“In America!” came the unison reply. Darcy looked down into the glass in his hand with consternation, at a loss as to what he should do. He felt he ought to know, he ought to decide and then act upon it; but how to begin such an enterprise eluded him.

“Where did it bud?” Beside him, Sir John bellowed out the question.

“In France!” The answer sliced through the air, then all once more grew silent as every eye returned to their hostess.

Sylvania let her gray-eyed gaze travel slowly over the room. They were entirely with her, of that Darcy had no doubt. She held them delicately but with surety in the palm of her hand as she stood in fierce beauty before them. A look of exaltation washed slowly over her face, recalling to Darcy memories of their conversations at Norwycke Castle. Power, she had said when last he had seen that look, the power of riding the crest of passion, is life worth the living. Had she proven it so? As she thrust her glass again high in the air, Sylvanie’s voice rang out, a sudden clarion in the silence. “Where are you going to plant it?”

“In the crown of Great Britain!” The roar circled the room, and a hundred glasses of Irish whiskey were drained in an instant.

“Now, lad, now!” O’Reilly urged him as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Ah, a glorious sight, isn’t she?”

Darcy nodded. “Yes, she is.” He brought the glass up and tipped it toward her. To you, Sylvanie, he toasted her silently, and your passion for life. At that moment a servant stepped up to Sir John with a tray on which he thankfully deposited his empty glass. Seeing it, Darcy brought the toast to his lips, only to have the man turn sharply toward him, knocking the glass out of his hand. With a startled exclamation from all three men, the heavy glass tumbler hit the floor with a dull thud.

“Your pardon, sir!” The servant ducked his head as he apologized and then went down on the floor to retrieve the glass. Darcy frowned at the man’s broad back as he blotted at the carpet, recognizing him as the one who had arrested his attention earlier that evening. The man’s face was properly averted from his betters, but there continued something about him — his movements, perhaps — that seemed so familiar. He rose then and, with his back to Darcy, proceeded to attend to Sir John, who was flicking at the droplets of whiskey that had been flung upon his waistcoat.

“Have a care, man!” Sir John bit out angrily, displeased by the man’s futile attempts at remedy.

“Yes, sir,” the servant responded, then more loudly, “Excellent advice, sir!”

“What?” Sir John demanded in surprise at the man’s impertinence, but the servant was already bowing and thereafter whisked himself and the tray quickly into the crowd. “Cheeky blighter!” O’Reilly commented to Darcy, who stood frozen for a moment staring after the man in disbelief. That voice! It could not possibly be…! He stretched to attention, trying to follow the servant’s path through the room, but even his superior height could not afford him a clear view of his quarry.

“You must excuse me, O’Reilly! Your pardon!” he blurted out and stepped round him, but Sir John laid a strong hand upon his arm.

“Where are you off to, lad? Sylvanie will want to know,” he demanded of him.

“I do not know.” Darcy looked desperately after the servant. “You must excuse me!” Pulling away, he hurried in the direction the man had gone, dodging the servants and guests strolling the drawing room. Finally, he gained the door and slipped out into the still crowded corridor. Peering over and around the heads of the throng, he caught a glimpse of his prey entering a doorway farther down the hall. The man hesitated and then, as if come to a decision, turned to look him full in the face. Confirmed! Darcy did not know whether to give in to triumph, anger, or curiosity, for all three vied for the upper hand as he made his way down the hall to the last door. When finally free from the crowd, he quickened his stride, more so as his object appeared to urge him to hurry.

“What the —” he began, but the erstwhile servant frowned heavily at him and pulled him through the doorway, closing the door softly behind them. Darcy strode several paces into the room and then, rounding quickly upon his quarry, demanded, “What in God’s name are you doing here posing as a servant, Dy?”

“Will you keep your voice down? You are bellowing like a blasted ox!” Brougham frowned at him again, causing Darcy to cross his arms tightly over his chest and return him the same. His Lordship ignored him, checking again at the door that none should overhear or disturb them.

“You are following me!” Darcy accused him. “Of all the —”

“No, I am not following you,” Dy quickly shot back, then retracting his statement, added, “Not exactly. It happens that I was already engaged to come here tonight before you allowed Monmouth to goad you into accepting his invitation; although the idea of assigning you a keeper does have a certain merit to it! Good Heavens, Darcy, I warned you to stay away, and you walk right into it!”

