faultless shine. Earlier, Fletcher had sent to Erewile House, Darcy’s London home, for his best black coat and breeches, which now hung at the ready. The valet had scoured the local establishments for an acceptably snowy pair of stockings but, in the end, had been forced to send to London for these as well. Darcy noted that his shirt was starched and pressed, a supply of neckcloths was in similar condition, and his watch, links, emerald stickpin, and fobs lay on the dresser, gleaming as richly as the smile of satisfaction on Fletcher’s face as he emerged from the dressing room, pumps in hand.
“There, sir.” His valet waved the shoes before him for his inspection. “Polished up as nice as if I’d found the ’98 instead of having to use the ’02.” Darcy nodded, his mind occupied with the intricate niceties of the apology he was still attempting to compose.
“Ahem.” Fletcher cleared his throat and waited for his employer’s eyes to alight upon him. “Mr. Darcy… about your waistcoat for this evening,” he ventured carefully.
Darcy shot him a suspicious frown. “Yes, what about my waistcoat? It is the black silk made to match the breeches, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, but I was thinking…” Fletcher paused as Darcy’s eyes narrowed further, and then he finished hurriedly, “the emerald green and gold shot silk.”
“Fletcher!”
“Merely a suggestion, sir. Nothing more. The plain black it shall be.” The valet put the pumps down beside the chair on which the suit was carefully laid. “Although” — he sighed — “why you should wish to disappear into the woodwork, overshadowed by flashy young men in their vulgar dress uniforms, I cannot pretend to know.”
“I do not intend to ‘disappear into the woodwork’ tonight, Fletcher!”
“Just so, sir.”
“Meaning what?”
“As you say, sir, you do not
“But you believe that in the plain black waistcoat, and in spite of my intentions, I will?” Darcy challenged.
“Mr. Darcy,” Fletcher replied patiently, drawing from his wealth of sartorial experience, “I am convinced that you are noticed in whatever place you grace with your attendance. But I have observed, sir, that a room filled with red coats tends to distract certain persons, primarily the female portion of the race. The ladies, God bless them, seem to require something upon which to focus.”
Dubious at first, Darcy pondered the idea as Fletcher retrieved the debated waistcoat from the packing box from London. A small voice in the back of his mind expressed amazement that he was even considering such nonsense, but when Fletcher rejoined him, he found his own attention caught by the soft glitter of the emerald and gold threads, which created a rich paisley pattern on the black silk background.
“As you wish, Fletcher. Take the plain one away and leave that.” Darcy knew that he had better leave before Fletcher talked him into something he would regret. “Be ready for me at seven o’clock,” he ordered briskly.
“Very good, sir.”
Darcy found that, once again, he was leaving his rooms mistrusting the bland expression on the valet’s face and wondered whatever had become of his biddable man. He had certainly begun to behave in a most peculiar manner.
As he entered the breakfast room, Darcy found Bingley just sitting down and quizzed him on such an early appearance as he poured his coffee. “Oh, the anticipation of the ball, I suppose,” Bingley replied. “I have hosted small, private parties in Town, of course, but this!” He waved his own cup in an arc before gulping half of it down. “This is a fence quite beyond my height. I could hardly sleep last night for wondering whether I had forgotten something or whether what I had remembered was properly done.”
“Miss Bingley is satisfied with your efforts, no doubt.”
“On the contrary, Miss Bingley is satisfied with little about this entire affair. Her serenity, I beg to inform you, sir, is for your pleasure alone. If it were not for the enjoyment I expect in a certain lady’s company, I would not have wished to embark on this interminable odyssey at all!”
“Come, come, Bingley. It is expected that a man of your position and in possession of a country house will host such occasions yearly and” — he added at Bingley’s grimace — “various smaller social gatherings throughout the year. It is so at Pemberley and Erewile House; you know that.”
“Everything runs so smoothly there; I am sure you are not troubled in the least! Everything here is at sixes and sevens and…and this food is cold! Where are the servants?” Bingley threw down his napkin and made to rise.
“Bingley! Be easy, sir.” Darcy put a restraining hand on his arm. “A gentleman does not berate his servants, and you are quite in danger of breaching that wise maxim.” Darcy met the distinctly mulish expression that Bingley turned upon him with an arched brow.
“Oh, blast it all; I know you are right, Darcy.” Bingley collapsed back into his chair. “I will behave myself, so you may pack away that imperious look and help me deal with this infernal ball.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration and then flashed Darcy the ingenuous grin his friend knew so well. “At least one thing has turned out well, quite providential in fact.”
“Pray tell me your one thing, Charles, so we may rejoice together.” Darcy laughed.
“That fellow you wished not to see. Wickham.”
“Yes?” Darcy’s jaw flexed unconsciously.
“Went to see Colonel Forster about him but met Mr. Denny before I could speak to him. Good thing, that. Denny desired me to tell Caroline the number of officers who would be able to accept the invitation, and he mentioned Wickham specifically.”
“Mentioned him how, Bingley?”
“Won’t be coming! Cannot come. He suddenly recollected some affairs in London he must attend to and left yesterday. Not expected to return for several days. So,” Bingley ended triumphantly, “you need have no concern about him.”
A theretofore unrealized tenseness in Darcy’s chest began to uncoil as he nodded in agreement with Bingley’s happy assessment. He chose to interpret it as relief that Bingley had not been required to make Wickham’s exclusion from the ball embarrassingly official. But quick upon its heels, the evening and all its possibilities opened up before him, and the smile that played irrepressibly upon his features he allowed Bingley to read as he wished.
“Apology be hanged!” The bar of soap hit the foot of the bath with a sharp
Darcy groaned as the chamber clock informed him that time was running forward. His lack of talent in matters of address had been problematic in the past, but now it was become ruinous to something he highly desired. He must get it right; everything hinged upon it! Reaching for the bell, he rang for Fletcher and hunched forward as the valet emptied a pitcher of water over his head. A warmed towel was pressed into his hand, and with it he wiped the water and soap out of his eyes. Rising into his dressing gown, he stepped out of the bath and over to more warmed towels to complete drying before Fletcher returned with his small clothes and the shaving kit.
“Miss Bennet, you must allow…must excuse…My dear Miss Elizabeth, you may recall our first meeting —
“Arrrrrrgh! Forgive me for behaving like a perfect ass.” Darcy threw the towel across the room, nearly hitting the returning Fletcher.
“Certainly, sir. Say no more, sir,” Fletcher said.
