These Three Remain

until I return.”

“You must leave?” Darcy asked, loathe to be left to his own devices in a room of strangers. He found too that he liked the caress in Sylvanie’s voice and the warm pressure of her on his arm.

“Only long enough to sing a few songs for my guests. Tonight is rather special,” she whispered conspiratorially as they made their way across the room. “Monmouth has secured Tom Moore for this evening! He consented to sing but only on the condition that we perform a duet and that I play for him.”

“An honor, indeed,” Darcy acknowledged, much impressed. He had heard the widely popular Irish tenor perform on more than one occasion and in highly prestigious company. That Sylvanie had obtained him for her soiree was, in itself, a social triumph of the first order. Moore’s desire that she sing and play for him was a supreme compliment.

“Sylvanie, darlin’!” Sir John O’Reilly’s exclamation brought them to a halt. “What would you be doin’ with Darcy here? Keepin’ him ta yerself all evenin’?”

“O’Reilly!” Sylvanie brightened. “Have you already met, then?”

“Didn’t Monmouth himself introduce us when he first come in the door?” He paused and bussed her cheek. “I’ve the distinct honor o’ bein’ his oldest new friend here! Is that not the truth, m’fine lad?” O’Reilly winked at him again from under bushy, grizzled brows. If Sylvanie were Faerie Queen, O’Reilly was one of the wee folk writ large, although Darcy suspected his treasure lay in his silver tongue rather than in buried gold.

Sylvanie laughed. “Then perhaps you would not object to taking charge of his further introduction, for I must see to Moore and the entertainment. But I expect you to take good care of him,” she warned, “for I shall return and demand him of you when I am finished.” She nodded to them both but bestowed upon Darcy a lingering caress of her fingers before removing her hand and threading her way gracefully through the knots of guests.

“I suppose that means she’ll be wantin’ you back sober, more’s the pity.” Sir John sighed dramatically. “Ah well, what can no’ be mended must be endured. Here!” He stopped a servant and, lifting two whiskeys from the tray, handed one to Darcy. “To endurin’!” He toasted him and tossed it back.

“To endurance.” Darcy repeated and lifted his glass as well. It had been some time since he had tossed back any appreciable amount of whiskey, and that which was served here was potent. The liquor scorched a trail down his throat, but at least this time it did not bring tears to his eyes. He brought the glass down to behold a smiling Sir John.

“There now, better this time, eh?” He then motioned round the room with his glass, the remainder of his whiskey sloshing dangerously as he did so. “Know many of the others here?”

“Almost no one,” Darcy replied. “Monmouth is a friend from university. I met Syl — Lady Monmouth while visiting her brothers in Oxfordshire last January. Moore I have heard sing before, of course, but have not met.”

“Would you be wantin’ to meet anyone in particular?” Sir John finished his glass and cast about him for a place to lay it.

“I am not certain.” Darcy hesitated, surveying the crowd a moment before recalling the curious incident that had happened earlier. “Yes, Bellingham.” Darcy looked down at Sir John and then stayed him as he began to search the room. “He has already gone, but perhaps you would explain something he said.”

“Somethin’ he said now?” O’Reilly’s tone cooled. “Bellingham says all too much, I’m thinking.”

“It was a question, actually, which I apparently did not understand; for he took great offense at my reply.”

“ ‘What have you got in your hand?’ Would that be the question?” At Darcy’s surprised nod, O’Reilly looked away and swore under his breath. “And what did you answer him?”

“That I held a glass of wine…” O’Reilly almost choked at his answer. “Which was the truth; but he was listening for something else, was he not?”

“Oh, aye!” O’Reilly raised his eyes to Heaven, then shook his head. “You’ll have observed, bright lad that you are, that most of these present at Sylvanie’s gatherin’ are of Irish descent or persuasion. He was testin’ your sympathies to see where they might lie, and ‘a glass of wine’ was no the right answer!”

