These Three Remain (28 page)

“…an Unworthy Creature of the lowest order…”

Darcy stared hard at his friend. Lowest order! Elizabeth? What did he mean by that? “No, not-not low,” he mumbled as a vision of Elizabeth easily, graciously holding her own against his aunt’s imperious demands flashed through his mind.

“…Despoiler of the Hopes of honest men…”

“No, not low,” he argued a bit louder against the laughter that Brougham’s oration was provoking across the room. His speech had by now attracted the attention of the pub’s other patrons, who being already primed for any sort of mill, regarded a show provided by the gentry as especially entertaining.

“…and, let us not forget, Tease, who after having led them on an intoxicating chase down the garden, or rather, park path…”

“No!” Darcy bellowed as he attempted to stand. The room swayed and howled with mirth, refusing to come clearly into focus.

“A Disgrace to — Pardon me?” Brougham inquired loftily. “I believe I was in the midst of —”

“How dare you, sir!” Finally, Darcy had found his feet and rose, belligerently intent upon putting an end to Dy’s slanderous speech. “How dare you bandy about Elizabeth’s name in a public house and in such an infamous manner!”

“Darcy.” Dy began in a conciliatory tone, but his companion would have none of it.

“You are speaking of a lady, sir!” He was interrupted by jeers from across the room. “A lady,” he insisted passionately over their calls, “of incomparable worth!”

“Darcy.” Stepping between his friend and the pub’s raucous patrons, Brougham laid an earnest hand upon his arm. “I would be honored to drink to such a lady…providing you sit down, my friend.”

Eyeing him at first with some suspicion, Darcy slowly resumed his seat as Brougham did the same. For a time, they sat in silence as Darcy tried to read his friend’s face through his self-inflicted haze but, he concluded, Dy was such a changeling to begin with that his state of inebriation was hardly a factor in the effort. With as much acuity as he was able to bring to bear, he searched Dy’s face, and what he saw in his old rival and friend’s countenance was a sincerity of concern and a warmth of sympathy that were impossible to discount as mere playacting. No, the playacting had been the ridiculous toast, the posing as a servant, maybe even the whole frivolous persona he had presented to the world for the last seven years! But here, now, was his truest friend in the world come back from a very long journey, and the timing of his return was impeccable.

Brougham broke their silence with a sigh and then, with a wry smile, leaned his elbows once more upon the table and looked Darcy square in the eye. “I think you had better tell me about her, old man,” he prescribed, his voice compassionate but firm. “She must, indeed, be of incomparable worth if she has so won your heart.”

From habit, Darcy bridled at Dy’s quiet request that he lower his defenses; but the old reserve, the shield between himself and the world, had already been rent by a young woman from Hertfordshire. Why should he hold it up against his oldest friend? He would not reveal all; it was too much, and the details were unimportant now. But he would tell him something of it, enough to understand.

“Her name is Elizabeth,” he began, looking past Dy’s shoulder the better to maintain the shreds of something akin to dignity, “and I am the last man in the world that she could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

“D
arcy!” Brougham’s agitated whisper pierced through Darcy’s senses like the crack of a rifle as they struggled to navigate the front steps of Erewile House. He winced at the pain that reverberated through his head and tried again to put one foot in front of the other and still stay upright. To be perfectly honest, Dy was in charge of navigation and had been since they had departed the Fox and Drake a half hour before. The cool night air outside the public house had done nothing to revive Darcy’s brandy-disordered faculties, so it had become Dy’s unwelcome task to see him home and into Fletcher’s capable hands. If Darcy were not already flushed from drink, he would have been from the supreme embarrassment he ought to have been feeling. He had no doubt that, come morning, he would feel every drop of mortification that he ought.

Gaining the top step, Brougham steadied his friend against the door with his shoulder and tried the knob. “It’s locked!” he hissed to him, “which is as it should be, but it is a cursed inconvenience for us! Do you have a key?” Darcy fumbled beneath his coat in his waistcoat pocket and, after several tense seconds, produced his key to the obvious relief of his navigator. “Thank the Lord! Now, if we can manage not to raise a hue and cry once we are inside…” He bent to the keyhole and swiftly released the lock, but the door was still against them. “Another lock?” Dy looked up at him.

