Pamela Aidan - An Assembly Such as This

His sides aching, Darcy caught up the lamp and, slipping silently down the hall, brought it and the rapier back to the library. He returned the sword to its case and retrieved his discarded clothing. Tired as he was, he knew he was not yet ready to succumb to sleep. His book! He would read until sleep demanded his surrender. From where he stood, he could see Fuentes d’Oñoro standing at attention and, next to it, his father’s long-ago gift to him, Whitefield’s sermons. Reaching across to the shelves, he pulled out Fuentes d’Oñoro and, tucking it under his arm, blew out the lamp and made his way to his bedchamber.

With his accustomed precision, Darcy placed his signature on the last document of business he expected to encounter before leaving London for Christmas and Pemberley and handed it back to Hinchcliffe to sand and seal. At last, he was free from the tedious aspects of his return to Town and could give his attention to more pleasurable activities! Although, he acknowledged to himself as he closed up his ledgers and books, this evening’s soiree at the home of Lord and Lady Melbourne in Whitehall would not answer all his ideas of pleasure. Only the much-heralded appearance of L’Catalani could have enticed him to accept one of Lady Melbourne’s invitations, for in general he followed his advice to Bingley and avoided her set as much as was possible.

It was not only that lady’s encouragement of the prince regent’s eccentricities that caused Darcy to maintain a distant attitude. The intrigue and rumors of irregularities within the walls of Melbourne House reached back over thirty years, to the birth of the viscount’s heir, and continued into the present in scandalized on-dits concerning the conduct of that heir’s new wife. Darcy had been present at the marriage of the Honorable William Lamb to Lady Caroline Ponsonby on one of his rare visits to Town during his father’s illness. Lamb he had regarded as a good sort, levelheaded in his pursuit of a political career and of a more serious cast than his antecedents might lead his constituents to expect. But his marriage to Lady Caroline, already celebrated for her unconventional flights of behavior, was, to Darcy’s thinking, ill-advised. In this he had been proved a sage, and Darcy considered, as he nodded his permission to Hinchcliffe’s request to lock up the books, which lady might be the more likely to stage a scene at the soiree, the temperamental diva or the highly strung Lady Caroline.

“Another good day’s work, Hinchcliffe,” Darcy complimented his secretary. “You have overseen everything admirably. I could never have accomplished so much without your attention beforehand.”

“It is my pleasure, sir,” the somber man replied with a slight inclination of his gaze. “Has the date of your departure for Pemberley been settled, sir? I should like to begin the arrangements.”

“Tuesday the 17th, I should think, if I can see Lawrence on Monday. Have I received a reply to my inquiry?”

“It arrived this afternoon, Mr. Darcy.” Hinchcliffe opened the ever-present leather case, extracted a rather crumpled, paint-stained note, and read, “ ‘Mr. Thomas Lawrence will be pleased to entertain Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy at half past two of the clock on Monday, the 16th of December at his residence, Cavendish Square.’ Shall I send a confirmation, sir?”

“Yes, do so. If my interview goes well and he agrees, he shall paint Miss Darcy when she comes to London with me in January.” He smiled into Hinchcliffe’s surprised countenance. “Indeed, I have every confidence that I will be able to convince her to return with me. Not a Season, of course — she is too young — but there will be quiet gatherings enough and operas and plays and” — he paused, then added quietly — “and it will be good to have her among us, will it not?”

“It will, indeed, Mr. Darcy.” The softened look that passed briefly over Hinchcliffe’s face confirmed what Darcy had known for years. He may have had a secure hold upon his secretary’s loyalty, but it was his sister, born the year he came into their service, who held Hinchcliffe’s devotion.

The library clock struck four, and as if on cue, Witcher opened the door, but not with the expected announcement of tea. “Mr. Darcy, sir, Lord Dyfed Brougham to see —”

“Yes, yes, I’m here to see you, Fitz; and I know you are home. Don’t try to brush me off with any Banbury tales, ’cause I’m on to ’um!” The elegant but imposing figure of Lord Brougham filled the doorway and then sidled past the butler. “Good show, Witcher, but Fitz’ll see me, won’t you, old man?” He rounded on Darcy with a confident grin.

“Dy, have you nothing better to do than rattle my servants?” Darcy shook his head at his old university friend.