“Into what? You talk in circles, Brougham!” Darcy returned, his temper rising. “And if you were invited, why warn me away? You make no sense!” He dropped his arms and, gesturing toward his costume, peered at his friend intently. “And why are you dressed as a servant? Is this some sort of odd start, Dy, some sort of prank?”

“No, Fitz.” His Lordship sighed and looked to Heaven before returning his inspection. “But it is rather a long story, too long to relate under this roof.”

Darcy nodded curtly. “I would imagine so. Come round tomorrow and tell me. Perhaps by then I shall be able to see the humor in it.” He made to leave, but Brougham stepped in his path.

“You cannot go back!” He laid ahold of Darcy’s shoulders. “Fitz, do you not realize what is going on back there? It is treason, old man —” Darcy’s dismissive snort interrupted him. “Or the next thing to it, and you should not be seen among them!”

“Dy!” he warned him, “do you seriously expect me to believe that Monmouth invited me here to entertain me with a show of treason?”

Brougham held the breath he had taken in preparation to answer him back and, instead, looked at him with such piercing intensity that Darcy almost began to doubt himself. When finally he spoke, Dy dropped his hold of him and stepped back. “No, not to entertain you, Fitz, to blackmail you.”

“That is preposterous!” Darcy burst out.

“Indeed? You were to be made drunk or, failing that, drugged and then ‘discovered’ in Her Ladyship’s bedchamber by the ‘outraged’ husband and other suitable witnesses.” Dy’s voice tightened with loathing, then shaking his head at him, he continued with exasperation. “And from what I saw of you and Lady Monmouth tonight, such an eventuality would hardly be questioned. You were playing right into her hands!”

“Her hands?” Darcy repeated, now listening with more attention.

“Oh, Fitz! You cannot for a moment think that Monmouth concocted all this! I told you he was only an errand boy and a ham-handed one at that! Regardless” — Brougham dismissed His Lordship — “you would have then been assured of their silence in exchange for regular donations into a certain charity for the relief of orphaned Irish children.” He laughed bitterly. “Of course, the true beneficiaries would be Irish revolutionaries, for that is Her Ladyship’s driving passion. You were the perfect target, old man! Rich, in charge of your own fortune, and with a younger sister to protect. Then, to add spice to this evil brew, you are also someone with whom Her Ladyship has a score to settle.”

“Lady Sayre.” Darcy sighed heavily.

“Yes, Lady Sayre,” Dy confirmed. “Lady Monmouth holds you responsible for her mother’s death.” He paused and looked searchingly at his friend. “Do you believe me now, Fitz, or would you like to see the glass I knocked out of your hand?” Dy picked up the tumbler from the tray and held it up to a branch of candles, where the smallest of specks could be seen still clinging to the bottom.

“O’Reilly?” Darcy asked, knowing the answer. Dy nodded. “Good God!” The closeness with which he had come to disaster took his breath away.

“Well, so He was this time, although you hardly deserve it,” Dy observed drily. “Now, are you going to leave this nest of villains or must I arrange your kidnapping? Lady Monmouth is probably looking for you as we speak.”

“But how did you know?” Darcy looked at his oldest friend in confusion. “What are you —?”

“Too long a story,” he said over his shoulder as he turned back to the door. “You must leave…now!” Opening it, Dy peered out. “Good, there is still much activity in the hall and down to the door. Do you know the Fox and Drake on Portman Road?” Darcy nodded. “Meet me there in an hour, my friend, and I will answer your questions.” For the first time that evening, he smiled, though wryly. “Well, some of them! Now get yourself out of here!” Clapping him on the shoulder, Dy then pushed his old friend out the door. “And be quick about it!” he whispered urgently and closed it behind him.

Although the corridor still teemed with Sylvanie’s guests, Darcy at first felt suddenly, horribly alone and, then, like the world’s greatest fool. Gathering himself together, he began to thread his way back through the throng to the head of the stairs. If he could leave without notice, it would be the greatest of good fortune, and nothing more would come from this night than a much-needed opening of his eyes to the political realities of a country at war, from both within and without. That, and an entirely tumbled-over understanding of one of his oldest friends! He still reeled from the sudden reappearance, despite the servant’s clothing, of the Dy Brougham he had known in university, but that puzzle would have to wait for the Fox and Drake. His first task was to get out of Monmouth’s town house and, as Dy had so succinctly recommended, be quick about it!