These Three Remain

your driving —”

“Out!” Darcy repeated, his irritation growing as he cast about for a destination that would satisfy both his inquisitors and his own requirement for relief. The solution came to him with sudden clarity. “Out — fencing!”

“Very good, sir.” Fletcher bowed low again, but his delicacy was for naught; for, despite its softness, the sound of the bedchamber door closing behind Miss Darcy’s skirts echoed clearly through the room.

“Yes.” Darcy looked about him approvingly before beginning his warming exercises. He had made the right choice. The atmosphere of the fencing rooms was just what he required to exorcise the demons of mind and the cramp of his body that had plagued him since That Day. He threw back his shoulders and began tracing the slow arcs and easing into stretches that would loosen the muscles in his back, arms, and limbs, readying them for the demands which he would soon place upon them. It had been rather a long time since he had held sword or foil, and though the weight felt good in his hand and the urge to immediate action was great, he knew it behooved him to commence his reacquaintance slowly. Yes, this was exactly what he needed. No one here would think of demanding of him anything more than common decency, fair play, and style in his swordsmanship. Of those, he was quite as capable as any gentleman and more so; for the first two lay in his blood and, as to the last, he knew his swordplay was generally considered both powerful and elegant.

From the corner of his eye, Darcy spied Genuardi, the fencing master, who acknowledged his presence with a salute and a bow. Pausing in his regime, he returned the courtesy, ignoring the wistful or jealous glances cast him by lesser blades who dreamed of such attention, and then returned to his study. The blood in his veins began to flow faster; his sinews and muscles warmed. The stiffness fell away from his limbs. His movements increased in their speed and fluidity until, finally, he felt that rush of power, of such control over his body that he knew it would do all he asked of it. God, it felt good! He slowed his movements, his heart pounding only moderately, then stopped to wipe the sheen of perspiration from his brow and survey the room for an opponent. He heard the step behind him only a second before feeling the tap on his shoulder.

“Darcy, old man! Where have you been?” Surprised at the voice, Darcy pivoted to face Lord Tristram Monmouth, who gestured carelessly with his foil. “Care for a go?” Tris’s brow lifted lazily, but there was in his old university roommate’s manner a certain nervous tension for which Darcy could not account. That Monmouth was here at all was strange enough. He could not remember seeing him in the fencing rooms any time over the last two years. Perhaps his wife, Lady Sylvanie, had lost her fascination.

“Monmouth,” Darcy returned, nodding his assent, and walked away to claim a position on the floor. Tension was good. It made one’s opponent too careful or too reckless, and either could be used to advantage. Centering his feet upon the mark, Darcy looked up to observe his challenger and decided that, in Monmouth’s case, it would be too reckless. Why, he could not assay, for Tris’s “En garde!” had already sounded loud in his ears. They met. Within seconds, Darcy knew he had been right. Tris’s swordsmanship in their university days had been admirable, but he had not, evidently, advanced his form much beyond that.

Their engagement was not a long one, its duration more a result of his permission than of Tris’s skill, but in the course of it, he found himself, not once but twice, forced to block an illegal thrust. The first he put down to the heat of the moment; the second time, he was not so certain and quickly put an end to their play, scoring his touches in the remaining bouts with precision and speed. Stunned by Monmouth’s actions, he searched his face as they exchanged the formal ending salute, but Tris only smiled back at him, seemingly unaware that anything untoward had occurred. Was it possible he had just been carried away or, perhaps, forgotten proper form over the years?

Still smiling, his old mate advanced upon him, his hand outstretched. “Better than university days! Damn me, Darcy, if you are not!”

“I have kept at it.” He grasped Monmouth’s hand briefly.

“In a word!” Monmouth snorted. “After your demonstration at Say ——, the last time we met, Manning wagered that you could take any or all of the rest of us in under ten minutes. Well, old man, you know how I cannot resist a sporting wager!”

“I hope that I have not done you significant harm,” Darcy offered, relieved to have an explanation for Monmouth’s actions.

