Duty and Desire (24 page)

Darcy looked down the hill to the confused gathering at its foot. A roar from Sayre reached his ears. Although he could not understand his host’s words, Sayre’s meaning was obvious as all the servants scurried to pack the food and other amenities that had been provided for their master’s guests. The outing was over, and it was expedient that he rejoin the others. There was nothing more he could do here.

Except for Trenholme, who brooded over a mug of hot cider at the fire, the party was divided into two groups near the sleighs. Manning had retired to one group, his sister still within his embrace. Around them, the ladies clucked or cooed over Miss Avery, trying to entice her face from the folds of her brother’s greatcoat. The remaining gentlemen formed another group, but Monmouth and Poole, seeing his approach, broke from them and strode over to meet him.

“Darcy, what happened?” Poole gasped out as he came to a halt. “Manning will only say it is something horrid, and Trenholme will speak to no one!”

“We apply to you, old man.” Monmouth nodded his agreement with Poole’s words. “The ladies are imagining all sorts of lurid scenes à la Mrs. Radcliffe. ‘No such thing,’ I told them. ‘This is England, not Italy or the deep reaches of Carpathia. Probably tripped over a dead rabbit or bird,’ I said. But truly, Darcy, what happened?”

Darcy hesitated.
This is England.
He knew exactly what Monmouth meant by the phrase. Had not every man in the country used it at one time or another, or heard his father declare it? The French may brutally lop off the heads of their aristocrats and later follow a madman across Europe, but
This is England.
The Italians might form secret, murderous societies and regard poison as merely one more political tool, but
This is England.
Yet above them on an
English
hillside lay a reality more maleficent in its authorship than any novel Mrs. Radcliffe had ever written.

Darcy looked into the faces of his old hall mates. A wave of disgust washed over him as he detected neither concern nor compassion for Miss Avery in their importuning of him, but only a rampant desire for the satisfaction of their curiosity. He would not feed it.

“If our hosts decline to discuss the incident,” he responded stiffly, “I must naturally respect their wishes and remain silent as well.” He interrupted their vociferous protestations. “Excuse me, but the lad has my horse ready. Gentlemen.” He bowed quickly and strode around them. The bay pricked up its ears at his approach and bent its neck to watch him as he gathered the reins and prepared to mount.

“Mr. Darcy.” Miss Farnsworth brought her horse alongside him. “I fear, sir, that I must humbly beg your pardon. You were proved quite correct in your concern and, I confess, your advice as well.” She smiled contritely. “My horse,” she supplied at his vague return of her regard. Darcy inclined his head in weary consent — that she could speak of that now! — and vaulted into the saddle.

The sleigh drivers signaled to the stable lads, who stepped away smartly, and the party departed the cursed scene with a nervous chattering that drove Darcy to the rear of the procession until they should gain the track leading to Norwycke. In his circle back, he brought his mount abreast of Manning’s sleigh to inquire after Miss Avery. She was still pale as she shivered in her brother’s arms, but some color had returned to her face. Her eyes remained tightly shut against the world, and wrenching sobs would overtake her as tears spilled down her cheeks.

She still mourns a child! The realization that Trenholme had not relieved her suffering with the truth of her discovery sent a hot surge of fury through Darcy’s body. Cursing himself for not immediately seeking assurance that she was in possession of the truth, he leaned down.

“Manning,” he ventured. His old antagonist raised eyes still shadowed with incomprehension at what they had beheld.

“Darcy,” he sighed in acknowledgment. “How can I thank you? Poor Bella…thank God you kept your head.”

Dismissing the Baron’s expression of indebtedness, Darcy continued, “Manning, it is of the gravest importance…you must know and represent the truth of it to Miss Avery — it was
not
what it appeared to be.”

His hearer’s brow creased in confusion. “But, I saw it…in all that bl ——”

“Quite.” Darcy forestalled him describing the scene in the hearing of the sleigh’s other occupants. “It appeared so and apurpose, but it was not; I assure you. Miss Avery must find a great comfort in that.”

Manning shook his head in bewilderment and then looked down into his sister’s face. Gently, he caressed her cheek and the curls that had escaped her bonnet. “Why would someone do such a thing?” he breathed and looked back up at Darcy.

