“His library, sir?” Fletcher’s face showed only mild surprise. “It stands to reason. Have you seen the gallery yet, Mr. Darcy? The gilt frames have all been removed — sold, I understand — and replaced with wood and paint.”

“‘All that glisters is not gold,’” Darcy thought aloud as he paced the room. Upon reaching the window, he leaned against its frame and stared out into the moonlit night. “I did see his weapons collection, and it is truly impressive. I would venture to say it is untouched.”

“Yes, very true, sir, but according to my information, it is the only part of the Sayre estate either here or in London that has not suffered depredation.”

“Hmm.” Darcy considered Fletcher’s information. “Yet tonight he held out one of his most valued swords as a prize at cards. His losses never reached that point, but — here, what is this?” He straightened and peered out into the darkness.

“Mr. Darcy?” Fletcher joined his master at the window to see a hooded and cloaked figure moving swiftly along the wall of the barren garden before disappearing from sight below them.

“A servant?” Darcy speculated.

“No, sir, not from the swing of the cloak. It speaks of a superior wool, and likely lined as well.” Fletcher’s brow furrowed. “I regret to admit it, but I could not discern with any certainty from the cut or from this angle whether the garment belonged to a man or a woman.”

Despite his curiosity, Darcy could no longer deny the necessity of sleep; his next yawn was so wide even Fletcher heard the crack of his jaw. He was so very tired. It was a miracle that he’d not lost his shirt at the night’s play. The rest of Fletcher’s gleanings would have to wait for the morrow. He drew off his shirt as he walked to the washing stand, toeing off his pumps as he went. Quickly seeing to his ablutions, Darcy accepted his nightshirt from Fletcher and sent him off to his own rest with instructions not to disturb him until noon. The door behind his man had barely clicked shut before Darcy blew out the candles and slid his weary frame between the bedclothes of the stately piece of furniture that was the guest bed. Adjusting the pillows and quilts to his liking, he lay back with a sigh.

Lady Felicia! He almost sat up again with the sudden return of his problem to mind. Had she awaited him long, or had she accepted early that he would never come? Why did she act so warmly? He had detected no great sorrow when he had left her worship those months ago. There had been a short flurry of gossip, as there always was, but they had gone on civilly after, and he had detected no particular sign of regret at his leaving. And what of discovery? Did she have no fear of exposure? Did she so discount his honor or believe Alex so besotted that he would deny the report of his own cousin? Darcy’s eyes drifted shut, his fatigue an irresistible weight. And what was Sayre about? A luxurious house party and satin-clad servants when he was on the verge of bankruptcy? It made no sense! And he was so…very…tired. With a low groan, Darcy rolled over onto his stomach and, pulling a pillow into his embrace, surrendered to the insistent claims of his weary mind and body.



Fletcher’s knock at precisely noon furnished Darcy with reason enough finally to abandon his efforts to draw more rest from his tumbled bed. He never could sleep into the morning, his early-formed habit of rising with the sun warring against the injudicious use of the previous evening. Looking into the sitting room of his suite, he beheld his valet, trailed by a footman with a tray of steaming dishes whose aromas performed a miracle on his perception of the day. A dressing gown was retrieved posthaste, but not before Fletcher had the dishes uncovered and a cup of coffee poured and waiting for him.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Fletcher greeted him quietly. “No other of His Lordship’s guests is stirring, and none of the maids or the gentlemen’s men is to attend before two. You may enjoy your meal at leisure, sir.”

Darcy looked up in surprise from his plates of steak, a rasher of bacon, toast, and cups of boiled eggs. “Two! I suppose I should not be surprised that Sayre keeps Town hours in the country.” He speared a bit of the steak. “Well, Fletcher, what else should I know?”

“The ladies have decided on a sleigh ride this afternoon. They wish to view some standing stones famous in the area. Then, poetry and cards are planned for this evening.”

“Poetry and cards.” Darcy sighed. “It could be worse.”

“Sir, it is incumbent upon me to add that dancing and charades were other items on their list.”

“Charades!” Darcy put down the cup he had just lifted to his lips. “Oh, please, not charades!”

“I am sorry, sir, but there will be charades. The ladies were most insistent on that point.”

“And would you know who the Charade Master or Mistress is to be?”

Fletcher drew himself up. “Of course, sir. It is to be Her Ladyship, Lady Sayre. Lord Sayre has his own plans for later each evening.”

“Gaming,” Darcy stated flatly as he broke off a piece of toast and popped it into his mouth. Fletcher nodded in assent but held his peace. “Thank you, Fletcher. I shall be only a few more minutes here.”

“Very good, sir.” The valet bowed and made for the dressing room while Darcy chewed meditatively on his meal. Charades! Well, there was no help for it; he could hardly ask to be excused. He looked at the clock on the mantel. Plenty of time to dress and write to Georgiana of his safe arrival. Safe arrival, to be sure, but a rather peculiar series of experiences since! Picking up a silver spoon, he rapped the tops of the eggs and carefully removed the cracked pieces, revealing perfectly prepared interiors. Good Lord — charades!



Fletcher’s careful ministrations completed, Darcy occupied the remaining time until his fellow guests should arise with composing a letter to his sister. Such close correspondence as he had heretofore maintained with Georgiana had always made such missives a pleasure, but her new easiness did not aid him in the setting down of his narrative on the ivory sheet before him now. A portion of his difficulty with its composition lay in the nature of their parting. The changes his sister had lately exhibited and the loss of understanding between them caused him to question the suitability of his habitual manner of addressing her. The remainder lay in the somewhat curious conduct of the gathered company as well as in his purpose for being one of their number. How, after all, did one tell one’s sister that one was — what was the abominable phrase? — “hanging out for a wife”?

In the end, he wrote of his misadventures upon the road and favored Georgiana with a short description of his hosts and their other guests, ending with an adjuration to enjoy whatever entertainments their aunt might suggest and to regard Lord Brougham’s advice with the greatest solemnity, no matter in what manner it was given. Sanding down the letter and folding it, he looked about him for his seal, but search as he might, he could not find it among the items in the writing desk. Odd that Fletcher had neglected to notice its absence.

Pushing back the chair, he rose and crossed into the dressing room. It would likely still be in his jewel case, since he had had no use for it upon his journey. Flicking up the clasp, Darcy opened the case, his eyes scanning the interior. Ah, yes, there it was, right next to…The silken threads lay serenely where he had placed them. Bypassing his seal, his fingers hovered over the strands. The temptation to retrieve them and return them to his waistcoat pocket was irresistible. He knew that if he touched them…No! Quickly, he snatched up the seal and snapped the case shut. At all cost, he must stay to his resolve. He returned to his letter and, lighting the wax wick, let fall two drops before stamping it with the seal. Then, affixing the franking wafer, he left it and his seal on the desk for Fletcher to see to. It was now two o’clock, and drawing down his cuffs and waistcoat, he turned toward the door just as a tattoo was rapped upon it from the hall.