These Three Remain (25 page)

“Tris.” Darcy bowed and then gripped the hand Monmouth held out to him. “Amazing number of people you have here for a ‘select group’ of philosophers and politicians!”

“Oh, these.” Monmouth waved dismissively. “These are mere window wares, my friend. The important ones are in the Green Room, where Sylvanie holds court. Come!” Monmouth drew him along, threading a way for them through the hallway toward a pair of great double-hung doors. “A moment!” He smiled when they had arrived and then rapped on one of the doors. The handle began a slow revolution, and the door cracked open. Quickly, His Lordship put a hand upon it and pushed in, surprising the servant on the other side into taking a hasty step backward. “Fool!” Monmouth growled as he ushered Darcy into the room. “Lord, how I hate dealing with day-hired servants; they never seem to grasp the smallest bit of instruction or even recognize those who pay their wage! But here we are, the inner circle!” He stopped another servant and, lifting two glasses off his tray, handed one to Darcy. “Some refreshment, old man, and then Her Ladyship. Cheers!” He lifted his glass in salute and downed half the punch before Darcy had even responded. Making a perfunctory motion with his glass, Darcy brought it up to his lips and was struck immediately by the strong smell of whiskey. Drawing back, he looked at his friend.

“A whiskey punch, Monmouth?”

“An
Irish
whiskey punch,” replied a brogue-laced voice from behind him. One of Darcy’s brows hitched up as he turned to discover the identity of his informant.

“Ah, O’Reilly.” Monmouth acknowledged him. “Allow me to introduce you to a very old friend. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of the Darcys of Pemberley in Derbyshire. Darcy, Sir John O’Reilly of County ———, Ireland.”

“Your servant, sir.” Darcy bowed.

“And yours, sir,” Sir John responded, his demeanor warming slightly. “So, Darcy. Come to talk politics or philosophy?”

“I have not yet decided, Sir John, as I am a newcomer to Monmouth’s ‘select’ gatherings,” he confessed with a wry tilt of his chin toward his host. “I believe it would be the wiser course to listen and learn before giving my opinion on either subject.”

“You must not possess a drop of Irish blood if that is your way.” Sir John laughed. “Lack of familiarity never stopped one o’ my race from holdin’ forth on a subject. Not knowin’ what he is talkin’ about only encourages an Irishman to wax more eloquent upon it.”

“I do not know whether I should agree with you, sir, or not.” Darcy joined in the laughter Sir John’s witticism had provoked in those immediately around them. “But I expect if I am careful to listen, I shall learn that as well.”

“Very politic of you, Mr. Darcy.” Sir John nodded at him. “You’ll do. If you will excuse me? Monmouth.” He winked at His Lordship and then melted into the crowd.

“Drink up, Darcy.” Monmouth indicated his still untasted punch. “Sylvanie awaits.” Darcy raised a brow at his glass and then sampled its contents under His Lordship’s amused regard. It took all his willpower to suppress the choke and gasp his throat demanded of him. As it was, irrepressible tears sprang to his eyes. “Ha!” Monmouth clapped him on the back. “Not a whiskey drinker, I see!”

“No, not usually,” he managed to reply as he wiped at his eyes. A servant appeared at his elbow.

“May I take that, sir?” he asked, bowing and then producing an empty tray.

“Yes, here.” Darcy put down the unfinished glass.

“Very good, sir.” The servant bowed again and whisked it away.

“Humph,” observed Monmouth, “a day-hire who actually knows what he is about! Well, then.” He grinned. “Now you are ‘baptized,’ you may wander freely, old man. Oh, yes!” Monmouth responded to his look of surprise. “Without the smell of ‘water of life’ on your breath, you would be held in suspicion. All is right and tight now! But, My Lady first.” With that His Lordship took Darcy’s arm in a firm grip and set off with purpose for the other end of the drawing room. It was just as well, for the whiskey had, by this juncture, reached Darcy’s head, and for the moment, the room appeared somewhat confusing. They passed the servant who had taken his glass, and something about him struck Darcy as so curious that he halted their progress to stare after him. “What is it, Darcy?” Monmouth asked.

“The servant, the one who took my glass.”

“Yes?” His Lordship prompted impatiently.

“For a moment…he seemed familiar,” he finished lamely.

“Likely you have seen him in service at other houses; as I said, he
is
a day-hire.”