Darcy drew upright, his jaw clenching as he looked into the darkening distance behind them.
Why indeed?
Returning to the Baron, he inclined his head. “I regret that I can be of no further use to you in that regard. Please convey my best wishes to Miss Avery.” At Manning’s nod, Darcy checked his horse, allowing the sleigh to sweep past them through the clean, white snow.

By the time they had clattered across the castle’s bridge and into the courtyard, Darcy was stiff with cold and wished for nothing better than the solitude and comfort of a hot bath to stay his mind from further reflection on the events of the day. The discovery at the stone had so preyed upon his mind that he could not have relayed anything about the journey back to Norwycke Castle save that a solemn twilight had crept over them, accompanied by a rise in the force and coldness of the wind.

He dismounted slowly and handed his horse over to a burly fellow already leading two others back to the stable. Although he and the bay had reached a mutual respect, both man and horse parted gladly in weary hope that their respective attendants were well prepared to minister to their needs. Apparently Sayre and his other guests were of the same mind, for no sooner had bedchamber doors slammed shut than upraised voices and the sound of running feet on backstairs were heard throughout the guest wings.

Darcy laid a hand upon the doorknob of his chambers and turned it with fervent hope that Fletcher had not lost his talent for anticipating his needs. From the sounds echoing through the castle, hot water would be a very precious commodity in short order. His hope was fulfilled to more than his satisfaction.

“Fletcher.” He sighed at the sight of his dressing gown laid out. “I believe you are truly priceless.” He sniffed the air. “Food as well!”

“Yes, sir.” Fletcher bowed. “Your bath lacks but one more bucket of hot water, which is on its way; and the food will keep warm until you desire it. May I help you, sir?” He reached for the edges of Darcy’s coat and expertly pulled it off his shoulders. Brushing it lightly, he laid it down and turned to proceed to Darcy’s waistcoat when he stopped short, his brow crinkled in question. As Darcy unbuttoned his waistcoat, Fletcher returned to the coat, picked up a sleeve, and turned the cuff around several times, examining it closely.

“Mr. Darcy!” he finally said. “There is
blood
on your cuff, sir!”

Darcy looked up from his task. “There was so much of it, I am not unduly surprised. Can it be gotten out?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Fletcher sputtered, his agitation increasing, “but are you hurt, Mr. Darcy? Was there an accident? Why was I not informed?”

Darcy regarded him with wonder, but it soon gave way to a guilty exultation. “Can it be you do not
know,
Fletcher?” he demanded gravely, unable to resist the temptation to exploit this singular experience, whose novelty expiated, to a degree, the grim circumstances upon which it was predicated. Fletcher’s struggle to admit his ignorance of so great an event as the cause for blood upon his master’s clothing would have been terrible to behold had Darcy not been almost giddy with weariness, hunger, and an unconscionable delight in having, at last, astounded his valet.

“No sir, I do not, and I am sure it is none of my business if you are not hurt,” Fletcher confessed stiffly. He dropped the sleeve and stepped round Darcy to remove the waistcoat. “I trust you are
not
hurt, sir?” he added quietly.

That Fletcher’s concern was real Darcy did not doubt; and he felt a twinge of shame for his teasing. “No, I am not hurt,” he said over his shoulder. “It is not my blood; it is not human blood at all but animal.”

“Indeed, sir,” Fletcher would not be drawn in again. Darcy sat down at the knock on the dressing chamber door. Fletcher answered it and motioned the boot boy to enter and proceed while he supervised the last bucket of water being added to the bath. The boy’s tasks complete, Fletcher sent him off, waiting until the ringing of his boots upon the stairs was no more before he closed the door.

“The bath is ready, sir, but have a care. It is quite hot.” The valet moved to catch the shirt Darcy flung off as he walked toward the dressing room. A few moments more and Darcy was easing himself down into the bath. Steamy vapor rose from the surface and swathed his face as he leaned back and savored the relief granted his body by the liquid heat. If only there were a similar remedy for the mind, he mused as he closed his eyes. But the scenes of the afternoon played out again beneath his eyelids: Sayre’s fear, Miss Avery’s hysteria, Trenholme’s rage, and most troubling, the bundle at the foot of the stone. What did it mean? Even Trenholme, who knew the Stones as magnets for the superstitious, was shocked and sickened, claiming that nothing like it had occurred before. If he was being truthful, the sacrifice must signal an attempt to manipulate fate in a vastly more serious way than the cure of warts! The illusion of child sacrifice created by the mask indicated a grasping after power, a good deal of power. And if power, would it not likely be directed against a rival “power” in the neighborhood? Sayre, perhaps, who was already in a quake about the Stones? But to what purpose? A groan of frustration escaped him.

