These Three Remain

“And yours, sir,” Sir John responded, his demeanor warming slightly. “So, Darcy. Come to talk politics or philosophy?”

“I have not yet decided, Sir John, as I am a newcomer to Monmouth’s ‘select’ gatherings,” he confessed with a wry tilt of his chin toward his host. “I believe it would be the wiser course to listen and learn before giving my opinion on either subject.”

“You must not possess a drop of Irish blood if that is your way.” Sir John laughed. “Lack of familiarity never stopped one o’ my race from holdin’ forth on a subject. Not knowin’ what he is talkin’ about only encourages an Irishman to wax more eloquent upon it.”

“I do not know whether I should agree with you, sir, or not.” Darcy joined in the laughter Sir John’s witticism had provoked in those immediately around them. “But I expect if I am careful to listen, I shall learn that as well.”

“Very politic of you, Mr. Darcy.” Sir John nodded at him. “You’ll do. If you will excuse me? Monmouth.” He winked at His Lordship and then melted into the crowd.

“Drink up, Darcy.” Monmouth indicated his still untasted punch. “Sylvanie awaits.” Darcy raised a brow at his glass and then sampled its contents under His Lordship’s amused regard. It took all his willpower to suppress the choke and gasp his throat demanded of him. As it was, irrepressible tears sprang to his eyes. “Ha!” Monmouth clapped him on the back. “Not a whiskey drinker, I see!”

“No, not usually,” he managed to reply as he wiped at his eyes. A servant appeared at his elbow.

“May I take that, sir?” he asked, bowing and then producing an empty tray.

“Yes, here.” Darcy put down the unfinished glass.

“Very good, sir.” The servant bowed again and whisked it away.

“Humph,” observed Monmouth, “a day-hire who actually knows what he is about! Well, then.” He grinned. “Now you are ‘baptized,’ you may wander freely, old man. Oh, yes!” Monmouth responded to his look of surprise. “Without the smell of ‘water of life’ on your breath, you would be held in suspicion. All is right and tight now! But, My Lady first.” With that His Lordship took Darcy’s arm in a firm grip and set off with purpose for the other end of the drawing room. It was just as well, for the whiskey had, by this juncture, reached Darcy’s head, and for the moment, the room appeared somewhat confusing. They passed the servant who had taken his glass, and something about him struck Darcy as so curious that he halted their progress to stare after him. “What is it, Darcy?” Monmouth asked.

“The servant, the one who took my glass.”

“Yes?” His Lordship prompted impatiently.

“For a moment…he seemed familiar,” he finished lamely.

“Likely you have seen him in service at other houses; as I said, he is a day- hire.”

A rustling sound replaced that of the conversations around them. A path between them and their destination opened to reveal Lady Sylvanie Monmouth rising from her seat surrounded by a coterie of men and women, all of whom exuded an intensity of passion for whatever subject had just been suspended. They all turned curious, glittering eyes upon him as Her Ladyship smiled and held out her hand to him. If he had called her a faerie princess before, it had been a weak metaphor. No, it was the Queen of Faerie who smiled upon him. Her luxurious black hair tumbled in ringlets about her creamy white shoulders, and as she moved toward him, her diaphanous emerald gown revealed more than any man but her husband should have known. The memory of what she had offered him at Norwycke raced through his frame.

“Mr. Darcy, welcome!” Her voice fell warm and intimate upon his senses. “How we have longed to see you again!”

Darcy could not be certain whether it was Sylvanie or the whiskey which had kindled the warmth that was now spreading throughout his frame, but the curst tight knot that had taken up residence in his chest a week before seemed to come loose. The welcome in her every movement as she approached him soothed his battered pride, then excited in him an appreciative anticipation. He smiled back at her and bowed, said, “Lady Monmouth,” and rose to a face made even lovelier by a light of gentle amusement.