“No, no! I am in good funds, thanks to My Lady.” He winked at him. “Who, by the by, would be very pleased if you would accept her invitation sent you this week to dine with us and a select number of friends.” Monmouth paused for Darcy’s reply but must have sensed the polite decline that hovered on his lips, for he then continued hurriedly, “I can promise you an interesting evening, Darcy, not the usual set at all. ‘Tell him he will not be bored or hunted!’ she said, and I swear, ’struth! Sylvanie likes fascinating people around her: artists, thinkers, writers — deep uns like you. Allow me to convey My Lady your acceptance, there’s a good fellow!”

“Acceptance! What are you accepting now, ‘good fellow’ Darcy?” Both men looked up in surprise to see Lord Brougham propped against one of the pillars that marched along that side of the room. Monmouth stiffened visibly at the voice, but when he saw that it was only Brougham, Darcy could sense the relief that swept through him. His own surprise remained at the fore. He had never seen Dy in Genuardi’s fencing rooms or heard of his membership in any other. What could have tempted him today? Or could Georgiana have sent him?

“An invitation to dine with a collection of jaw-me-deads. Nothing in your line of interest, Brougham, I assure you,” Monmouth drawled as his gaze traveled pointedly over His Lordship’s elegant, unruffled figure. “No gaming — well, there’s a pity — only a little music and a great deal of conversation. Philosophy and politics, that sort of thing.”

“Brougham,” Darcy interrupted, stepping toward his friend, “Georgiana?”

“In a manner of speaking, but do not trouble yourself — as yet.” Dy held up a restraining hand and then turned a supercilious gaze upon their companion. “Philosophy and politics, eh, Monmouth? Both in one evening? I should say, it will be select and, you are correct, quite beyond my poor brain. But, tell me, My Lord, who will you talk to all evening?”

Monmouth’s sword arm tensed briefly but relaxed when Darcy swiftly interposed himself between them. “His Lordship and I have unfinished business to discuss!” He deflected Dy’s question and shot him a dark frown. Then, looking back at Monmouth, he continued, “Please convey to Lady Monmouth that I accept her invitation.”

At his promise, a look of satisfaction replaced the anger in Monmouth’s face, and with a smirk at Brougham, he turned to Darcy. “Her Ladyship will be very pleased to hear it. Tomorrow at eight, then? Good! Your servant, Darcy.” He bowed. “Brougham.” He barely paused to nod in his direction before sauntering toward the dressing rooms.

“You cannot truly mean to go, Fitz!” Brougham’s lip curled in disgust as they watched Monmouth walk away.

“You would not have me go back on my word, would you?” Darcy rounded on him.

“In this particular case, I would, and with great urgency,” Brougham replied. “One does not owe one’s word to the Devil!”

“Coming it rather strong, are you not?” Darcy bristled. “And I would not have given it if you had refrained from antagonizing him. Good Lord, Dy, you all but called the man an idiot to his face!”

“I beg your pardon, Fitz; I was under the distinct impression that I had! But that is neither here nor there.” Brougham dismissed the topic of His Lordship. “What I wish to know is why, after I have taken great pains to avoid an acquaintance springing up between Miss Darcy and Lady Monmouth, you are now increasing its likelihood?”

“I have never seen you here before today.” Darcy met the uncomfortable question with one of his own. “Have you come to fence, or did Georgiana…?”

“Oh, to fence, my friend; and it appears that we have begun already, although I am not yet undressed for it!” Brougham began to unbutton his frock coat. “I was distracted, you see, by your magnificent display of forbearance on the floor. You know, he fouled you twice.”

“That does not make him the Devil!”

“True, Fitz, very true; Monmouth is only a serpent, and a very lowly one at that, running the Devil’s errands.” Just then, one of the room’s attendants appeared to relieve Brougham of his coat and waistcoat, and both men fell silent. Darcy watched closely while his friend divested himself of the restraining garments of their station and then stepped back as Dy accepted the protective waistcoat and foil the servant offered and began his own regime of limbering stretches.