders alike. Debts of honor —”
“In other words, a typical peer of the realm.” Darcy had interrupted him. “I do not attend at his invitation in order to become his banker, Hinchcliffe. Or partner him in any scheme,” he had quickly added before his secretary could raise the objection. “You have taught me well in that regard. I am merely in a humor to be entertained.”
“Very good, sir,” Hinchcliffe had replied, although through long association, Darcy had taken him to mean no such thing.
In complete contrast to the stiff disapproval of his secretary had been the reception of his decision by his valet. Fletcher’s eyes had widened considerably at the news, and his tense anticipation of the prospect had made him a trial to the entire staff of Erewile House. At Norwycke Castle, among the other masters of his art, Fletcher would be in his element, and Darcy had reluctantly conceded, he would be obliged to allow his man a certain freeness of hand. “Within bounds, Fletcher,” he had cautioned. “I’ll not turn fashion’s fool to satisfy your reputation. And no surprises!”
“Certainly, sir!” Fletcher had bowed eagerly. “Nothing remarkable in itself, nothing showy or vulgar, merely a higher degree of elegance,” the valet had sketched out. Then after a pause, “Mr. Darcy, sir?” Darcy had nodded his permission to speak. “The Roquet, sir. Would you condescend to —”
“Your accurst knot?” Darcy had grunted and looked away from him, all the discomfort of Fletcher’s recent triumph recommending itself to his memory. Weighing it carefully against the damage a refusal would deal to his valet’s pride and standing among his peers, he had turned back and given him a quick nod. “But let that be the tether end of your invention!”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” Fletcher had gabbled, barely restraining his excitement, and departed the interview all but rubbing his hands together.
The revelation to his sister of Darcy’s departure had been quite another matter. Georgiana had swiftly covered the surprise and disappointment that his awkward announcement at supper had called forth. He had known he was distressing her, and he’d prayed she would ask him no questions on his sudden desertion; for he could give her no coherent answer or expect her understanding of the half-formed reasons with which he had assayed to satisfy his own conscience. For, in truth, the decision to attend Lord Sayre’s house party had had more to do with impulse than with reason.
Darcy had known Sayre since their days at Eton, and although the older boy had never been a comrade, he had been a decent sort when it came to the younger boys at school. Later, at Cambridge, they had quartered in the
