Duty and Desire: A Novel of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman

He was less than half the hall away from the drawing room when Darcy caught the first notes of music. The sound was unmistakably a harp. But as he drew closer to the doors, something about its resonance struck him as unusual. His curiosity roused by the quality of the sound as well as the plaintive melody being performed, he was almost impatient for the ubiquitous satin-clad servants to open the doors. They opened finally upon a small group posed, to Darcy’s surprise, not around the grand harp at the end of the room but in a circle near the hearth. Most of the listeners were gentlemen; the ladies having not yet descended, save for Lady Chelmsford and her sister, Lady Beatrice, who sat together on a settee whispering companionably. In contrast, Monmouth lounged against the mantel, while Chelmsford’s chair was drawn in among the shadows at the other side and Poole sat on the edge of a divan drawn up nearer to the hearth, the attention of all of them fixed upon the harpist at their center.

Lady Sylvanie acknowledged his approach with a cool, fleeting glance, but her fingers did not hesitate as she continued playing the music that had captured Darcy’s attention. The small harp cradled against her shoulder gleamed in the firelight. The light reflected along its sweeping curves seemed to quiver in response to the graceful pluck of each chord. Darcy’s gaze was drawn first to those shapely fingers as they called forth such sorrowing sweetness from the strings, but his attention was soon enticed along the performer’s lithe arms to the curve of her pale shoulders and on then to her face. The lady’s eyes were lightly closed but not, he guessed, in concentration upon her performance. Rather, he had the sense that, while they were closed to her surroundings, they opened instead to some secret place the music created. From the lift of one raven brow and the slight smile that graced her face, he suspected she was barely aware of her audience. Her smile deepened as she played, and Darcy, conscious of the sensation of having once again caught a glimpse of a fierce fairy princess, caught his breath.

He watched, fascinated, as her smile faded and her brow creased as if in pain. Her lips parted, and there poured forth from them a song whose words he could not understand but which he knew intuitively was a hymn of longing. The beauty of it swept over him before he’d time to prepare against it and forced him into a chair. Gaelic. His brain informed him of the language, but it enlightened him no further as to the song’s meaning. Instead, the lilting words and haunting tune worked on him, recalling to his mind images and emotions of times long past: the exhilaration of galloping the fields of Pemberley atop his first pony, the wonder of boyhood rambles in the wood beyond the park, the companionable feeling of the fishing expedition to Scotland with his father the summer before his first term away at school.

Then the music changed, slowing to an altogether different key, and he was at his mother’s bedside, his heart stunned with the aching fear of bidding her his last farewell and, deeper still, the feeling of utter loss at his father’s passing. Struggling to break from this turn in the tide of his emotion, Darcy closed his eyes in a determined frown against the music. As if in response to his wishes, the lady’s voice began to drop, gentling, fading into silence as her fingers passed lightly over the strings. Had she noticed his discomfort? Darcy looked up at her from under hooded lids but saw that her head was bowed over her instrument.

“Breathtaking!” Poole exclaimed, breaking the silence as he applauded Lady Sylvanie’s performance. “Absolutely marvelous!” The other gentlemen joined him in vigorous appreciation.

“What is it called, my Lady?” Monmouth addressed her still bowed head. “Is it Irish? It sounded Irish.” Darcy watched intently as Lady Sylvanie lifted her head, her face composed although her startling gray eyes were still withdrawn.

“Yes, my Lord,” came her reply in quiet clarity, “it is an Irish tune.” Her eyelashes swept suddenly up and captured Darcy’s stare before he could look away. The smile in them was of such understanding he was tempted to believe that she was, indeed, a fairy, knowing his very thoughts.

“‘Deirdre’s Lament,’” she continued, her eyes piercing Darcy’s, holding them.

“I beg your pardon?” Monmouth responded.

Lady Sylvanie lowered her lashes, releasing Darcy, before giving her attention fully to Monmouth. “It is called ‘Deirdre’s Lament,’ an old song, my Lord.” The door to the room opened, and her audience looked with her as Lady Felicia and Miss Farnsworth entered arm in arm, followed by Sayre, his lady, and at the last, Manning. With their appearance she made to put the harp from her and rise, but the protests of the three gentlemen near the fire stayed her. With an elegant nod of acquiescence, she brought the instrument to her breast and settled it against her shoulder once more as the newcomers found seats.

Darcy, too discomposed with what had passed between himself and the singer to give order to the variety of sensations flooding him, had not joined in their plea. Neither could he look away as her graceful fingers caressed the strings nor, even when her eyes closed as she gathered herself to begin. But the piece she offered them was entirely different from the previous ones. Its sprightly pace and bright notes suggested nothing more unsettling to Darcy than a country reel. The other listeners were impressed with the same notion as several pairs of feet tapped discreetly under gowns, and some of the gentlemen pounded out the lively beat on their knees. By her finish, Darcy could almost dismiss his former impressions as too fantastical, evidence that the events of the day had come near to exhausting his usual store of good sense.

Lady Sylvanie rose with becoming modesty and curtsied her acknowledgment of the enthusiastic applause, which Darcy joined. Beaming with approval, Sayre rose as well, took her hand, and presented her to the room. During this second round, Darcy noted, the enthusiasm of the ladies was somewhat restrained, their applause tepid, while they darted looks at the continued show of appreciation by the gentlemen. He grinned to himself and applauded more loudly.