A rustling sound replaced that of the conversations around them. A path between them and their destination opened to reveal Lady Sylvanie Monmouth rising from her seat surrounded by a coterie of men and women, all of whom exuded an intensity of passion for whatever subject had just been suspended. They all turned curious, glittering eyes upon him as Her Ladyship smiled and held out her hand to him. If he had called her a faerie princess before, it had been a weak metaphor. No, it was the Queen of Faerie who smiled upon him. Her luxurious black hair tumbled in ringlets about her creamy white shoulders, and as she moved toward him, her diaphanous emerald gown revealed more than any man but her husband should have known. The memory of what she had offered him at Norwycke raced through his frame.

“Mr. Darcy, welcome!” Her voice fell warm and intimate upon his senses. “How we have longed to see you again!”

Darcy could not be certain whether it was Sylvanie or the whiskey which had kindled the warmth that was now spreading throughout his frame, but the curst tight knot that had taken up residence in his chest a week before seemed to come loose. The welcome in her every movement as she approached him soothed his battered pride, then excited in him an appreciative anticipation. He smiled back at her and bowed, said, “Lady Monmouth,” and rose to a face made even lovelier by a light of gentle amusement.

“So formal,
Mr
. Darcy?” she returned with a low-pitched laugh. “But we are more intimately acquainted than that, are we not?” She nodded to Monmouth, who bowed his leave with a smirk and took himself off to another part of the room. “We are not so careful to observe all the old proprieties here.” Lady Monmouth took his arm, drawing him back to where she had been seated. “The world is changing and ablaze with new ideas that have no patience for that which is past.” She glanced up at him, gauging his reaction, he supposed, but the delicious warmth suffusing him from within and caressing his senses from without overrode any impulse he might have had to take issue with her words. “Here, I am simply Sylvanie to your Darcy.” Lady Monmouth resumed her seat on the divan and indicated to Darcy the space beside her.

As he took the place next to her, her admirers, who had drifted away at her desertion of them, strolled back, their eyes lighting upon him with a keen interest. Among them, though, were some who regarded him with a troubled uncertainty, while others cast upon him looks that bordered on hostility. One in particular, an intense-looking gentleman whose stance seemed to indicate resentment of Darcy’s favored status, leaned near her ear and murmured something as she signaled a servant for more refreshments to be brought. “My dear Bellingham,” she replied smoothly in undertone, “all is well!” She turned a wry smile upon Darcy. “They are all eager to know you! Will you allow me the introductions?”

Nodding his uneasy permission, Darcy reached for a glass of wine from the tray that appeared at his elbow. True to her word, all noble titles were abjured, and Sylvanie made her introductions by surname only. Nonetheless, Darcy recognized several who were titled lords or ladies, though minor ones. Those with a claim to some little fame for their art or writing were introduced as such, those with political aspirations with the names of their connections. As he had anticipated, they were a diverse lot, although
radical
might have been a better epithet, he decided. Further, many of them, as was his first new acquaintance of the evening, were Irish. Even as Darcy hoped he harbored no prejudice toward that fractious population, he could not have been unaware of the problems the radicals among them had been presenting to the government as it sought to prosecute a united effort against Napoleon. An indifferent Tory by birth, he had delved no more deeply into modern political philosophy than with an appreciative reading of Burke. Content as he was in the careful observance of his personal creed of responsible obligation to King on the one hand and to his own lands, tenants, and people on the other, the “Irish Question” had never intruded on his consciousness. If he read this gathering aright, it was about to do so.

“
‘What have you got in your hand,’
Darcy?” Bellingham demanded of him, his eyes narrowly focused on his face. Darcy stared back at him, a brow raised in warning.

“Bellingham!” Sylvanie responded sharply but then continued in a more conciliatory voice. “All is
well
.”

“It is a simple enough question.” Bellingham ignored her, his gaze intent upon Darcy. “What have you got in your hand?”

“It appears to resemble a glass of wine.” Darcy brought the glass to his lips and drained half of it, all the while holding Bellingham’s eyes with his own. “Yes, definitely wine! But pray, enlighten me, sir, if you deem it otherwise.” He held the glass out to him.

Bellingham drew back at the offer, a look of supreme disdain upon his countenance. “I thought as much.” He sneered and then turned to his hostess. “ ‘All is well,’ Sylvanie?” he questioned her. “Not bloody likely!” Then, with the briefest of nods, he stalked away.