Darcy groaned. “Yes…forgot. Ordered before I left…for Kent.”

“And have you also forgotten to acquire the key?” Brougham asked in exasperation. Sighing at Darcy’s grunt of admission, he straightened and began a search of his own coat pockets. A soft “aha!” told Darcy that he had found what he searched for, and Dy once more bent to the lock plate of the front door. In a breath, the second lock was released, and the door of Erewile House swung back a few inches.

Darcy stared down in befuddled astonishment. “How did you manage that?”

“Practice,” Dy answered. Dawn was only beginning to invade London’s streets, but there was enough light for Darcy to make out his friend’s bitter smile. “I shall tell you about it later,” he whispered, “when you are sober and your head is not splitting. But now we must get you inside and, Lord help us, upstairs to your bedchamber without bringing your entire household down upon us.”

“Georgiana,” Darcy muttered, nodding his head in agreement and then wishing he had not. The movement started the pain inside his skull careening from one side to the other.

“Yes, Miss Darcy.” Brougham reiterated the identity of the person they both most wished to avoid in Darcy’s present state and offered him his shoulder. “Now, in you go!” Gratefully leaning on the proffered support, Darcy lifted one foot and hesitantly set it down upon the threshold as Dy pushed wide the door. With another push and a grunt, they were both inside and stood for a moment like errant schoolboys surveying the silent, empty hall. “All clear! There’s a mercy!” Brougham looked about them and then steered Darcy toward the stairs. “Come on, then, old man,” he encouraged, but Darcy could only grimace as each step’s change in altitude caused another painful explosion in his brain.

When they had finally reached the top, he was soaked with perspiration from the effort and was forced to lean heavily upon his friend’s shoulder merely to stay vertical. Fortunately, Dy knew his way quite well around Erewile House, and Darcy was spared the necessity of directing him to his chamber. Still, he barely restrained himself from groaning out a desperate thanksgiving when they finally stood before his door. “Almost there, my friend!” His Lordship gripped the knob and slowly twisted it, the click of the latch barely audible. “There’s a candle, Fitz!” he warned, but Darcy had already jerked back and shut his eyes against the flame.

“Fletcher,” he whispered, not yet daring to open his eyes beyond the merest slits. “He will likely be asleep in the dressing room. Get me to a chair. I
must
sit down!” He groaned, but Brougham made no further move into the room. “Dy?”

“That may present some difficulty,” His Lordship returned drily. “Good morning, Miss Darcy.”

“Georgiana!” Darcy’s eyes flew open as he lifted his head in surprise. “Ahhh,” he groaned as the light from the branch of candles in his sister’s hand invaded his sight.

“Fitzwilliam!” He sensed the fear in her voice and not only heard but felt the thump of the silver candleholder as it hit the table next to the chair. “My Lord,” she addressed Brougham, “is he hurt? Oh, Fitzwilliam!” She returned to him, her hands reaching for him and coming to rest lightly on his arms. “Set him down here, in the chair!” she instructed Brougham. “Or should he lie down? My Lord?”

“Yes, please.” Darcy could only sigh, closing his eyes once more. That Georgiana should see him like this!

“The chair, I think, Miss Darcy,” His Lordship decided. “His man can handle getting him to bed.” Dy stiff-marched him over to the chair where his sister had awaited his homecoming. He helped Darcy into the chair, sparing him the indignity of falling down into it as he probably deserved. Immediately, Georgiana was on her knees before him, her hands seeking his.

“But is he hurt, My Lord? Shall I call for a surgeon?” She looked over him anxiously. Darcy chanced opening his eyes just at the moment that her anxiety was replaced with a questioning frown, which in turn gave way to shocked surprise. The mortification that swept him was worse than he possibly could have imagined. “But he is —! Fitzwilliam cannot be —!” She looked up at Brougham with a face that begged him to deny it as Darcy flushed in guilt. Fumbling in his pocket for something to wipe the sweat from his brow, his hand closed on a handkerchief; but his efforts to bring himself to a semblance of order were met with a sharp, shocked “Oh!” from his sister and a rueful snort of laughter from Dy.

“What is it?” he asked, looking from one face to the other, baffled at their reactions. Dy motioned to his hand, from which drooped a very lacy bit of holland cloth. Darcy’s countenance went crimson as he hurriedly stuffed it back into his pocket.