“Delightful, charming, my dear!” Lord Sayre inclined to his half sister. “Now, upon whom shall I bestow your company for dinner? Who shall be the fortunate fellow?” Sayre took no notice of the lady, if she should express a preference, but looked about the room with the countenance of one who finally had found in his power the disposal of a coveted treat. His search passed briefly over his old hall mates and soon came to rest upon Darcy. “Darcy, it shall be you! Come, sir, and claim your lady, for supper is ready and you shall lead after me.”

Rising immediately, Darcy advanced to Sayre. A quick look at Lady Sylvanie revealed that she did not regret her brother’s choice, but neither could he have said she showed any sign of undue pleasure. “My lady.” He bowed formally and offered his arm. Her manner, though quite correct, served him a twinge of disappointment, and her cool acceptance of his arm niggled at him. After such a look as she had given him earlier, he had thought to see more animation.

He led her to their accorded place behind Sayre and his lady and followed them to the dining room, using their promenade as an opportunity to assess her further. Her hand was light upon his arm, and the blue-gray fabric of her gown fluttered slightly as they walked, drawing his attention to the pleasing curves of her form and the milky whiteness of her shoulders. Her richly plaited hair shone ebony in the hall candlelight, and a refreshing scent of mingled sweet herbs and new rain tickled his nostrils. No, he decided, he was not at all averse to Sayre’s choice. It was, in fact, exactly the opportunity he required to engage Lady Sylvanie further without that singling out of her which would only cause a wretched round of speculation. With these consoling thoughts, he relaxed a bit, and his interest in the woman at his side rose.

It was not until all were seated at table that the absence of Miss Avery and Trenholme was noticed. Her brother’s explanation that “Miss Avery did not feel well enough to come down to supper” was accepted with little comment. Sayre, by contrast, could supply no information about his brother and sent one of the servants up to inquire if Mr. Trenholme would be joining them before signaling the others that they should begin serving the meal.

The first course served, Darcy set himself to the delicate task of entertaining his companion. He knew he was intrigued by her, but of the lady’s willingness to be discovered he was less certain. Her behavior toward him had been all that was contradictory. One minute he was ignored and the next held in thrall by her Delphic eyes. Well, he must make a beginning…

“My lady…”

“My lady!” Manning’s voice from the other side of Lady Sylvanie clashed with his in a bid for her attention. His eyes met Manning’s briefly as she hesitated between them, but the rivalry Darcy expected to find in his expression was not there. Rather, he saw a man struggling with an unaccustomed emotion. Lady Sylvanie looked back to Darcy, a lift of her brow requesting his forbearance. He looked again at Manning and then nodded the withdrawal of his claim.

“My lady,” Manning began again, his voice low and strained, “please allow me to thank you once more. Your kindness to my sister has greatly eased her distress. I left her sleeping peacefully, a thing I had not thought possible after this afternoon!” He glanced over at his other sister with a grimace before turning back to Lady Sylvanie. “You were of vastly more comfort than ever Her Ladyship was. She would not stay with Bella above five minutes and then would only plague her with questions…make her tell the whole horrid thing if she could, stupid woman!” He paused, then ended softly, “I am indebted to you, ma’am.”

“Lord Manning.” Darcy could hear the lady’s dulcet reply clearly although she was turned away from him. “How could I not offer whatever comfort was in my power to give to your poor sister? Such distress must engage my sympathy. That my efforts are deemed helpful is all the thanks I could wish.”

“I shall not forget this,” Manning insisted, “nor your part in it, Darcy. Lord, what a business!” He sighed and lapsed into silence. Then, picking up a fork, he turned to his meal.

Lady Sylvanie’s brief, blush-tinged smile acknowledged the approval Darcy did not hide when she turned back to him, but the moment passed, and soon she was in full possession of herself. It was enough, though, to reveal to him that his companion had a woman’s heart as well as an artist’s soul, and he was pleased with his discoveries.

“We did not have the pleasure of your company this afternoon,” Darcy began. “I trust you are well recovered, my lady? Or perhaps you conceal your discomfort?” he asked, remembering her glance of pain before beginning her song.

“You are remembering my song, Mr. Darcy.” Her eyes rested on him lightly. “Such perception! An uncommon quality in a man! Yes, I have recovered from my heedless indulgence of last night, I thank you. What you saw earlier was due entirely to the sad nature of the song.”

“You are easily touched by suffering?” he asked.

“Easily touched by suffering?” she returned, surprised. “I do not take your meaning, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy motioned to Manning on her other side. “Your waiting upon Miss Avery in such a manner as to earn Manning’s gratitude must prove you very intuitive in regard to that condition of the human heart.” She began to shake her head, refusing his compliment, but he would not allow it. He pursued his point. “And further, if a song can evoke in you another’s pain…You cannot deny that either, for I saw it.”

“I see it would be pointless to deny, for you will have it no other way, sir.” Lady Sylvanie looked discomfited as a blush colored her fair cheeks again. “But it would appear that we have unknowingly joined hands in calls upon our sympathy, Mr. Darcy. Miss Avery credited you with her rescue and told me of your tender calming of her hysterics.” She lifted her wineglass and looked speculatively at him over the rim. “Perhaps I am not the only one who is ‘easily touched by suffering.’”

“Perhaps.” He smiled back at her and decided to take a different tack. “Your music—I confess it is not what I am used to hearing in drawing rooms like that of Norwycke Castle.”

“I beg your pardon if you did not like it,” she answered.

