These Three Remain (24 page)

“Boodle’s,” he called up to the driver as he leapt into the vehicle. If the story of a prior engagement had been merely the tale he suspected it to be, it was likely that Brougham would have withdrawn to their club, expecting that Darcy would follow. If not, well, he had no intention of chasing after his friend all over London. He would take his leisure among the gentlemen of his club and wait for a more opportune time to corner Dy. More to the point, he admitted to himself, he was still in nowise ready to return home.

The ride to the address was not a long one, hardly providing him time enough to consider the meaning behind his friend’s provocative words. It was clear that Brougham did not approve of the manner in which he was keeping himself from Georgiana, causing her distress over his behavior and concern for his health and the well-being, he supposed, of his soul. But what the Devil business was it of his! Dy’s actions were suspiciously like those of a lover! Darcy shifted uneasily, dismayed that the thought should arise once more. Had Dy not taken his hand and sworn that he was no danger to his friend’s sister? And then there was the matter of the differences in their ages and temperaments…“No, it could not be!” he assured himself aloud. There had to be another reason. It must be that Dy had come to regard Georgiana as the sister he never had while he had the charge of her. His friend was warning Darcy that his behavior toward her was not what Brougham, in his severely limited experience, considered “brotherly.” Darcy leaned back into the cushions. Yes, that
must
be it!

Free now to turn his attention from the messenger to the message, he could only concede that Brougham was right; and he had known that immediately. He
should
have more care for Georgiana’s tender feelings — had he not always done so? — but at present, he found himself reluctant to act on the admission. That unwillingness, as so many other thoughts and emotions he had experienced this week, struck him as curiously unlike himself. Smothering the thought quickly, Darcy looked out on the exclusive shops and clubs of fashionable London. Things would come about…in time, and when he had gotten himself to rights again and Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a distant memory, they could all return to the way it had been, to the life he had planned before he had lost his senses in the parlor at Hunsford’s parsonage.

Once inside Boodle’s hallowed halls, he crossed the black-and-white marble-tiled entrance and hurried up one of the broad staircases to the clubrooms beyond. A quick survey revealed that Brougham was not among their denizens, although others of Darcy’s acquaintance were there, and he was hailed with enthusiasm by more than one gentleman as he made his way through the rooms.

“Darcy.” Sir Hugh Goforth nodded to him as he passed through one of the billiard rooms. “That friend of yours was looking for you.”

“Sir Hugh.” Darcy stopped and bowed. “Brougham, was it?”

“No, no — have not seen Brougham for an age. Bingley, I think the name was. Said he was taking his sister over to see your sister, or something like. Was hoping you would be about, I gather.”

Darcy almost flushed with the ire that seized him as he thanked Sir Hugh for the information. Bingley — whose headlong flight into love had started the whole miserable affair and whose chestnuts he had drawn out of the fire only to be thoroughly burnt himself! Darcy let out a heavy breath. Well and so, it appeared that Bingley and his sister had returned from their annual trip to Yorkshire and were once again in Town. If he had bothered to look at the stack of calling cards Hinchcliffe always laid so precisely upon his desk, he might already have been in possession of the knowledge and sent round a note forestalling any thoughts Charles might have entertained of an imminent visit. As it was…

“I say, Darcy!” Sir Hugh called from the other side of the billiard table. “Devereaux’s horse is running, and he must as well. Care for a game?”

He ought to go home. He ought to go home, ask Georgiana’s forgiveness, and welcome Bingley and his sister back to Town. He ought to be there this very moment discharging the mountain of papers awaiting his attention on his desk, as had always been his custom.

Darcy turned back and reached for a cue. “As many as you like, Goforth. I have all afternoon.”

The Bingleys’ visit could not be staved off forever, and though Darcy had arranged to avoid it the previous day, Charles’s card appeared once again the next morning. Resigned to it, Darcy met his sister in the drawing room to await their entrance. He had spoken to Georgiana only briefly the night before, his curiosity about what she knew of Brougham’s behavior driving him to seek her out after having shunned their home most of the day. She replied innocently enough that, yes, Lord Brougham had come by to see him, but that they had spoken very little after His Lordship knew he had gone out.