“So formal, Mr. Darcy?” she returned with a low-pitched laugh. “But we are more intimately acquainted than that, are we not?” She nodded to Monmouth, who bowed his leave with a smirk and took himself off to another part of the room. “We are not so careful to observe all the old proprieties here.” Lady Monmouth took his arm, drawing him back to where she had been seated. “The world is changing and ablaze with new ideas that have no patience for that which is past.” She glanced up at him, gauging his reaction, he supposed, but the delicious warmth suffusing him from within and caressing his senses from without overrode any impulse he might have had to take issue with her words. “Here, I am simply Sylvanie to your Darcy.” Lady Monmouth resumed her seat on the divan and indicated to Darcy the space beside her.

As he took the place next to her, her admirers, who had drifted away at her desertion of them, strolled back, their eyes lighting upon him with a keen interest. Among them, though, were some who regarded him with a troubled uncertainty, while others cast upon him looks that bordered on hostility. One in particular, an intense- looking gentleman whose stance seemed to indicate resentment of Darcy’s favored status, leaned near her ear and murmured something as she signaled a servant for more refreshments to be brought. “My dear Bellingham,” she replied smoothly in undertone, “all is well!” She turned a wry smile upon Darcy. “They are all eager to know you! Will you allow me the introductions?”

Nodding his uneasy permission, Darcy reached for a glass of wine from the tray that appeared at his elbow. True to her word, all noble titles were abjured, and Sylvanie made her introductions by surname only. Nonetheless, Darcy recognized several who were titled lords or ladies, though minor ones. Those with a claim to some little fame for their art or writing were introduced as such, those with political aspirations with the names of their connections. As he had anticipated, they were a diverse lot, although radical might have been a better epithet, he decided. Further, many of them, as was his first new acquaintance of the evening, were Irish. Even as Darcy hoped he harbored no prejudice toward that fractious population, he could not have been unaware of the problems the radicals among them had been presenting to the government as it sought to prosecute a united effort against Napoleon. An indifferent Tory by birth, he had delved no more deeply into modern political philosophy than with an appreciative reading of Burke. Content as he was in the careful observance of his personal creed of responsible obligation to King on the one hand and to his own lands, tenants, and people on the other, the “Irish Question” had never intruded on his consciousness. If he read this gathering aright, it was about to do so.

“‘What have you got in your hand,’ Darcy?” Bellingham demanded of him, his eyes narrowly focused on his face. Darcy stared back at him, a brow raised in warning.

“Bellingham!” Sylvanie responded sharply but then continued in a more conciliatory voice. “All is well.”

“It is a simple enough question.” Bellingham ignored her, his gaze intent upon Darcy. “What have you got in your hand?”

“It appears to resemble a glass of wine.” Darcy brought the glass to his lips and drained half of it, all the while holding Bellingham’s eyes with his own. “Yes, definitely wine! But pray, enlighten me, sir, if you deem it otherwise.” He held the glass out to him.

Bellingham drew back at the offer, a look of supreme disdain upon his countenance. “I thought as much.” He sneered and then turned to his hostess. “ ‘All is well,’ Sylvanie?” he questioned her. “Not bloody likely!” Then, with the briefest of nods, he stalked away.

Darcy stared after him in wonder, but when his gaze returned to those about him, he immediately sensed that his welcome among them was dissipating as quickly as Bellingham’s stride was taking him to the door. What had he said? He quickly downed the rest of the contents of his glass.

“You must take no notice of Bellingham.” Sylvanie leaned against his arm and, reaching across him, took the glass from his hand. The scent of her perfume drifted over him, the smell of new roses and rain-drenched moss. “He is a strange man at best, and tonight he is more than a little preoccupied.” She smiled up at Darcy from under shapely black brows. “Do not let him spoil the evening.” Darcy found he could not help returning her smile and inclined his head in agreement. “Excellent.” She laughed in pleasure with him and then rose from her seat, placing the glass on a table. “Come then; there are those here who, I daresay, you will enjoy meeting.” Rising, he stepped up at her invitation, and once again, she tucked her hand inside his arm. “As your hostess, I must ensure your comfort,” she murmured intimately, “and as I must leave you in a few minutes, I would have you well provided for