“Mr. Darcy?” Fletcher appeared at the door. “Did you call, sir?”

“No.” He sighed. “But you may pour the first bucket.” Soon warm water was sluicing down his face and shoulders. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and blinked against the remaining drops.

“Your soap, sir.” A bar of fine French-milled soap was thrust before his nose, accompanied by a washing cloth. Darcy fumbled for the soap, which popped from his grasp like a cork from a bottle and plunged, uncorklike, to the bottom of the bath. One of Fletcher’s brows arched, but he turned away to the tray of grooming articles without comment. Darcy retrieved the bar and vigorously applied it, the silence between them deepening uncomfortably.

“The second, sir?” Fletcher’s disinterested voice arose from close by. With a nod, Darcy steeled himself for the rinsing water. It came down gently, carrying the lather out of his hair in directed streams. When he had cleared all from his eyes, he looked up at his valet intently. He had grown rather used to the man’s uncanny prescience and bold repartee, as well as his conscientious service. This falter in an impressive record clearly discommoded Fletcher and his own insensitivity had added the proverbial insult to injury.

Excellent, Darcy!
He silently congratulated himself. Estrange your most trusted ally just when he is most needed! Who else but Fletcher might be relied upon to untangle the webs being spun around them? Images of the villainy at the King’s Stone flooded through him again. He needed Fletcher at his best, not sulking over a temporary failure and his own poor attempt at humor.

Darcy rose thoughtfully from the bath as Fletcher held out the dressing gown, guiding the sleeves up his master’s arms, then left him for the dresser to bring out clean smalls and stockings. Donning the garments quickly, Darcy cast about in his mind for how he might restore the man’s confidence and direct his talents without prejudicing his perception. Should he lay the whole before him? Doubtless Fletcher would pry loose the story, or some version of it, from someone’s maid or manservant. Would it not be more useful for him to be in possession of the facts and, therefore, free to observe the inhabitants of the castle unhampered by the shock of revelation?

As Darcy pulled on his black knit breeches and buttoned them over the silk stockings, his social obligations suddenly recalled themselves to his attention. They were to play at charades tonight, he remembered joylessly, and he was supposed to be looking for a wife. In that, too, Fletcher could be invaluable. Darcy passed over the faces of the eligible young women he had met so far and discarded all save one. Lady Sylvanie. He could not say that she did not intrigue him with her otherworldly beauty and enigmatic eyes, but he also had to acknowledge that there had not yet arisen that irrepressible pull that had o’ertaken him every time Eliza ——

“Your neckcloth, sir. Are you ready?” Fletcher held out the perfectly starched article. Darcy nodded and sat down. Well, there had hardly been time, had there? The fact that his interest had been caught so quickly in their short acquaintance was certainly in Sylvanie’s favor. Perhaps there was hope that his needs and requirements would soon be met acceptably and he could go home. With that thought, Darcy felt a pang of longing for the comfort of home — of the woman he had imagined there, in every room. He knew his own desire; it was already engaged in the person of one impudent, exciting, lovely little piece of baggage by the name of Elizabeth Bennet, whose unsuitability reached to the stars. He was here at the command of duty. Duty necessitated that he remain at Norwycke with people whom he was fast coming to loathe.

“Your coat, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher’s toneless voice broke into Darcy’s thoughts once more. He slipped his arms into the frock coat and shrugged it over his shoulders, then observed his reflection in the mirror as he pulled down his cuffs. The coat was newly made and fit like a second skin, but he found no pleasure in it. He was almost ready and soon would have to depart his chambers for the drawing room battles below. How to span the breach and set Fletcher’s nose atwitching?

“Fletcher,” he tossed over his shoulder while the valet applied the lint brush across his back. “You have read or attended a performance of
Macbeth,
have you not?”