An Assembly Such as This

one embroidered with sapphirine threads, like the green you wore at Netherfield.”

Darcy swiveled round. “No! Something else.” Fletcher held up the waistcoat against the blue, almost black superfine coat and breeches. “Oh,” he breathed. “Blue.” His voice fell to a mumble. “Yes, that will do.”

“Yes, sir.” The valet held out the shirt and slipped it up his arms. Fletcher’s enthusiasm increased with each article of clothing Darcy assumed, a marked contrast with his demeanor since returning to London. Evidently, his valet also had interests residing in Hertfordshire, and Darcy was vaguely sorry for it. What a disaster that trip had become! He looked down as Fletcher finished buttoning the waistcoat and went to select a neckcloth. Yes, it was very like the one he had worn at Netherfield. Was it only two weeks ago? The metallic threads alternately glittered and dulled as he moved before the dressing mirror. How hopeful he had been of a good result from the evening.

Fletcher returned, and Darcy sat down, lifting his chin to allow the valet room to practice his artistry. While his man folded and knotted, his mind involuntarily slipped back to that evening, to those few moments he had possessed himself of her hand and they had moved together in harmony rather than opposition. The flow of her gown around her, the flowers entwined in her hair.

…so lovely fair
That what seemed fair in all the world seemed now
Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained
And in her looks, which from that time infused
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before,
And into all things from her air inspired
The spirit of love and amorous delight.

With a start, Darcy recalled his thoughts from the unprofitable path in which they had strayed and, shaking himself, received a pained adjuration from Fletcher: “Please, sir, do not move just yet.” The lines were ones he had found marked by the embroidery threads that he had stolen from the Milton in Netherfield’s library. An idiotish fancy, he told himself as he turned from his valet, but the self-excoriation did not stop him from retrieving the threads from the book at his bedside. As he gently wound them about his finger and then poked them down into his breast pocket, the words they had lain against, not unlike the woman they brought to mind, caught and held him.

A knock at the door announced the welcome distraction of a tray from Monsieur Jules. The covers were lifted by another lad from the kitchen to reveal a savory fortification against supper at Melbourne House not being served until midnight.

“Here, sir.” Fletcher came into the bedchamber. “Save for your fob and coat, you are ready.” Darcy examined the valet’s efforts in the mirror with a critical eye. Fletcher’s face appeared alongside his reflection. “Should anyone ask” — he beamed with sartorial pride — “it is the Roquet. My own creation,” he added diffidently.

“Roquet? ‘To strike out of the game?’ And who am I to strike out with this?” Darcy indicated the constriction that encircled his neck in an untold number of knots and folds.

“Whomever you wish, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher bowed to his employer’s raised eyebrow, then took the napkin from the tray and shook it out. “Sir?”

Darcy sat down to his repast, his brow furrowed in speculation upon his valet, who returned his regard with an imperturbable aplomb. “A case of Measure for Measure, Fletcher?” he asked finally, as he took the napkin.

The ghost of a smirk passed over the valet’s face. “Quite so, sir. Quite so.”

Leaning to look out the window of his carriage, Darcy watched as his groomsman jumped down from the box and bounded down Jermyn Street to Grenier’s, armed with a note advising Bingley that he had arrived and to wait until the carriage had pulled up to the hotel’s door. Satisfied, he settled back into the squabs, pulling his evening cloak and the carriage rug closer. The ride to Melbourne House would be of no moment, he thought as he waited in the deep shadows of a cold late autumn’s evening; but the wait for the long line of carriages attempting to discharge their passengers and then the receiving line within could take up well over an hour, even two. Not that he was anxious to arrive at his destination. Thank Heaven, Dy will be there! Someone of sense and decency with whom to converse and to provide an excuse for not attending to every Lady This or Miss That and her mama!

The carriage rocked slightly as the door was pulled open and Bingley’s muffled form climbed in. “Charles!” Darcy exclaimed. “Did you not receive my note?”

A slip of paper was waved before his nose. “Yes, and here it is! The line in front of Grenier’s is frightful tonight. Every man and his uncle is going out or coming in, and you would be waiting until your bricks were stone cold. Much easier for me to come to you and, with your groomsman along, little danger. Yes, I’ve heard!” Bingley cut off Darcy’s remonstrance. “Horrible business down in Wapping. In all the papers!” He sat back into the seat opposite, unwrapping a thick scarf from around his chin. “Is it true the regent has forbidden anyone to be received at Carlton House after eight?”

Darcy nodded as the carriage pulled away from the curb and his driver began the tedious negotiation of the streets to Whitehall. “Forbidden it to strangers. The door will not be refused to His Majesty’s intimates, of course, as none of them are, as yet, suspected of mass murder,” he added dryly.

Bingley’s answering laugh evidenced a nervous tremor. “Darcy, this soiree. It seemed like a great go yesterday, but the more I thought about it today…” His voice trailed off, and he fell to studying his gloves.

“You shall do very well, Charles,” Darcy assured him. “I have never seen you do aught but land on your feet, no matter where you are. Your talent for entering into whatever society you find yourself is truly remarkable. Incomprehensible, but remarkable.”

Bingley chuckled again nervously. “Well, tonight shall be the test. I almost wish it were Caroline making this venture rather than myself. She would revel in it!”

Darcy grimaced in the dark. “I find your presence much more agreeable. Which reminds me, besides the ornaments of society you will meet tonight, I wish to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Lord Dyfed Brougham. We were at Cambridge together; he ran tame at Pemberley for a summer or more.”

“Brougham, you say? I do not believe I have met him or his family.”

“Unlikely. Brougham is his parents’ only surviving child, and they were older when he was born. The old earl passed away before I had met him our first year at University. Brougham himself is rather a will-o’-the-wisp; one never knows when he may appear. But,” Darcy advised, “he is just the man to guide you through tonight’s gauntlet. Follow his lead, and you are sure to come out with your skin whole.”

“And what shall you be doing?”

“I hope to have an opportunity actually to hear L’Catalani! The last time I attended a performance, the noise from the gallery was so appalling, even her great voice could not be heard. Aside from that, I plan to spend the majority of the evening avoiding danger as best as I am able.”

“Danger! You make it all sound so sinister, Darcy. I fear you do not anticipate enjoying yourself in the least. I hope I am not interfering with your pleasure in the evening!”

“Of course not, don’t be a gudgeon!” Darcy shifted uneasily. “I have never enjoyed large gatherings, as you well know, and have little patience with the intrigues that so delight the haut ton.” He leaned forward. “But do not allow that to spoil your evening. Stay close to Brougham, and you will certainly enjoy yourself. Just take care not to be drawn into anything which might require me to act as your second.”

“I almost believe you are serious!”

The carriage swayed to a stop at the corner before Whitehall, joining the line of others awaiting their turn to