Duty and Desire

“Undoubtedly!” Darcy’s lips twitched as Fletcher, outlining his campaign, helped him into his evening dress.

“I regret my inability to be more specific, sir, but we have only just arrived,” he apologized. “When I have discovered your host’s plans for your stay and the identity of his other guests, I shall know exactly how to proceed.”

His valet’s meticulous approach to his duties and pride in his employment deserved, Darcy decided, like candor on his part. “There is one other factor of which you should be aware, Fletcher.”

“Sir?” Fletcher’s expression clearly betrayed his belief that nothing important could have escaped his notice.

“I have lately decided that it is time I took a wife.”

“A wife, sir? Truly, Mr. Darcy, a wife?” A peculiar grin came over Fletcher’s face. “They are here, then, sir?”

“Who is here? I have not the pleasure of knowing Lord Sayre’s entire guest list. Whom do you mean?” Darcy demanded of his man’s strange response.

The valet looked back at him in confusion. “Then, why are we here, sir?”

“Why? To look for a suitable candidate — that should be obvious! Where else should we be?”

Darcy observed his man in wonder as Fletcher’s mouth opened to give him reply, then shut before more than an indistinguishable syllable had escaped. His face turned pink as he choked out, “Nowhere, sir! That is…here, I suppose, sir! Pardon me, Mr. Darcy!” and turned to rummage through a drawer he had just arranged.

Darcy continued with his dressing, one eye upon the antic movements of his valet, until all that was left was the knot of his neckcloth. “Fletcher!” he was forced to call to him, “I am ready for you.”

“Yes, sir.” The valet approached him with a regiment of cloths over one of his arms, a signal indication of his perturbation.

“I thought it was to be simple tonight?” Darcy indicated Fletcher’s burden.

“Pardon me, Mr. Darcy, but I am feeling unwell suddenly. These are only a precaution.” He eased the first around his master’s neck and under the moderate collar and began the fold.

“Unwell, Fletcher! Ill in my hour of need!” he quipped, doubtful that any real sickness was the cause of his valet’s puzzling behavior. “How shall I find a wife if I am not pleasingly attired? I depend upon you, man!”

Rather than a smile, Fletcher’s response to his teasing was a slight furrowing of his brow and then a cocking of one eye at his master. “Do you dance tonight, sir?”

“I have no notion. I imagine I will discover that at supper. Why?” Darcy asked in full expectation that Fletcher would match him for wit.

“If there is to be dancing, sir, I would avoid the Scotch jig or else you may find the cinquepace, thereafter, a lifetime occupation.” Fletcher gave a last tug to the ends of the knot. “There, sir, I think you are ready now.”

“In truth, Fletcher?” Darcy regarded him. “And from which of the plays is that one? I cannot place it.” Fletcher opened the door to the hall and bowed him out, but Darcy grasped the door, holding it ajar before his valet could complete his retreat behind it. “The play?” he insisted.

Fletcher’s jaw worked, and the furrow of his brow deepened; but as Darcy had no intention of moving until he had an answer, he waited. Finally, the valet’s eyes came up and met his. Straightening his shoulders, he pronounced, “Much Ado About Nothing, Mr. Darcy, and that’s my opinion of it…sir!”

Chapter 6 Dangerous Play

When Darcy entered through the doors swung open by satin-clad doormen, servants were in the process of clearing the second remove from the long table around which Sayre’s guests were arranged. That great piece of furniture appeared to Darcy as long and wide as the drawbridge that had allowed his coach and team entrance to the castle. Its surface gleamed from generations of beeswax rubbed upon its boards, the shine ably reflecting the light from the heavy, branching candelabras positioned at intervals down its length.

The company gathered there glittered as ably as the candle flames. Darcy quickly noted seven ladies and, including himself, an equal number of gentlemen before presenting his compliments to Sayre. The gentlemen of the party rose to welcome him as Sayre greeted his appearance with an exhibition of the genuine good humor he had been known for when they had all been together at Cambridge.

“Your place is laid down the line, my dear fellow, just beyond old Bev, there.” He nodded toward his younger brother, the Honorable Beverley Trenholme. “We have finished with the light fare and are about to tuck into what one truly comes to table for.” Sayre winked at Darcy, only to be brought to heel by Lady Sayre.

“La, my lord, I thought it was the company of the ladies for which a man comes to the table.” Lady Sayre pulled her full lips into a pretty pout as she looked to the other females among them. “My dears, we have been trumped by a sirloin of beef.” Protests from the gentlemen vied with laughter from the ladies as Darcy made his way to his seat. When he had gained it, it was with no little surprise that he discovered his cousin D’Arcy’s fiancee, Lady Felicia, and her parents, the Marquis and Lady Chelmsford, among the guests.

“Darcy” — His Lordship nodded to him as he sat down — “didn’t know you were a schoolmate of Sayre.”

“Two years behind, Your Lordship,” he responded as he shook out his napkin and laid it in his lap. Chelmsford answered with an incommunicative “Humph,” which his daughter smoothly covered with a dazzling smile directed at him.

“Papa is second cousin to Lord Sayre, Mr. Darcy.” Lady Felicia’s china blue eyes rested delicately upon him. “His Lordship has often invited Papa to visit, but only this latest invitation came at a convenient time. But I suppose, sir, you have been a frequent guest at this delightful relic?”

“No, my lady, this is my first visit.” At her look of surprise he added, “As in the case of your family, this was the first convenient time.” Her “Ah…” in reply was accompanied by a look suggestive of a shared understanding of his obligations and the sweetest of sympathetic smiles, putting Darcy suddenly in mind of the several times they had danced together. A very agreeable sensation of warmth took hold of him.

“Are you acquainted with all the other gentlemen?” she asked.

Darcy looked down the table. “Yes, all the others are Cambridge men. I have known Sayre since Eton, and his brother, who was a year behind me. Lord Manning” — he indicated the gentleman two away from them — “was in the same class as Sayre; Mr. Arthur Poole, a year behind them; and Viscount Monmouth was in the same class as myself, a year behind that. But of the ladies I am acquainted only with you and Lady Chelmsford.” He smiled, inviting her to enlighten him.

“Well, I am not at all certain that I should introduce them,” she flirted back in the accepted mode, “for then you shall be free to ask them to dance sooner rather than late.” Evidently, Lady Felicia remembered their dancing as well as he did.

“As you say,” he responded. She rewarded his discretion with a low-pitched laugh and turned to indicate the lady directly across the wide expanse of table from him.

“That is my mother’s widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Farnsworth. Her daughter, my cousin, Miss Judith Farnsworth, is seated next to Mr. Poole.” She indicated the young woman with light brown curls arranged a la grec. “Now, Lady Sayre, you must know, is sister to Lord Manning. But you may not be aware that they share a younger sister, the Honorable Miss Arabella Avery, who is seated next to Lord Monmouth.” Darcy nodded as he located the lady, who, upon noticing his gaze, blushed and turned her eyes to her plate.

“Upon my other side there remains only Lady Sylvanie Trenholme, Sayre’s sister.” Darcy’s eyes followed Lady Felicia’s gracefully raised hand to behold the face of one he could describe only as a fairy princess, her black hair and gray eyes a perfect contrast to the guinea-gold goddess beside him.

“I did not know Sayre had a sister,” he confessed in surprise as Lady Felicia turned back to him, effectively blocking his view.

“Nor did most,” she replied. “She is the daughter of Sayre’s father’s second wife and has only just come back from school and an extended visit to her mother’s relatives in Ireland to live at Norwycke Castle. Although she is past the usual age, Sayre intends to present her at Court this Season. I am quite in sympathy with her.” She