“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!
“Darcy!” The shout came from behind him. He knew it could only be Monmouth, probably sent by O’Reilly to hunt him down. Darcy hesitated, for a moment his breeding holding him hostage to convention, but Monmouth’s second shout of his name propelled him toward the stairs. He had reached them, the post at the head of the stairs under his hand, when a grip closed about his arm from behind. “Darcy!” Monmouth breathed heavily. “The evening has only begun! You cannot be leaving?”
Monmouth’s touch made his skin want to crawl, but he controlled the urge to pull away and turned back to his old hall mate with a remarkable calm. “Yes, I fear I must; another engagement, you must understand, which I ignore at my peril.”
“But Sylvanie is to sing in only a few moments! Surely your appointment will allow for that!” Momouth urged him. “And she will be extremely disappointed if you do not stay and hear her. A song and a drink, what do you say, old man?” An undercurrent of panic colored the reasonable words of his request and the wary look upon his face, putting a period to any doubts Darcy may have had about Dy’s veracity.
“Impossible, Monmouth,” he replied firmly. “I am behind the time already and beg you will excuse me.”
“You made no mention of another engagement when you arrived,” His Lordship persisted. “Come, if something has offended, allow me to make amends. For old times’ sake, Darcy.”
“Old times’ sake, Tris?” Darcy could no longer mask his disgust. “How could you?” he demanded of him and pulled away. Monmouth’s protests were met by his back as he stalked down the stairs and requested his things from the footman. A flurry of activity warned Darcy that the plans for his entrapment had not yet been given over by all the participants. As he placed his beaver atop his head and took his walking stick from the footman, Lady Monmouth appeared at the head of the stairs.
“Darcy!” Her voice, low and entreating, called to him. Propriety and good breeding, he very well knew, demanded he acknowledge her, but right now his feeling about social niceties were that they could be damned! Taking his stick into a ferocious grip, he turned pointedly to the door, causing the doorman to spring for the handle and wrench it open.
“Another time, then,” Sylvanie promised with a scornful laugh, “when you are less easily frightened by the world that is coming.” Those in the hall and on the steps around her tittered appreciatively.
Darcy stood motionless, beyond measure angered and stung by her mockery and the public humiliation she had dealt him. Summoning every ounce of hauteur he possessed, he turned on his heel and raised cold eyes to her beautiful, taunting countenance.
“Never, madam,” he answered her, biting off each word in solemn vow, “never on your life!” Not deigning to wait for a reply, Darcy swung back to the door and, with broad stride, walked out into the cool night air.
“The Fox and Drake, Portman Road,” he instructed the driver of the first conveyance that pulled to a stop at the curb.
“Righto, guv’nah.” The cabbie laid a finger to his brim, saluting him.
It was only after he’d been sitting back in the hansom’s dark interior for a few blocks that the anger-wrought tension began to loosen its grip on Darcy and allow him to think. Think! He wrested the privilege of mocking himself from Sylvanie’s duplicitous hands. How have you fallen into the role of the world’s greatest fool? That you have been deceived for years by one of your oldest friends and twice entered willingly into the orbit of a woman bent on using you for God knows what nefarious purposes? That the woman you love…He looked out the window. The streets of London were alive yet with the city’s more exalted citizenry and would continue so until the small hours of the morning. Ladies leaned on their gentlemen’s arms, laughing and excited, eager for the glitter and whirl of gatherings within the lofty halls of the many ballrooms and drawing rooms promised by row upon row of stately homes.
Darcy closed his eyes against the sights, the yearning slicing through him, painful as a cut to the heart. Yes, the world’s greatest fool! And what the world’s greatest fool needed now was a drink! The hansom pulled to a stop. Darcy climbed down and threw the fare up to the driver, who caught it handily. “G’night, gov’nah!” He nodded as he pocketed the coin.
“That remains to be seen,” Darcy responded. The driver laughed and commanded his horse to walk on, leaving Darcy to inspect the front of the public house. Its sign hung brightly illuminated in lamplight, showing a strong young fox exuding a wide grin while a fat drake dangled from its jaws. “Almost,” Darcy addressed the fox, which he had no doubt was a vixen. “But tonight the drake got away.” He bent and opened the pub’s door. Immediately, he was welcomed by its owner.
“What will it be, sir? I have a room available,” the man offered cheerily.
“No, no room, just a table in a corner,” he answered him. “Are you well stocked?”