“You mistake me, ma’am,” Darcy countered quickly, not certain whether she was teasing or he had offended. “Your music was all your brother declared and more. I liked it quite well. I meant that I have never seen a lady play a harp like that before, or sing in such a way. Usually the grand harp is used to exhibit one’s proficiency, and more formal arrangements are offered in company. Or am I mistaken in this as well?”

“You may declare it to be so with far more authority than I,” she acceded, her eyes flashing momentarily in Sayre’s direction. “I have not had the privilege of attending many drawing room recitals.” Darcy followed her look, not sure of what to reply. Why had Sayre kept his half sister virtually hidden from the world? Was it, as Lady Felicia had intimated, a means of spiting his father’s widow? If that were the case, why was she being introduced to Society now, at an age that was perilously close to being labeled ‘on the shelf’?

The doors to the dining room opened, saving him the necessity of a reply, for the attention of all the room was caught by the entrance of the missing Trenholme. Lady Sylvanie’s nose wrinkled in disgust as she and Darcy, with the others at table, took in his disheveled appearance. He had not changed out of his riding clothes, and his coat and waistcoat flapped unbuttoned about him. He had apparently worked at his neckcloth but with only that degree of success which had resulted in it loosening so that it sagged about his neck. Stumbling into the room, he almost went down before falling into his seat between Lady Beatrice and Lady Felicia, who nervously edged their chairs away from the strong odor of Blue Ruin that emanated from the house’s younger son.

“But that is neither here nor there.” Lady Sylvanie recovered her poise and smiled at Darcy, although not before he detected what he was tempted to think was a look akin to satisfaction. “You are curious about my harp, Mr. Darcy? It was my mother’s, and it was she who taught me to play and sing the songs that you heard tonight. We spent many a long night sharing the music and stories of her people. She was Irish, you know, and a descendant of Irish kings. It was only right that I should learn her music.”

“Yesshhh, she was.” Trenholme’s slurred voice boomed across the table. “Irish, that is. As Irish as the grass is green, Darcy! An’ they’re all outta kings, you know. Scratch ’em an’ they bleed blue, evra one.”

“Bev, you’re drunk!” declared Sayre angrily.

“Completely f-foxed, my dear brother.” Trenholme staggered to his feet and bowed, but the movement threw him off balance, and he tumbled back down into his seat. “An’ you would be too, if you…No, mustn’t say…Where was I?” He rounded on Lady Felicia, who shrank from him in confusion.

“You were making an ass of yourself,” snapped Manning, “and doing a damned fine job of it. Sayre, send for his man and bundle him off to bed before he says something he should not.”

“I’ll say wha’ I like in my own h-home, Manning. It is still our home, ish it not, Sayre?” He stared hard down the table, trying to focus on his brother.

“Shut your mouth, Bev!” His Lordship commanded, alarm spreading over his face, “or I swear, I’ll have the servants pitch you out!”

“Right, then. Pitch me out, but keep tha’ little half-Irish b——”

“Trenholme!” Darcy rose menacingly from his chair. He would countenance the discourtesies that ran rampant about Norwycke no longer. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. I’ll not have you abuse your sister further, no matter how—”

“Half sister,” Trenholme corrected him. “Never forget, half….” He rose unsteadily. “Well, Sayre, that should make you happy, eh? Defending her!” He turned to Darcy, motioning him closer. “She don’t need it, you know. Little b——. Sorry, Her Ladyship can take care of herself.”

“Which seems to be more than you can do.” Manning rose and joined Darcy. “Lady Sylvanie looked after Bella with more compassion than—” He stopped and looked up at the ceiling, collecting himself. “Trenholme, you disgust me; and if this is the manner in which we are to be entertained, I swear I will pack up Bella and return to London as soon as she is able.”

“No need for that, Manning.” Sayre broke the shocked silence at His Lordship’s declaration and then addressed his brother firmly. “Bev, your company is not required this evening. I strongly suggest you go to your rooms and let your man attend you.”

Trenholme surveyed his brother and their guests with a defiant smirk until he came to his half sister, whereupon his countenance suddenly flushed dark with anger. Seeing his reaction, Darcy moved closer to her. Looking down into Lady Sylvanie’s face for an indication of how he should assist her, he saw that her fierce, unflinching gaze had returned, and that she was flinging its full power back at her half brother. Suddenly, Trenholme rose and threw down his napkin. “I shall leave you to it, then. I c-consider myself absolved. Here, you there!” He motioned to the serving men. “Require your assistance. Believe I am drunk.” He flung an arm around the neck of the nearest one and, leaning heavily upon him, stumbled out of the room.

The rest of that evening’s supper passed in the sort of strained artificiality that Darcy detested. He could not quiet the turmoil in his mind at Trenholme’s offensive behavior toward his brother, his guests, and most particularly, Lady Sylvanie; nor could he help but speculate on its connection to the vile business at the Stones. To Lady Sylvanie, his words had been of the cruelest nature. Darcy did not wonder that the scene they had witnessed must be the uppermost subject in the minds of everyone, but it made for poor conversation and the happy mood of the gathering was lost. After Trenholme’s departure, Lady Sylvanie withdrew into her pose of indifference, and Darcy could think of nothing to say to her that would not be considered an invasion of her privacy. Instead he was constrained merely to observe her with admiration as she conducted herself regally through the remainder of the meal, unbowed by the curious looks the other guests cast her.