“Nothing else whatsoever! Except, perhaps, to plague you!” Lord Brougham stretched out his hand and gripped Darcy’s in a hearty shake. “Where have you been this last month? I came to Town to find your knocker down, and all Witcher would tell me was that ‘Mr. Darcy is visiting in the country.’ I offered him a pony if he would say where, but Mr. Witcher here” — Lord Brougham tossed his chin toward the butler — “would mumble not a word.”

“Let that teach you not to try to bribe loyal family servants,” Darcy shot back at him with a laugh.

“Well, all those years at University didn’t teach me anything, so I doubt me this will. Hopeless case, don’t you know!” Brougham dropped carelessly into one of the hearthside chairs and looked around him. “I’ve caught you at the books, have I, Fitz?”

“No, in point of fact, we just finished; and I was expecting tea —”

“Tea! Now there’s an idea!” He sat up with a bound. “Let’s you and I toddle over to the club. I daresay you haven’t looked in at Boodle’s since you returned from…Now just where were you?”

“Hertfordshire.”

“Lord, you don’t say! Hertfordshire!” Brougham mused distractedly. “Whatever for, Fitz?”

“I’ll tell you when we get to the club.” Darcy turned to his butler, who well acquainted with Lord Brougham’s high spirits, was smiling discreetly behind his hand. “My things, Witcher, if you please. It appears I will be taking tea at Boodle’s.”

The two men clattered down the front steps of Erewile House and into Lord Brougham’s curricle, which in minutes conveyed them, under his expert whip, to the hushed hallowedness of Boodle’s. The club’s imperious doorman ushered them inside, where various footmen rushed quietly to relieve them of their greatcoats, hats, and gloves.

Facing his friend across the black-and-white mosaic floor of Italian marble, Darcy cocked a brow. “Where to, Dy?”

“Someplace where we can talk privately and not scandalize the older members. Corner of the dining room, I should think.” Brougham winked in response to the veil of reserve with which Darcy immediately cloaked his face. “Oh, nothing so very bad as that, Fitz! Unless you’ve been kicking your heels up in — where was that? Herefordshire?”

“Hertfordshire, as you well know,” he replied dampeningly.

“Oho! We do have some ground to cover, I see.” Brougham started toward one of the gleaming wooden passageways that arched over stairs leading from the entry hall to the club’s upper floors.

Perhaps this was not wise. Darcy’s eyes narrowed on his friend’s back as he followed him up to the dining room. He knew very well that Dy’s dilettante façade hid a keen mind, which despite his protestations, was as capable of designing a bridge as of composing a sonnet. They had vigorously competed with each other at University, and Darcy remembered, if his friend did not, the multitude of prizes Dy had won at Cambridge. All the while, he recalled uneasily, giving their tutors fits.

In the intervening seven years, Dy had managed, with a studied elegance and frivolous manner, to make Society forget about them as well and account him no more than a charming fribble. Darcy had often wondered why the charade, but Dy had smoothly deflected all his attempts at satisfying himself on the question. How or why his friend had determined to conduct his life in such a fashion remained an untouched subject between them, but as it did not corrupt the firmness of their long friendship, Darcy had chosen early on to leave the question unanswered. But his forbearance in pressing Dy upon his idle existence was, he had found, not always reciprocated. If I am not extremely careful, he cautioned himself, Dy will discover from my own lips what I wish most to conceal.

They entered the spacious dining room, and Brougham immediately commandeered the coziest table. “Here, just the ticket, Fitz.” He pulled out a chair for Darcy and then sat down at the one that offered the best view of the entire room. “Let us get our tea ordered, and then you can tell me all about your expedition to the country.” As the waiters discharged dish upon dish of what Boodle’s considered a suitable tea for its gentleman members, Darcy and Dy entertained each other with the commonplaces and ribbings that long friendship allowed. When they were finally left to themselves, Dy sobered somewhat and grew more candid as he caught his friend up on the economic rumors and political speculations that truly mattered to men in Darcy’s position.

“What an amazing fount of information you are,” Darcy commented dryly as Brougham finally paused for a long draw on his tea. “One could almost suppose it a passion.”

“Oh, nothing so fatiguing! One hears things, you know. Assemblies, routs, hunts, gaming hells…all the same, nothing but chatter. I just happen to have a devilishly retentive mind.” He cast Darcy a soulful look and sighed. “Merely one more curse I must bear.”