An Assembly Such as This

gossip between mouthfuls of stuffed capon, chartreuse, and veal d’olive. When the two had done justice to Monsignor Jules’s artistry, they repaired to the library for a glass of port, which Bingley accepted from Darcy with a deep sigh.

“Charles?”

“It has been two weeks, you know.”

“Two weeks?”

“Yes, two weeks since the ball. Two weeks since I last saw Miss Bennet. It seems an age! Wasn’t she lovely? I could scarce keep from her side.” Bingley’s attention seemed to waver from his surroundings.

“Yes, well, that was obvious to anyone with eyes, old man.” Darcy paused and, gathering his powers, asked disinterestedly, “Would you say that she feels the same?”

Bingley shook himself slightly and turned in puzzlement to his friend. “Yes, of course. Why would you ask?”

“On what, exactly, do you base your opinion? Did she confess herself to you?”

“No, no, of course not!” Bingley put his glass down, stepped away, and then returned to pick it up again. “What a thing to suggest, Darcy! Miss Bennet is a lady, gently bred. She would never —”

“She looked at you, then, in such a way that left no need for words of love, of attachment?” he pressed.

Bingley’s mouth opened in protest. “I remind you again, Miss Bennet is a gentlewoman. It would be entirely inappropriate.”

“Then tell me, Charles.” He closed in, allowing his friend no opportunity to stray from the point. “On what grounds do you believe she holds you in greater regard than other men of her close acquaintance? You admit she has not spoken of love, nor given you glances full of tender meaning. What then?”

“A man just knows,” Bingley sputtered.

Darcy shrugged skeptically.

“You believe me to be exaggerating the thing, but I swear to you, I am not! Not this time.”

“Ah, yes. ‘Not this time,’” Darcy returned softly. Bingley stared into his glass while Darcy, forcefully maintaining an air of nonchalance, sat down and sipped at his port. As the silence between them stretched on, he glanced at Charles now and again, attempting to gauge his thoughts. The repeated flex of his jaw bespoke deep agitation.

“You believe me to be imagining it, the warmth of her regard?” Bingley’s question seemed more a statement than an inquiry.

“Charles,” he returned in a conciliatory tone, “you must be the judge of that. I only wish to caution you, warn you away from an alliance that would bring you more pain than satisfaction. The difficulties of Miss Bennet’s family and connections are many, yet these may be borne if you are absolutely convinced of her devotion. But if marriage were contracted with only want of advancement in Society on the lady’s part…” He left the rest unspoken.

Bingley gulped down the remaining contents of his glass. “Yes, well, no more need be said. Nine tomorrow evening, then?” He rose from his chair and, to Darcy’s surprise, sketched him a bow. “I think I will make an early night of it, Darcy. I have some appointments of my own in the morning. I imagine I should dress to the nines for Lady Melbourne’s?”

“Yes, but with restraint. Brummell will, undoubtedly, be there, and it would be better not to attract his opinion at all than to suffer his wit. You must go then?”

“Regretfully, yes. Oh, do not get up!” he hastened to add as Darcy made to rise. “I can make my way to the door.”

“Nonsense.” Darcy left his chair and summoned a footman. “Mr. Bingley’s things, please.” He turned back to his friend. “Charles, I have spoken to Hinchcliffe.”

“Not about his behavior toward me! Darcy!”

“No, no…about his nephew. He shall be ready to apply to you in a few months or so; I have Hinchcliffe’s assurance on it.” They had reached the hall and Witcher, who stood with Bingley’s hat, coat, and gloves at the ready.

“Thank you, Darcy.” Bingley managed a smile that, though small, devastated Darcy with its sincerity. “I appreciate your advocacy in this immensely. You have ever been my good friend.”

Darcy did not wait for the great front door to click shut before he turned and sought again the sanctuary of his library. He nearly threw himself into his chair and sat motionless as a servant scurried in to stoke the fire on the hearth.

“You have ever been my good friend.” He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching. Are not the wounds of a friend blessed? He directed his question heavenward. Better a moment’s pain than a lifetime of disgust and regret because that friend did nothing!

A sudden need to do something, anything, gripped him. Darcy sprang to his feet. Striding over to the sword case, he tore off his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, and threw them on a chair. Swiftly unlatching the case, he examined the collection and, reaching in, selected a perfectly balanced rapier. Taking a lamp from his desk, he continued his pace out of his library and into the hall. Where to go? Hesitating only briefly, he struck out for the ballroom. He encountered no servants on his way and slipped into the great room without a sound. Setting the lamp upon a Sheraton console hugging the wall, he moved out onto the floor, executing wide, slashing figures as he went. The muscles in his shoulder protested a month’s disuse in the exercise, but he ignored them and continued the regimen until they loosened and he was sure of his blade’s balance and reach. Then, bringing the blade upright to his lips, he assumed the en garde, holding his body in the curiously taut yet easy pose of the experienced swordsman.

He lunged. An imaginary opponent parried his move. He lunged again. This time his thrust was parried, and he faced a lightning riposte. Darcy brought the rapier up and blocked the attack, then twisted his wrist, using his blade to set his opponent off balance. It did not succeed. Block…block again, thrust. He laughed. That had shaken him! Darcy lunged as the other backed a step, then two.

The flame of the lamp glinted again and again off his sword as Darcy worked through the classic forms of advance and retreat. Back and forth across the dark floor he chased, harried, and otherwise engaged his imaginary foe until beads of moisture stood out on his forehead and his sword arm decried the weight of his blade. With a final, sweeping arc, he brought it up in salute and, bowing, honored the empty darkness that had opposed him.

His sides aching, Darcy caught up the lamp and, slipping silently down the hall, brought it and the rapier back to the library. He returned the sword to its case and retrieved his discarded clothing. Tired as he was, he knew he was not yet ready to succumb to sleep. His book! He would read until sleep demanded his surrender. From where he stood, he could see Fuentes d’Onoro standing at attention and, next to it, his father’s long-ago gift to him, Whitefield’s sermons. Reaching across to the shelves, he pulled out Fuentes d’Onoro and, tucking it under his arm, blew out the lamp and made his way to his bedchamber.

Chapter 12 All That Glitters…

With his accustomed precision, Darcy placed his signature on the last document of business he expected to encounter before leaving London for Christmas and Pemberley and handed it back to Hinchcliffe to sand and seal. At last, he was free from the tedious aspects of his return to Town and could give his attention to more pleasurable activities! Although, he acknowledged to himself as he closed up his ledgers and books, this evening’s soiree at the home of Lord and Lady Melbourne in Whitehall would not answer all his ideas of pleasure. Only the much-heralded appearance of L’Catalani could have enticed him to accept one of Lady Melbourne’s invitations, for in general he followed his advice to Bingley and avoided her set as much as was possible.

It was not only that lady’s encouragement of the prince regent’s eccentricities that caused Darcy to maintain a distant attitude. The intrigue and rumors of irregularities within the walls of Melbourne House reached back over