When it came time for the ladies to withdraw, Darcy rose and helped her with her chair. She had not worn gloves that evening, so when she laid her delicate hand in his, its warmth and softness were not disguised. The sensation was, he found, very pleasant, and her private, parting expression of thanks for his assistance was most gratifying. He resumed his seat with a smile that he could only just mask before Sayre called them all to the sampling of his cellar’s best.

“We may not dawdle long, I fear,” Sayre continued after proposing a toast to the evening and downing a respectable portion of the brandy in his glass. “The ladies desire to play at charades, and if we are to have any peace later this evening”—he winked—“we must present ourselves in the drawing room without undue delay.” The gentlemen groaned and laughed, but only the most desultory of small talk followed to flavor their time. A creeping impatience with his company drew Darcy away to one of the windows and the moonlight’s stark illumination of the maze of hedges in the garden beyond it. The play of light and shadow against the snow reminded him of a chessboard stretched crazily askew, pinned to the earth here and there by the garden statuary. And what piece am I upon the board? As he sipped at his brandy, a curiosity took possession of him about how Lady Sylvanie was handling the gentle inquisition surely taking place among the females in the drawing room. He pulled at his fob and brought out his timepiece. Another five minutes should certainly suffice for this obligatory masculine ritual. He took another sip, this time taking care to enjoy the fire as it slid down his throat. Not unlike the lady, he thought to himself wryly, cool and fiery. He did not need to be concerned over how she fared with the other women, but he should have liked to watch her as she did so.

Sayre finally signaled the end of their exile, and with a heightened expectation, Darcy put down his glass and followed. As he had guessed, Lady Sylvanie sat in unruffled composure near the hearth, leaving him in no doubt that she had held her own against the more practiced drawing room strategists ranged against her. Lady Felicia’s smile upon the gentlemen’s entrance was rather forced in appearance, but Miss Farnsworth was seen to be deep in distressed consultation with her mother and aunt. Lady Sayre’s relief and joy at the entrance of her husband was likely the greatest that His Lordship had seen upon his lady’s face in quite some time.

“Ah…well, my dear,” Sayre began uncertainly. “It is to be charades, is it not? Have the slips been readied?”

“N-no, Sayre,” Her Ladyship stammered, “but it shall be done directly. Felicia, my dear, would you be so kind?” The gentlemen, in good form, scattered about the room among the ladies to await the assignment of teams. Darcy sauntered to the hearth and took up a position against the mantel behind and to the side of Lady Sylvanie, smiling down into her upturned face as she followed his progress.

“Do you enjoy playing at charades, Mr. Darcy, that you smile so?”

“In general, I avoid activities that involve playacting, my lady. My smile is not for such games.”

She arched a brow at him. “But you are playing at one now, are you not? The drawing room game of feint, parry, and retreat. I believe that was a feint, sir, and I am expected to parry. Or is retreat the proper move? You must pardon my ignorance of the game. I am, as I told you, unskilled in drawing room etiquette.”

“Your move should be determined by your strengths, not your opponent’s expectations.” Darcy’s smile deepened as he warmed to her allusion to fencing. “Always move to your advantage.”

“Strange words for a man to give a woman, Mr. Darcy. I had rather understood that it was the object of the male of the race to allow as little advantage as possible to the female. Are you entirely sure you do not wish to take back your advice?”

Darcy chuckled at her acuity. “It is a dangerous gift; I admit! I suppose I might be considered a traitor to my sex, but I do not take it back.” His grin faded slightly as he adopted a less frivolous tone. “I believe, ma’am, that it is advice you have already taken.” He nodded toward the other ladies. “And with cause.” He stopped, curious to see whether she would confide in him or dismiss his words as mere banter.

“Lady Sylvanie!” Monmouth’s call interrupted the moment.

“Yes, my Lord?” Lady Sylvanie looked over in question to the Viscount.

“You are teamed with Darcy, Lady Beatrice, and me.” He waved the paper slips with their names written on them. “We shall make a splendid team, even if Darcy does remain as stiff as a statue, I have no doubt!”

Darcy rolled his eyes as Lady Sylvanie laughed. “No doubt, indeed, Lord Monmouth.”

Lady Felicia came over to them. “My Lord Viscount, you must be mistaken. Mr. Darcy’s name cannot be among your slips, for it is here with mine.” She held out her slips to Monmouth’s view.

“His name is there, ma’am, but it is also among mine.” Monmouth matched hers with those in his hand. “You must have put him down twice.”

Lady Felicia looked dumbly at her slips and then at Monmouth’s. “It is not possible,” she declared in a voice small with confoundment.

“But true nevertheless,” Monmouth replied firmly, “and as I have only two other and Darcy would make a fifth on your team, I must insist on keeping him even if he is the veriest clodpoll at charades!”

“Thank you, Tris.” Darcy bowed mockingly. “I, on the other hand, shall refrain from informing the room of your shortcomings. But should anyone ask about that unfortunate adventure commandeering the Northern Stage, I shall be forced to divulge all.”

“Darcy!” Monmouth laughed. “That was eight years ago!”

“And your driving hasn’t improved a wit, old man,” Darcy returned dryly, his eye on Lady Felicia, who still puzzled over the two sets of slips in her hands. She continued to examine one and then the other, shaking her curls with a frown.

“I am certain that I wrote it but once,” she said under her breath. “How came it to…” She stopped. Her brows rose up sharply, her eyes narrowing, as she focused on Lady Sylvanie. “Unless some other one added his name again.” From his stance above and behind her, Darcy could not see Lady Sylvanie’s face and therefore could only guess at what was displayed there in response to Lady Felicia’s unspoken accusation. From the slight stiffening of the lady’s shoulders and the sudden guardedness that flushed Lady Felicia’s countenance, he would have wagered that the fierce princess had returned. A twinge of sympathy for Lady Felicia briefly surfaced but was quickly suppressed.

