pull up to the torchlit stairs and shivering footmen of Melbourne House. Darcy knocked on the roof with his stick, and in moments his groom appeared at the door.
“Mr. Darcy, sir.”
“Harry, I think we shall walk from here. Did Mr. Witcher give you anything?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry grinned and patted his coat pocket, which jingled impressively. “Me an’ James be well supplied fer an evenin’ at the Bull ’n’ Boar. Thank ’e, sir,” he replied as he reached inside the carriage door to let down the steps.
“Good man, Harry.” Darcy climbed down, Bingley close behind him. “Be available by two. I hope to make an early evening of it, unless Mr. Bingley will not be pulled away.”
“Aye, sir. Two o’clock it is, an’ a good evenin’ to ya, Mr. Darcy.”
The two men turned and walked hurriedly down the street, which was already crowded with gawkers and hawkers of every description. Darcy’s grip tightened on his heavily crowned walking stick. He pulled himself up to every inch of his tall frame, projecting an air of uncompromising purpose as he strode through the throng, Bingley at his heels. In short order they gained the line of torches illuminating the walks on either side of Melbourne House and, upon presenting their cards to the footman, were immediately escorted up the steps and inside the doorway past guests who had arrived before them.
Bingley turned a questioning brow upon him as a servant hurried to relieve them of their hats and cloaks, but Darcy would only shrug in answer. It had always been thus, this deferential treatment, and it would be difficult to explain to Bingley, newcomer that he was, that it was merely part and parcel of the game Society loved so well to play. Although, Darcy acknowledged to himself as he turned to the butler and extended his card again, he had not entirely expected such marked distinction here at Melbourne. He had rarely mixed with this set, despite the many opportunities and invitations to do so, and knew he was regarded by the majority as stiff-rumped in his adherence to principle and decorum. But his name and fortune outweighed all these defects tonight, it seemed. It remained to observe who Lady Melbourne’s other guests might be. Then, perhaps, he could make a determination on the manner of his reception.
He stepped to the arched doorway that led into the public rooms and waited for the Melbournes’ butler to announce him and then Bingley. A quick survey confirmed that they were all here, the peers and politicians, the literati and the artists, the men whose hour was upon them and those whose hour was nearly past. Peeresses and very rich misses hung lightly on their arms, their brilliancy of gown contrasting with the Brummellian starkness of the gentlemen, their eyes darting here and there in the quest to see and be seen. Music swelled from the ballroom beyond. The mingled sounds of voices and music were deafening.
Darcy turned back to Bingley and smiled wryly into the overawed expression on his friend’s face. Of course it would be daunting to a young man as unaffected as Charles! Darcy experienced a pang of uncertainty as to the wisdom of his plan, but it was much too late for reconsideration. The butler was, even now, announcing them.
Lady Melbourne broke from a group and advanced upon them with a smile long praised for its warmth if not for its sincerity. “Mr. Darcy, how absolutely delightful!” She extended her elegantly gloved hand, which he took smoothly and bowed. “Sefton,” she called over her shoulder. “See, he has come, though you vowed he would not!” Lord Sefton sketched Darcy a curt, apologetic bow.
“Your servant, Darcy,” the founder of the Four-in-Hand Club drawled. “Just trying to prevent the lady from suffering a disappointment. ’Sides, you never
“Hush, Sefton, you shall make him think we do nothing but gossip, and that is not
“Indeed. May I have the honor of introducing him to Your Ladyship?” At her curious nod, Darcy made the introduction. To his relief, Charles appeared to have roused himself from his wonder at the surroundings to the point that he was able to receive the lady’s hand with creditable grace.
“Mr. Bingley, you must take every opportunity to enjoy yourself tonight. There is dancing in the ballroom, cards in several rooms off the hall…” She paused. Darcy could see her quickly summing up Charles and assigning him a position among her ranks of acquaintances.
“Lady Melbourne, you are very kind.” Bingley bowed again to his hostess, then looked uncertainly at Darcy. “I hardly know where to begin…”
“Then allow me to choose for you, Mr. Bingley.” She turned and, after appraising those near her, gracefully lifted her fan and motioned to a young woman who immediately excused herself from her distinguished companion and came to her. “My dear Miss Cecil, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Bingley, a particular friend of our Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley, Miss Cecil, grandniece to the marquess of Salisbury, Hertfordshire.” Darcy watched as Bingley made his bow, wishing the young woman were better known to him. She curtsied prettily to his friend and to him, but there was a haughtiness in her air he could not like, although she was a very well-looking woman.
“Miss Cecil” — Bingley’s open smile set about working its usual charm — “should you like to dance or —”
“Of course she wishes to dance, Mr. Bingley; do you not, my dear?” Lady Melbourne smiled archly at Miss Cecil, who, quickly exchanging a glance with Her Ladyship, nodded her agreement and took Bingley’s proffered arm.
“Then dance we shall, Miss Cecil, if you will be so kind as to show me the way. Darcy,” he tossed over his shoulder to his friend, “you shall have to do without me. Good luck! Lady Melbourne.” He bowed and was soon lost in the crowd of guests, leaving Darcy with no doubt that he had been expertly outmaneuvered and wondering where, in Heaven’s name, Dy had gotten himself.
“There, Darcy, your young friend is well engaged.” Lady Melbourne lightly rapped his arm with her fan. “Now you need no longer play nurse to the charming puppy and may amuse yourself with no encumbrance.” She looked up at him, then, from under lowered lashes. “And what
“The reason, dear lady, is as plain as a pikestaff,” a voice intoned from behind her. Darcy’s left brow shot up as a splendid figure in the glossiest of black frock coats and the snowiest of starched linen came to stand before them. A circle of onlookers immediately formed while the man proceeded to favor Darcy with a minute scrutiny, one hand held behind his back as the other cupped his chin, the index finger tapping his cheek.
“And that reason is —” Lady Melbourne began but was cut off with a swiftly upraised palm.
“Hisssst, I must have
Her Ladyship rolled her eyes at Darcy in apology, but his attention was wholly upon his examiner, whom he watched with narrowed hauteur. The silence demanded by Society’s unchallenged arbiter of Fashion spread outward, catching the notice of more and more of the other guests. Darcy drew himself up even straighter, determined not to reveal his distaste for this display to the man’s insolent gaze or deliver the setdown that hovered on his tongue, either of which he knew would be a deadly error. Even the prince submitted to the man’s exquisite taste.
“Hmm,” the man commented as he looked at Darcy from one side, then the other. Then, suddenly, “What!” and he stepped closer, peering through a gold-handled quizzing glass, which had dangled from a fob at his waistcoat. “Ah, yes, I see!” Heaving a great sigh, the man retreated a pace and finally looked into Darcy’s face. “What is it called?”
Darcy’s lips twitched briefly at the resignation in the man’s voice, but he retained his stony aspect, replying indifferently, “The Roquet.”
The other’s brows rose at that. “Rather a bold name, wouldn’t you say? Fletcher?”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “Fletcher.”
“Come now, Brummell, do not keep us all in suspense.” Dy’s welcome voice reached Darcy, who turned to see him shoulder his way to where they stood. “More than a few guineas are put down on this. What is the