“Yes, he made that quite clear!” Darcy agreed. “But —”

“Ah, there’s the darlin’ and Moore beside her!” Sir John interrupted him, turning Darcy’s attention to the door. Indeed, Sylvanie was there, posed enchantingly with her harp in her arms and the great Moore at her elbow. The crowd parted to allow them into the center of the room, applause rising as they passed. “Here, Darcy.” Sir John deposited his glass, snagged another pair of tumblers from a tray, and handed him one. Looking about him, he saw that all the servants were busily engaged in distributing identical glasses to everyone present and that all were getting to their feet. “Wait for the toast now, lad!” Sir John nudged his arm and nodded his head toward their hostess and her famous guest as all grew quiet.

Holding her harp loosely in the crook of one arm, Sylvanie tossed back the curls that tumbled in rampant luxury over her shoulder and accepted with Moore a glass from a servant. The expectancy that gripped the room laid hold upon Darcy as well as all attention centered upon them. Suddenly, Sylvanie raised her glass. “What have you got in your hand?” she asked.

“A green bough!” those in the room thundered back, raising their glasses in turn.

“Where did it first grow?” Moore stepped up and raised his glass to the room.

“In America!” came the unison reply. Darcy looked down into the glass in his hand with consternation, at a loss as to what he should do. He felt he ought to know, he ought to decide and then act upon it; but how to begin such an enterprise eluded him.

“Where did it bud?” Beside him, Sir John bellowed out the question.

“In France!” The answer sliced through the air, then all once more grew silent as every eye returned to their hostess.

Sylvania let her gray-eyed gaze travel slowly over the room. They were entirely with her, of that Darcy had no doubt. She held them delicately but with surety in the palm of her hand as she stood in fierce beauty before them. A look of exaltation washed slowly over her face, recalling to Darcy memories of their conversations at Norwycke Castle. Power, she had said when last he had seen that look, the power of riding the crest of passion, is life worth the living. Had she proven it so? As she thrust her glass again high in the air, Sylvanie’s voice rang out, a sudden clarion in the silence. “Where are you going to plant it?”

“In the crown of Great Britain!” The roar circled the room, and a hundred glasses of Irish whiskey were drained in an instant.

“Now, lad, now!” O’Reilly urged him as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Ah, a glorious sight, isn’t she?”

Darcy nodded. “Yes, she is.” He brought the glass up and tipped it toward her. To you, Sylvanie, he toasted her silently, and your passion for life. At that moment a servant stepped up to Sir John with a tray on which he thankfully deposited his empty glass. Seeing it, Darcy brought the toast to his lips, only to have the man turn sharply toward him, knocking the glass out of his hand. With a startled exclamation from all three men, the heavy glass tumbler hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Your pardon, sir!” The servant ducked his head as he apologized and then went down on the floor to retrieve the glass. Darcy frowned at the man’s broad back as he blotted at the carpet, recognizing him as the one who had arrested his attention earlier that evening. The man’s face was properly averted from his betters, but there continued something about him — his movements, perhaps — that seemed so familiar. He rose then and, with his back to Darcy, proceeded to attend to Sir John, who was flicking at the droplets of whiskey that had been flung upon his waistcoat.

“Have a care, man!” Sir John bit out angrily, displeased by the man’s futile attempts at remedy.

“Yes, sir,” the servant responded, then more loudly, “Excellent advice, sir!”

“What?” Sir John demanded in surprise at the man’s impertinence, but the servant was already bowing and thereafter whisked himself and the tray quickly into the crowd. “Cheeky blighter!” O’Reilly commented to Darcy, who stood frozen for a moment staring after the man in disbelief. That voice! It could not possibly be…! He stretched to attention, trying to follow the servant’s path through the room, but even his superior height could not afford him a clear view of his quarry.

“You must excuse me, O’Reilly! Your pardon!” he blurted out and stepped round him, but Sir John laid a strong hand upon his arm.