“And what ‘very little’ did you discuss, Georgiana?” he had asked her in an offhanded manner as he examined a piece of her embroidery lying on the small tambour table. Her work was, as everything she did, exquisite and precise. The silks were fair on their way to portraying a scene from Eden, their mother’s conservatory garden at Pemberley. A collection of differing colors strewn alongside it caught his eye, and without thinking he reached for them.

“He asked how you had been keeping yourself since returning from Kent, as he had not seen you about since bringing Trafalgar to us. Then, he kindly inquired about the Unveiling.”

“Nothing more?” He fingered the strands, their cool silkiness sliding so familiarly between his fingers.

“We spoke a little of a book he had sent and encouraged me to read. I recall nothing more; although, for a moment…” She hesitated and then looked at him curiously. He followed her bemused gaze to his hand and flushed to see he had unconsciously entwined the silk threads about his fingers. As indifferently but rapidly as he could, he unwound them and laid them back on the table. “Oh, you may have them to add to your others, if you wish,” she assured him with a small, quick smile.

“For a moment…?” he prompted her and turned his back on the wretched temptation.

“For a moment” — Georgiana’s young brow wrinkled in perplexity — “he appeared unwell…but not ill, precisely. I cannot say; it happened so quickly. You know him so well.” She looked up at him. “What could it have meant?”

“Humph,” he snorted. “It meant that he had determined to embark upon an errand he knew to be officious and impertinent.” He looked away then in some exasperation, confounded with the inexplicable workings of Dyfed Brougham’s mind. Did Darcy really “know him so well”? He leaned down and bussed his sister’s forehead. “Good night, my dear.”

“And to you as well, Brother.” Her smile for him was shaded with uncertainty.

He left her to spend a restless night knocking about his chambers, at once unable to sleep and distrustful of the dreams sleep might bring. The morning had been a loss, for try though he might to deal with the backlog Hinchcliffe had laid before him, he could wade through little of it before drifting into a reverie or dozing off to sleep. Giving up, he had stretched out on the divan in his study and recouped an uncomfortable but dreamless hour before Witcher’s diffident knock had awakened him to the arrival of Bingley’s card.

The look of constrained relief on Georgiana’s face at his appearance in the drawing room gave him pause, and as he took her hand to kiss, he could feel an unwonted tension about her. “Georgiana?” he murmured, keeping an eye on the door that would shortly open upon their visitors.

“It is nothing, Brother.” She flushed, withdrawing her hand from his grasp.

“Nonsense!” Darcy returned, but gently. “Give over; what is it?”

Her flush deepened. “Miss Bingley,” she confessed ashamedly. “I —” The drawing room door opened at that moment, revealing the subject of his sister’s confusion. No more could be said.

Darcy stepped forward. “Miss Bingley.” He offered her his bow and then turned to her brother and put out his hand, “Charles! So, you are returned.”

“Darcy! Yes!” Bingley took his hand and shook it vigorously. “London, or rather, the Season called, and Yorkshire was no place for us, you may believe! Miss Darcy.” He turned and bowed to Georgiana. “It will be our very great pleasure to attend your Unveiling next week.”

“Charles! Miss Darcy’s
portrait’s
Unveiling, if you please.” Miss Bingley rolled her eyes. “We are all anticipation, Miss Darcy.” She turned an indulgent smile upon her object. “It will be the most brilliant Unveiling of the Season. Do I understand aright that Lawrence himself attends?” Not waiting for an answer, she looked to Darcy. “Why, that is the greatest of good fortune, is it not, Mr. Darcy? Your sister’s introduction to Society is already a Subject; Lawrence’s presence will guarantee the Unveiling’s success. I predict Erewile House will be inundated with well-wishers!”

Darcy felt rather than saw Georgiana’s tremor of dismay at Miss Bingley’s fulsome compliment. Incredible that the woman who professed to love her so well had not the slightest notion of his sister’s true nature! She took her up as one might a pretty doll and with no more care than that for her mind or feelings! He drew back from Miss Bingley and turned to her brother.

“You are, of course, most welcome, but it will not be as well attended as you might expect. We have lately decided that only close friends and family will receive invitations.”

“Oh, you cannot mean it!” Miss Bingley claimed his attention with a shrill gasp as she took his offered chair. “Miss Darcy —” she appealed to Georgiana.

“But I do,” Darcy broke in, regarding her in arched irritation. Damn and blast if he would allow her to tease Georgiana any further about it! “It was Georgiana’s wish.”