“My lady.” Lady Sylvanie’s voice was devoid of its music. “It is easily proved. Did you not write all the names? Then, examine the slips; see if there is one that is not in your hand.”

“They appear all in the same hand to me.” Monmouth looked over Lady Felicia’s shoulder at the slips. “Give it over, my lady; it was a simple mistake—or a clever ruse. Regardless”—he smirked—“you shall not have Darcy.” A flash of hot indignation appeared in Lady Felicia’s eyes and colored her cheeks, but it was quelled immediately when she turned it upon Lady Sylvanie. Her complexion paled, and the look in her eyes reminded Darcy of a deer caught in the hunter’s sights. Without a word, she curtsied hurriedly to all of them and retreated to the other end of the drawing room.

Monmouth traced Lady Felicia’s quitting of the field for a few moments before looking up at Darcy, both brows lifted in surprise. “A rather easy victory, wouldn’t you say, Darcy?”

Stepping around her chair, Darcy bent to catch Lady Sylvanie’s attention. She tilted her face up to his, her gray eyes alight with amusement, but he sensed she also looked for an indication of his approval. His answering smile teased from her a laugh fraught with more delight than he’d heard her dare express before. “An easy victory, to be sure, Tris,” he tossed over his shoulder, “but whose was it, I wonder?”

The evening of charades passed quickly and, to Darcy’s surprise, rather agreeably. Lady Felicia kept her distance from him and the other gentlemen in a manner more in keeping with his idea of what was proper in his cousin’s fiancée. Monmouth and Lady Beatrice were engaging partners in the game, as inventive in their own mimes and poses as in the piecing together of their opponents’. He and Lady Sylvanie were less supple in their play parts but held up their end of the partnership with keen observations and swift identification of the themes and phrases of the opposition.

When the ladies finally rose, Darcy felt a twinge of regret that this part of the evening was ended so soon. He had quite simply enjoyed himself, and he knew to whom that enjoyment was due. Along with the other gentlemen, he took a place at the door to bid the ladies goodnight as they departed the room. When it came Lady Sylvanie’s turn to take her leave of him, he could not suppress the urge to take her hand and delay her just a moment. She looked up at him in smiling question. “Mr. Darcy?”

“A moment, please,” he answered quietly. “The pleasure I had this evening is more than I had expected, my lady.”

Her smile changed, shifting from polite inquiry to something else entirely, and as had happened often that night, he was captured by the mystery in her eyes. “As did I, sir,” she replied softly, “much more.” She sighed lightly before withdrawing her hand from his. “May I ask, do you play cards tonight with the other gentlemen?” At his affirmation that it was likely to be so, she pursed her lips ever so slightly and then leaned toward him. “Play facing a window,” she whispered. At his incredulous look she explained, “It is an old superstition. It could do no harm, and it would please me to think you possessed some little advantage over the others in return for the pleasure of this evening.”

“As you wish, my lady.” He bowed to her again, and with a last smile at him, she passed out of the room.

“Shall we retire momentarily, gentlemen,” Sayre asked, “and meet in the library in a half hour?” He looked round as they nodded and bowed their leave. “Good, good! I wonder shall we come to playing for that sword tonight, Darcy?”

“That is for you to decide, Sayre,” Darcy replied absently, still somewhat entranced by his last view of the lady.

“Then perhaps it may be tonight. We shall see, shall we not?” His Lordship rubbed his hands together. Darcy bowed his leave and headed to his chambers for more comfortable attire in which to engage in the battles of chance that would end the evening.

His mind still occupied with review of the evening’s pleasures, he arrived at his door, entered by his own hand, and progressed to the dressing room before he even noticed Fletcher’s absence. The candles were almost guttered out, although fresh ones were lined up neatly beside each candleholder. Clothes for the evening’s gambling were laid out, as were a comfortable pair of shoes. All, indeed, was in readiness, but of Fletcher there was no sign. Even a call down the backstairs from the dressing room elicited no response. Darcy shut the door to the stairs and strode to the nearest branch of candles. He quickly replaced the near-spent ones with fresh and, grasping the base, turned to an examination of the dressing room. Everything was in Fletcher’s meticulous order, down to the placement of his hairbrush and comb upon the dresser.

Uncomfortable with the absence of his valet, Darcy put the branch of candles down upon a nearby table with a disturbed frown and began to pull at the knot of his neckcloth. Perhaps he had been unwise to send Fletcher on the scent of whoever had done the bloody deed at the King’s Stone. The man was a wonder at gathering information, but the hand behind that abomination would hardly be free with the details. Given the violent evidence, he might well have foolishly put Fletcher in danger.

“Damn and blast!” he exploded, the curse directed at his careless use of an excellent man as well as the knot that man had tied about his neck. He went to the mirror and began again on the knot. “Patience, Darcy,” he reminded himself and was rewarded with the knot coming loose. He unwound it and flung it off, his coat and waistcoat following, although not without some trouble and a few heated observations on the intelligence of the fellow who had decreed that men’s attire should fit so closely. Returning to the dresser, he pulled at his fobs, unpinned them and put them down on the table, and toed off his pumps. He looked again at the door to the backstairs, but no sound issued from behind it of steps, either hurried or labored. He shed his breeches and sent them to join his coat. Sitting down on the shaving chair, Darcy pulled on the pair of trousers that had been laid out for him and then rose to button them. He glanced again at the door, willing Fletcher to be on the other side, but it remained as it was. He sighed in consternation. There seemed to be nothing for it but to continue on to the library.