Darcy stared after him in wonder, but when his gaze returned to those about him, he immediately sensed that his welcome among them was dissipating as quickly as Bellingham’s stride was taking him to the door. What had he said? He quickly downed the rest of the contents of his glass.

“You must take no notice of Bellingham.” Sylvanie leaned against his arm and, reaching across him, took the glass from his hand. The scent of her perfume drifted over him, the smell of new roses and rain-drenched moss. “He is a strange man at best, and tonight he is more than a little preoccupied.” She smiled up at Darcy from under shapely black brows. “Do not let him spoil the evening.” Darcy found he could not help returning her smile and inclined his head in agreement. “Excellent.” She laughed in pleasure with him and then rose from her seat, placing the glass on a table. “Come then; there are those here who, I daresay, you will enjoy meeting.” Rising, he stepped up at her invitation, and once again, she tucked her hand inside his arm. “As your hostess, I must ensure your comfort,” she murmured intimately, “and as I must leave you in a few minutes, I would have you well provided for until I return.”

“You must leave?” Darcy asked, loathe to be left to his own devices in a room of strangers. He found too that he liked the caress in Sylvanie’s voice and the warm pressure of her on his arm.

“Only long enough to sing a few songs for my guests. Tonight is rather special,” she whispered conspiratorially as they made their way across the room. “Monmouth has secured Tom Moore for this evening! He consented to sing but only on the condition that we perform a duet and that I play for him.”

“An honor, indeed,” Darcy acknowledged, much impressed. He had heard the widely popular Irish tenor perform on more than one occasion and in highly prestigious company. That Sylvanie had obtained him for her soiree was, in itself, a social triumph of the first order. Moore’s desire that she sing and play for him was a supreme compliment.

“Sylvanie, darlin’!” Sir John O’Reilly’s exclamation brought them to a halt. “What would you be doin’ with Darcy here? Keepin’ him ta yerself all evenin’?”

“O’Reilly!” Sylvanie brightened. “Have you already met, then?”

“Didn’t Monmouth himself introduce us when he first come in the door?” He paused and bussed her cheek. “I’ve the distinct honor o’ bein’ his oldest new friend here! Is that not the truth, m’fine lad?” O’Reilly winked at him again from under bushy, grizzled brows. If Sylvanie were Faerie Queen, O’Reilly was one of the wee folk writ large, although Darcy suspected his treasure lay in his silver tongue rather than in buried gold.

Sylvanie laughed. “Then perhaps you would not object to taking charge of his further introduction, for I must see to Moore and the entertainment. But I expect you to take good care of him,” she warned, “for I shall return and demand him of you when I am finished.” She nodded to them both but bestowed upon Darcy a lingering caress of her fingers before removing her hand and threading her way gracefully through the knots of guests.

“I suppose that means she’ll be wantin’ you back sober, more’s the pity.” Sir John sighed dramatically. “Ah well, what can no’ be mended must be endured. Here!” He stopped a servant and, lifting two whiskeys from the tray, handed one to Darcy. “To endurin’!” He toasted him and tossed it back.

“To endurance.” Darcy repeated and lifted his glass as well. It had been some time since he had tossed back any appreciable amount of whiskey, and that which was served here was potent. The liquor scorched a trail down his throat, but at least this time it did not bring tears to his eyes. He brought the glass down to behold a smiling Sir John.

“There now, better this time, eh?” He then motioned round the room with his glass, the remainder of his whiskey sloshing dangerously as he did so. “Know many of the others here?”

“Almost no one,” Darcy replied. “Monmouth is a friend from university. I met Syl — Lady Monmouth while visiting her brothers in Oxfordshire last January. Moore I have heard sing before, of course, but have not met.”

“Would you be wantin’ to meet anyone in particular?” Sir John finished his glass and cast about him for a place to lay it.

“I am not certain.” Darcy hesitated, surveying the crowd a moment before recalling the curious incident that had happened earlier. “Yes, Bellingham.” Darcy looked down at Sir John and then stayed him as he began to search the room. “He has already gone, but perhaps you would explain something he said.”

“Somethin’ he said now?” O’Reilly’s tone cooled. “Bellingham says all too much, I’m thinking.”