“Well, I am not at all certain that I should introduce them,” she flirted back in the accepted mode, “for then you shall be free to ask them to dance sooner rather than late.” Evidently, Lady Felicia remembered their dancing as well as he did.
“As you say,” he responded. She rewarded his discretion with a low-pitched laugh and turned to indicate the lady directly across the wide expanse of table from him.
“That is my mother’s widowed sister, Lady Beatrice Farnsworth. Her daughter, my cousin, Miss Judith Farnsworth, is seated next to Mr. Poole.” She indicated the young woman with light brown curls arranged à la grec. “Now, Lady Sayre, you must know, is sister to Lord Manning. But you may not be aware that they share a younger sister, the Honorable Miss Arabella Avery, who is seated next to Lord Monmouth.” Darcy nodded as he located the lady, who, upon noticing his gaze, blushed and turned her eyes to her plate.
“Upon my other side there remains only Lady Sylvanie Trenholme, Sayre’s sister.” Darcy’s eyes followed Lady Felicia’s gracefully raised hand to behold the face of one he could describe only as a fairy princess, her black hair and gray eyes a perfect contrast to the guinea-gold goddess beside him.
“I did not know Sayre had a sister,” he confessed in surprise as Lady Felicia turned back to him, effectively blocking his view.
“Nor did most,” she replied. “She is the daughter of Sayre’s father’s second wife and has only just come back from school and an extended visit to her mother’s relatives in Ireland to live at Norwycke Castle. Although she is past the usual age, Sayre intends to present her at Court this Season. I am quite in sympathy with her.” She lowered her eyes from his as she reached for her glass of wine.
“Why so, my lady?” Darcy looked at her curiously. The Lady Felicia of his recent acquaintance had not been one to be concerned overmuch with the problems of other young ladies. Perhaps her engagement to his cousin had relaxed her feelings of rivalry.
“It is said that Sayre wishes her off his hands as soon as possible. There was no love lost between the two brothers and their late stepmama.” She gave a delicate sigh.
“Darcy!” Monmouth boomed from across the table. “Is what Sayre said true?”
“What would that be, Tris?” Darcy turned from Lady Felicia and grinned back at his old roommate.
Tristram Penniston, Viscount Monmouth, leaned his elbows on the expanse before him. “That old George has bought into a regiment somewhere! I don’t credit it, not a bit of it.”
Darcy’s grin faded. “I fear you must. It is true.” A triumphal crow from Sayre caused him to add, “I hope you have not bet on him!”
“He did!” broke in Manning. “I tried to dissuade him — reminded him of the last time he’d placed the ready with Wickham, but would he listen?”
“Which regiment did he join, Darcy?” asked Poole. He waved his fork toward their host. “Sayre bet it would be a flashy one quartered in London for George and nothing else!”
Darcy shook his head and frowned, “No, it is the —— th, under Colonel Forster, quartered in Hertfordshire.”
“Never took Wickham for a soldier.” Monmouth sighed. “No stomach for that kind of life that I could detect. Thought he was for the Law. Twenty, was it not, Sayre?”
Darcy grimaced. “He intended to, but he did not find it to his liking.”
“Who would not choose red and gold over black and a silly old wig?” Trenholme offered. “Wickham knows, as does any man, that the ladies go faint with admiration over a uniform. Is that not true, Miss Avery?” he quizzed.
Miss Avery colored alarmingly as the attention of the table centered upon her. She looked helplessly at her brother, whose only encouragement was an irritated frown. “A u-uniform is n-nice,” she stuttered miserably.
“Nice? Bella!” Manning’s withering tone caused Darcy to wince while the others became fascinated with their silver service or wineglasses. “Good Lord, speak up, and stop st ——!”
“But she has spoken, my lord, and much to the point!” Lady Felicia smiled gently into the swimming eyes of the very young lady. “A uniform is nice.” She then faced the others, arching one brow. “It makes a plain man smart; a dull man intelligent; and a timid man brave with merely putting it on — at least, in his own estimation!” A chorus of masculine denials mixed with chuckles raised the spirits of the hapless Miss Avery.
“And what will a uniform do for a more talented man, Lady Felicia?” asked Lady Sayre. “I vow, it is more than ‘nice’ work then.”
“Oh, my dear Lady Sayre.” Lady Felicia looked to her hostess. “It is well known that a uniform makes a smart man dashing; an intelligent man a genius; and a brave man a hero in no more time than it takes his batman to brush it and ease him into it.” A new howl went up from the gentlemen, and the ladies were forced to resort to their fans. Darcy smiled approvingly. Her rescue of Miss Avery by the turning of Manning’s embarrassing treatment of his sister into a clever conceit was well and compassionately done. The conversation passed on to other subjects, but Felicia smiled at him briefly before attending to the gentleman on her other side as the servants entered with the next course.
Rediscovering his appetite, Darcy addressed the truly excellent sirloin of beef set before him. It had been hours since the wretched meal at the last posting inn, and he was as ravenous as Sayre had guessed him. For several minutes all Sayre’s guests, as well as the host himself, directed their attention to the sumptuous meal. Gradually conversation resumed, and Darcy observed his old college hall mates as they laughed and ate and downed glass upon glass of Sayre’s good red wine. Of the six of them, only Sayre had married. Darcy had forgotten that his wife was Manning’s sister and had never known that Manning had had another one, younger still. Marriage to a friend’s sister had some advantages, to be sure. As long as the sister was tolerable, he corrected himself, as a vision of Miss Bingley as his bride presented itself. There were several sisters present, it seemed: the exceedingly shy Miss Avery and the fairy changeling, Lady Sylvanie, and one cousin, the fashionable Miss Farnsworth.
A low, intimate laugh from the lady beside him drew him once more to the fact of her presence in the group. Lady Felicia, his cousin’s fiancée. She was certainly beautiful and, he knew, possessed of all the expected accomplishments. Tonight she had shown him that she was possessed of a compassionate nature as well. Had he relinquished his place in her court prematurely? Perhaps he had been wrong in believing she required the admiration of multiple suitors. A flicker at the edge of his vision caught his attention, and he looked down to find that the fringe of her gossamer shawl had fallen across his coat sleeve and was now snagged by his cuff button. She seemed not to have noticed. He reached over and gently disentangled the delicate threads, but not before she discovered him. Her eyes searched out his, and the meaning in their silent expression was not lost on him.
Darcy drew back his hand from the fringe, letting the shawl drop like a veil between them as Lady Felicia murmured her thanks. A number of conversations whirled about him, but his mind seemed locked upon what had just occurred. He picked up his wineglass and partook of a generous amount as he pretended to listen to others. He was no spring lamb; he had a fair comprehension of what Lady Felicia wished him to understand. She, his own cousin’s fiancée, had invited him to embark upon a flirtation.