Lacking only his shoes and a waistcoat, Darcy walked over to where Fletcher had laid them and slipped his foot into a shoe as he reached for the waistcoat. A crinkling sound greeted his ears, and something was definitely preventing him from seating his foot properly. He leaned down, scooped off the shoe, and brought it closer to the candlelight. There, wedged into the toe, rested a piece of paper. He pulled it out and, laying it under the light, quickly smoothed the creases and read:

Mr. Darcy,

Sir, if you are reading this note I have not yet returned from pursuing the explanation for a Curious Occurrence that may have some bearing on your concerns. I set your coat sleeve to soaking in the washing room belowstairs immediately upon your departure for supper and before I had set the dressing room to rights. When I returned abovestairs, I found that your brush and comb were not where they had been left. What this may portend, I cannot yet say, but I intend to find out! I have made myself agreeable to His Lordship’s staff and am regarded with some awe by the ladies’ maids and my fellow valets. (The fame of the Roquet has spread even to Oxfordshire!) That is, except for One, whom I shall watch tonight very closely. I hope to be back in attendance on you, sir, when your time with the gentlemen this evening is concluded and with Something of Value to disclose.

Your very obedient servant,

Fletcher

With some relief, Darcy picked up the note and crumpled it before taking it to the bedroom and tossing it into the fire. The flames licked greedily at the titbit, reducing it to ash in seconds while he watched. So, someone had been in his rooms! Evidently nothing was missing; Fletcher would have known immediately if anything was gone. But why had the intruder come if not to steal something, and then left after merely handling Darcy’s hairbrush? And how had Fletcher come to suppose a connection between his hairbrush, of all things, and his discovery at the King’s Stone? He walked back into the dressing room and finished readying himself for the night of gambling below. He would have to clear his mind of these matters if he were to return to these rooms unscathed by tonight’s play; and loath as he was to appear to succumb to Sayre’s enticement, he would very much like to win that exquisite sword. Darcy blew out most of the candles, leaving a few burning against Fletcher’s return and, with a fervent wish that they should both have some luck tonight, left his chambers.

“Mr. Darcy! Mr. Darcy, sir!” Fletcher’s urgent voice and a tentative jab at his shoulder brought Darcy straight up in the chair with a start.

“Fletcher!” he began groggily, but a yawn interrupted him. “Where the devil have you been? What time is it?”

“It lacks a quarter until three, sir,” Fletcher returned apologetically. “I beg your pardon, but it could not be helped. You found my note, sir?”

“Yes.” Darcy rose from the hard chair he had chosen to ward off sleep and stretched until several joints protested with loud cracks. “In my shoe! Singular place to leave it!” Staving off another yawn, he motioned to the dresser. “Now, what is this about? ‘A round, unvarnish’d tale,’ if you please!”

“As I wrote in the note, sir…When I had returned from the laundry, I found that your brush and comb had been moved. It was clear to me that some person or persons had wantonly invaded your privacy.” Fletcher’s face was heavy with the import of his words. “Mr. Darcy, what would someone want with your hairbrush?”

“I cannot imagine, Fletcher,” Darcy responded dryly before succumbing to the insistent yawn, “and I do not wish to play at Questions at a quarter until three in the morning.” He leaned over and poured a glass of water from the bedside carafe.

“A charm, sir.”

“What!” The water spilled over the rim of the glass as Darcy looked up in sharp surprise. “A charm! Are you serious?”

“Never more so, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher returned his incredulous look grimly. “Whoever invaded your rooms was looking for something with which to fashion a charm. Strands of hair from your brush served the purpose quite nicely, but I fear that was not all that was taken.” Fletcher paused, his jaw working in consternation before continuing. “I believe, although I am not certain, that the cloth with which I stanched the blood from your shaving cut two nights ago is also missing.”

“Good Lord!” Darcy breathed as he sank down on the edge of the bed. Yesterday morning he would have dismissed such a theory with contempt; but after the events of the day, it made eminent sense. It was of the same nature as the abomination at the Stones. Against whom that horror had been directed he could not say with certainty, but of this there was no doubt that he was the target!

“Just so, sir,” Fletcher responded, his eyes sympathetically meeting Darcy’s as a man with his friend. “In truth, a ‘thing of darkness.’”

Hot indignation swept through Darcy’s chest. That anyone should think to control his fate, whether by natural or by unnatural means, galled him to the very core of his being. So it had been with Wickham, the incessant maneuvering and pressing, and so it was in this. That the origin of the “power” called upon in this attempt to compel him to bend to another’s will was diabolical he counted as nothing more than evidence of the perversity of the mind from which it had sprung. It was the intent behind it that angered him to the quick.

He shot up from the bed; and with jaw hard-set and eyes dangerously narrowed, he walked the length of the room. “Of this detestable thing, I, then, am the object.” He stopped at the door to the dressing room and peered intently at his brush and comb lying atop the dresser before swinging abruptly back to Fletcher. “But who is our Prospero, and what does he hope to achieve with this? What does he want from me?”