“Would you care to take some refreshment, Miss Bingley, Mr. Bingley?” Georgiana interposed with a smooth, firm voice. Bestowing upon her a surprised but approving smile, Darcy seconded the suggestion. “Yes, you must want for some tea. I have no doubt Mrs. Witcher has it and more already prepared.” He motioned Bingley to a seat and pulled at the bell cord. “Now, Charles, you must tell us how you occupied yourself these weeks in Yorkshire.”

As Darcy buttoned on his waistcoat before his mirror that evening, he could not decide if he was glad Brougham had not come by that day or if he was out of humor with him for staying away. Dy was a will-o’-the-wisp, it was true; but to come at him as he had on the fencing floor and later in regard to Georgiana, and then to disappear? It was the outside of enough! Still, if he had come, what might have transpired? Likely a disagreement distasteful to them both and an estrangement of their friendship, for Darcy was at this very moment preparing for the Monmouths’ select gathering, and nothing Dy would have said would have dissuaded him.

In point of fact, he was already experiencing enough disapproval of his prospective evening from his valet without Brougham’s to add to it. On Darcy’s first informing Fletcher the night before that he was going out to a formal affair, his valet had brightened considerably and set about surveying his wardrobe with something like his customary enthusiasm. Today, though, his spirit for the project of presenting his master in the height of fashion had flagged decidedly. “His Lordship and Lady Monmouth’s did you say, sir?” he had repeated in some disbelief upon discovery of his master’s hosts for the evening. “Are you
quite
sure, sir?” his valet had queried him as he shaved him for the second time that day.

“Yes, Fletcher.” He had looked up at him ironically. “I am quite sure that is who extended me the invitation.” Knowing there was more, he ventured, “Why?”

“In a word, Norwycke Castle, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher had grimaced in disgust. “And since then, His Lordship and, most especially, Her Ladyship have been observed to be traveling with a rather, ahem,
diverse
company, sir.”

“So Monmouth told me. ‘Philosophy and politics’ was his description. Hardly akin to what lurked in the shadows of Norwycke, Fletcher!” To this observation, his valet had ventured a skeptical sniff. “ ‘One may smile, and smile,’ sir,” he had replied and returned to the plying of his razor. Nothing more was said, but each piece of Darcy’s evening clothing had been handed to him with an air of reluctance, and the knot at his throat was nothing of particular note or elegance.

Later, as the hansom took Darcy to Monmouth’s town house, the combined effect of Fletcher’s and Brougham’s disapproval worked to produce in him a species of regret that he had accepted the invitation. But it was of a weak sort, for he also found himself curious about how the former Lady Sylvanie Sayre had gotten on after the horrific events at Norwycke Castle and also not a little intrigued by what the temper of the intellectuals and artists who had gathered around her might be. Such company gave the evening an air of piquancy, and piquancy or danger outright was infinitely preferable to what consumed him now, twisting his vitals ever and again into their familiar, painful knot. If he was to…If Elizabeth were to…The door to Monmouth’s town house opened, candlelight and the murmur of a dozen conversations spilling out into the street. Desperate to escape the pain, Darcy laid hold of the invitation before him to think and feel something other than the wretched chasm of his loss and followed the beckoning from inside.

“Darcy, welcome!” Lord Monmouth greeted him from the top of the grand staircase that dominated the hall. “Do not dally down there!” he commanded as Darcy gave his hat and coat to the footman. “Come up, man! Her Ladyship is most anxious to see you!”

Darcy wound his way through the crowded hall and gained the steps, but his progress was impeded by the number of guests on the stairs, some going up or down, others holding intense conversations or serious flirtations on the risers. Monmouth still awaited him at the top, a broad smile yet upon his face. Tris always had liked crowds of people around him, and judging from the number here, Sylvanie had succeeded in making her social mark as a successful hostess. His Lordship should have been quite pleased. It still seemed strange to Darcy that Sylvanie would desire to resume their acquaintance. His refusal of her sensual offers at Norwycke and his undeniable part in the discovery and ultimate suicide of her mother must surely have made any contact between them painful or, at the least, exceedingly uncomfortable. Yet she had pursued an acquaintance with Georgiana that had required Dy’s intervention to discourage, and now she desired above all things to see him.