“I fear you are correct, although in only your first surmise, Miss Darcy,” His Lordship returned gently, “but I beg you will take it in stride as I know you are able. Your brother has been through deep waters of late, and tonight was, I believe, an aberration, the nature of which he will be very loath to repeat.”

Georgiana gripped her brother’s hands tightly and, with more compassion than he had any right to, smiled encouragingly at him through misted eyes. “Yes, I understand, My Lord, better than you know.”

“Well, then.” Brougham sighed as he stepped away. “I shall rouse Fletcher, who will know exactly what to do, I have no doubt, and leave you both to your ministrations. May I call on you and Miss Darcy this evening?” he addressed a much subdued Darcy.

“Yes,” Darcy answered with gratitude, “whenever you wish. Dy —”

“I know, my friend,” His Lordship assured him. “And there is also the confidence that I owe to you for which we never found the time or the right circumstances. Tonight then.” He bowed low. “Miss Darcy, Fitz.” He let himself out through the dressing room door.

“A true friend,” Darcy murmured as the door clicked shut. Hesitantly, he looked to his sister.

“Yes, he is,” she agreed and turned a soft, wistful countenance upon him. “And he desires only your good. That I know.” Her softness assumed an air of puzzled dismay. “But I would never have dreamed that he — that
you
—! Oh, what has happened to you, Fitzwilliam? Can you not tell me?”

“Ahem!” From the dressing room door came the extraordinarily loud sound of a throat being cleared, and precisely ten seconds later Fletcher’s head cautiously appeared at its border. Darcy almost sighed with relief.

“Later,” he promised his sister, his head pounding, “I will recount what is fitting; but at this moment and, I fear, for some hours to come, I will be suffering the consequences of every man fool enough to look for solace in a bottle. Please.” He winced at the pain his efforts to rise from the chair were inflicting. “Go to bed, dearest, and let Fletcher assist me to mine.”

“As you wish,” Georgiana responded, her brave smile not quite erasing the concern that shaded her tired face, “but you will remain in my thoughts and prayers, Brother, until then.” Reaching up, she quickly kissed his cheek and, with a look to him that spoke all her love, left him to his valet’s care.

“Fletcher, your shoulder, man!” Darcy gasped as soon as the door behind his sister had clicked shut.

“Sir!” His valet set something down and was at his side in a moment.

“I believe I am about to be sick.”

“Stand firm, sir!” Fletcher maneuvered him to the bed, where Darcy gratefully sank down, only to have a glass of some vile concoction thrust into his hands. “Drink this, Mr. Darcy! It will settle your stomach and go far toward clearing your head, sir.”

“Or put me out of my misery entirely.” Darcy looked into the glass with dubious distaste. “Where did you get it?”

“It is a recipe that even His Majesty the Prince has found effective.” Fletcher looked suddenly abashed. “Although, I hasten to add, there is no comparison implied, sir.”

Darcy managed to raise a brow. “I should hope not!” Sniffing it tentatively, he drew back with a grimace.

“It will help you sleep,” his valet added and then stifled a yawn.

Stop acting like a child and take your medicine,
Darcy reproved himself.
You deserve no such sympathy or relief as you have met with tonight!
He gulped down the liquid, which was every bit as vile as he had suspected.

“There, sir.” Fletcher took the glass. Setting it down, he began peeling away Darcy’s coat and waistcoat, then unbuttoned his shirt. “Lie down, then.” Darcy let himself sink back onto the pillows and slowly brought his legs up onto the bed. Deftly removing his shoes, Fletcher set them with the rest of his clothing and returned to throw a blanket over his supine form.

“Thank you, Fletcher,” Darcy breathed out, his eyes closed. “I’ll ring for you when I am able.”

“Very good, sir.” His valet gathered up the discarded clothing and made for the door.

“Fletcher!”

“Yes, sir?”

“In my coat pocket.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did you find something?”

“Yes, sir.” Fletcher’s even-voiced professionalism betrayed nothing concerning the nature of his discovery.

“When it is laundered, please have it sent to the Fox and Drake along with half a crown.”

“Very good, sir. Good night, sir.”

Darcy heard the door shut but little more as a blessedly deep, dreamless sleep claimed him for the first time in weeks.