Fletcher broke the momentary silence that had descended after his master’s last question. “Sir, I would venture that there are two likely possibilities. The first is—”

“Money!” Darcy finished the sentence. “It takes no excess of intelligence to apprehend the dire need for coin at Norwycke Castle. But are you asking me to believe that Sayre is behind this?”

“I made no accusations, sir!” Fletcher shook his head. “I have no proof against His Lordship or his brother.”

“Trenholme! Now there is a piece of work!” Darcy considered him with disgust. “But he was vilely drunk at supper and needed assistance to remove himself to his rooms.”

“Or appeared so,” Fletcher added thoughtfully. “But I say again, I have no charge to make against him or his valet, except for lack of attention to what is due his profession. That young man has nearly been my shadow ever since we arrived. Wants for sense, that one. To think I’d freely reveal my skills…” He sniffed with disdain.

“Neither Sayre nor Trenholme wants for sense, and this business exhibits none!” Darcy interrupted his valet’s fall into professional pique. “How should a trumpery charm ‘charm’ enough of my resources from me to stave off the losses and debts Sayre has incurred? He must know, the others, too, for that matter, that I never gamble to excess. Does our Prospero think to influence me to make him a gift of Pemberley with a bit of blood and hair?”

“More than ‘a bit’ of blood, sir, from your description!” At Fletcher’s arched brow, Darcy stopped his pacing.

“The King’s Stone!” Darcy’s eyes widened. “Could this be what that was about as well?”

“It is possible, Mr. Darcy, certainly; or it may be something else entirely. But I do believe that the similarities between them indicate the same hand or hands.”

Darcy nodded his silent agreement with Fletcher’s speculation, but its usefulness appeared to him to be limited. “The other possibility…?” He let the question dangle.

A flush spread over Fletcher’s face at Darcy’s question, and after clearing his throat, he offered tentatively, “The other, ahem, the other possibility is that it is a…ah, love charm, sir.”

“A love—!” Darcy choked and drew breath for a swift and vehement rejection.

“Mr. Darcy, I beg you, do not discount it.” Fletcher put up his hands to forestall his master’s ire. “I have made some inquiries among the ladies’ maids—discreet inquiries, sir,” he added quickly at the affronted look Darcy gave him, “and it seems that most of the unwed females at Norwycke Castle are…well…on the hunt, so to speak, sir.”

“That information is not in the nature of a revelation, Fletcher,” Darcy replied tersely. “The contrary would be more curious!”

“True, very true, sir, but it is the desperation of the hunt that catches one’s attention.” The valet paused, waiting for Darcy’s permission to continue on this delicate subject.

“Go on.” Darcy sighed.

“The unfortunate Miss Avery has had two unsuccessful Seasons,” Fletcher began, ticking off a finger. “Lord Manning has given up hope in that venue, holding Miss Avery’s shyness to blame, and is now trotting her around to the notice of his various moneyed acquaintances. If an offer is not forthcoming within a year, she will be packed off to a small estate in Yorkshire to live out her days in obscure spinsterhood.

“The next,” he continued, ticking off a second finger, “is Miss Farnsworth. Lady Beatrice is beside herself with anxiety that her daughter’s headstrong temperament will land her in disgrace or make her repugnant to any man of position or reputation. The sooner Miss Farnsworth weds and is under a husband’s control, the sooner Lady Beatrice may wash her hands of her and, by the way, concentrate on her own future.”

“She hunts as well.” Darcy stated baldly a fact to which he could well attest.

“Yes, sir!” Fletcher nodded in surprise but did not question Darcy’s knowledge. “The fourth is Lady Felicia.”

“She is affianced to my cousin!” Darcy snapped at him in warning. Fletcher bit his lip and looked at him, commiseration apparent in every line.

“I know, sir,” he quietly continued after a moment, “but the lady is not content with the adoration of your relative. She is accustomed to the attentions of a court of admirers, of which you, sir, were at one time a member. That you are, of your own choice, one no longer, rankled her pride sorely. According to her maid, she has vowed to have you and your cousin.”

With a black look of revulsion, Darcy turned away and leaned his forearm against the window, the honest darkness beyond it preferable to that which was being revealed within. The small chamber clock struck three. He waited until the echo of the last stroke had died away before asking, “And what of Lady Sylvanie?”

“Lady Sylvanie and her maid are a complete enigma, sir.” Fletcher’s voice tightened, evincing no little degree of agitation.

“An enigma, Fletcher!” Darcy faced him, folding his arms across his chest in bitter amusement. “This is a day filled with surprises! How so, an enigma?”

“The servants are unusually cautious concerning the lady and her maid.” Fletcher clasped his hands behind him in an uncharacteristic show of perturbation and then, to Darcy’s amazement, took up the pacing of the room that his master had ceased. “That is not to say I have not discovered some of their story, but more may well be…impossible!” he admitted with chagrin.

“Fletcher!”

The valet abruptly halted his immoderate ramble and, coloring, presented himself in correct form before Darcy. “As you know, sir, Lady Sylvanie is the offspring of the old lord and his second wife, a woman from an obscure but noble Irish family. Lord Sayre was delighted at the birth of his daughter, the young lady becoming quite his favorite, but he lived to enjoy her for only twelve years. His Lordship’s sons, though, did not look upon their stepmama with filial affection; and their half sister they cordially despised, especially Mr. Trenholme, who was closer to the girl in age. When His Lordship passed away, the new Lord Sayre packed mother and child off to Ireland with a pittance upon which to live and both he and his brother engaged to forget their very existence.”

“Altogether infamous!” Darcy expostulated, bridling with anger as Fletcher spoke. “But I do not doubt you, for I had never heard of a second wife—or a sister—all the years I knew them at school.”

“Such was the state of affairs, sir,” Fletcher continued, “until a little less than a year ago, when a letter arrived from Ireland announcing the death of the Dowager Lady Sayre. The message was accompanied by legal documents that Lord Sayre immediately placed in the hands of his solicitor, who forwarded notification of their contents to His Lordship’s most pressing creditors.”

“Legal documents?” Darcy sat down upon the bed again, relieved to put his mind to the solving of a tangle not associated with acts drenched in bloody superstition. “An inheritance, or interest in some financial venture? It would have to be something substantial.”

“Land, sir,” Fletcher supplied. “A legal suit over the ownership of some land initiated by Lady Sylvanie’s Irish grandfather decades ago had been but lately settled in Chancery in the family’s favor. The sale of this property might go some way in solving His Lordship’s financial problems.”

“But the land would devolve upon Lady Sylvanie, not Sayre,” Darcy objected.

Fletcher shook his head. “The land was deeded to Lord Sayre in the dowager’s will.”

“To the man who dispossessed her!” Darcy snorted derisively.

“Indeed, sir, but on one condition only. It seems that the property is not of such a value that the interest on its sale would afford Lady Sylvanie more than ‘respectable’ independence in the hinterlands of Eire. Therefore, the lady’s mother made it over to His Lordship to do with as he will on the condition that Lady Sylvanie be brought back to England and that he do all in his power to arrange her a marriage into a wealthy, prominent family, with the added proviso that the lady be freely agreeable to the match. When the deceased lady’s solicitors in Dublin are informed of Lady Sylvanie’s ‘happy’ marriage, the will’s provisions will be enacted.”

Darcy stared unseeing into space as his mind turned over Fletcher’s discoveries. Of course he knew that the lady was in want of a husband, just as he was in want of a wife. Fletcher’s tale did no damage to his esteem of her. Rather, his sympathy was further engaged, and his admiration increased at the plight of the lady and her proud handling of the situation fate had dealt her.

“There is no mystery in this, Fletcher.” His focus returned to his valet. “Her Ladyship’s mother furnished her daughter with a means to a future in the only way that her stepsons were likely to heed.”

“The mystery, sir, is that the lady has refused to entertain any of the prospects His Lordship has lured to Norwycke Castle, and no one can answer for it!” Fletcher answered, obviously vexed with the resistance he had encountered. “Neither His Lordship nor his brother has yet been able to prevail upon her to choose a husband from among their acquaintances or attend any public or private assembly in which to meet other eligible gentlemen. The two are said to be enraged with behavior that can only make their own situation more desperate the longer the lady refuses.”

A scene from the previous evening flashed before him: Trenholme seething in a fit of anger while Lady Sylvanie calmly looked through him. The explanation for this curious exchange was now evident. Trenholme had been attempting to force her attendance among the gentlemen for the evening, and Lady Sylvanie had been in the midst of a cool refusal when he entered the room. The lady’s eyes had then met his, and the lady had stayed.

“From all I can observe, sir,” Fletcher continued in the same vexed tone, “it is nonsensical that Lady Sylvanie would wish to prolong her stay at Norwycke Castle. Far more reasonable to expect that she would hasten to take advantage of the opportunity her mother has bought her. Yet she stays, and none can furnish a reason for her obduracy. On this there is absolute silence!” Fletcher fairly shook with irritation. “The lady confides in no one but her maid—an old and close servant brought with her from Ireland who, in turn, treats with none but her mistress. The household servants hold her in aversion and, when she is about, take care to be out of her way.” Fletcher paused to heave a long sigh. “It is she of whom I wrote in the note, Mr. Darcy. The old woman bears watching, and that is what I was about for the better part of this night, but with little success. I very much doubt,” he concluded abjectly, “that I shall be able to cozen anything from her, sir.”

Darcy yawned again as the clock struck the quarter hour. The truth that lurked beyond Fletcher’s information was too well masked to reason out while his brain and body insistently demanded the sweet relief of sleep. It required a clearer head than he was now possessed of. But the man’s faithful service needed to be commended first; it was his duty to his valet every bit as much as taking a wife was his duty to his family’s name.

“Well done, Fletcher,” he stated with unfeigned sincerity. “I could not have discovered a quarter as much had I a week! You have more than earned the sleep that is fast claiming us both.”

The valet’s anxious countenance relaxed at Darcy’s words, but when he arose from his acknowledging bow, his face was once more deeply etched with lines of concern. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, but I cannot be easy about the matter. It is a veritable serpent’s egg that could well hatch at any time to your harm. With your permission, I will set up in the dressing room and lodge there until it is killed in its shell or we leave this place.”

“You do not put any credence in these Othellian ‘charms and conjurations,’ I hope!” Darcy peered at him curiously.

“Certainly not, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher protested. “Any unnatural power called upon by such revolting fardels was rendered impotent long ago. It is the natural evil and the desperation behind such pitiable delusions that I respect, sir. I will not presume upon Providence when Heaven has furnished a warning.”

“As you wish.” Darcy was too tired to object to Fletcher’s plan and not at all certain it was not a wise precaution. It had all become too deep to reject out of hand anything that would contribute to his advantage. He lay back on the pillows of the grandly ornate bedstead.

“Goodnight then, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher bowed again. “And God be with you, sir,” he added, closing the dressing room door softly behind him.