Duty and Desire (28 page)

With a black look of revulsion, Darcy turned away and leaned his forearm against the window, the honest darkness beyond it preferable to that which was being revealed within. The small chamber clock struck three. He waited until the echo of the last stroke had died away before asking, “And what of Lady Sylvanie?”

“Lady Sylvanie and her maid are a complete enigma, sir.” Fletcher’s voice tightened, evincing no little degree of agitation.

“An enigma, Fletcher!” Darcy faced him, folding his arms across his chest in bitter amusement. “This
is
a day filled with surprises! How so, an enigma?”

“The servants are unusually cautious concerning the lady and her maid.” Fletcher clasped his hands behind him in an uncharacteristic show of perturbation and then, to Darcy’s amazement, took up the pacing of the room that his master had ceased. “That is not to say I have not discovered some of their story, but more may well be…impossible!” he admitted with chagrin.

“Fletcher!”

The valet abruptly halted his immoderate ramble and, coloring, presented himself in correct form before Darcy. “As you know, sir, Lady Sylvanie is the offspring of the old lord and his second wife, a woman from an obscure but noble Irish family. Lord Sayre was delighted at the birth of his daughter, the young lady becoming quite his favorite, but he lived to enjoy her for only twelve years. His Lordship’s sons, though, did not look upon their stepmama with filial affection; and their half sister they cordially despised, especially Mr. Trenholme, who was closer to the girl in age. When His Lordship passed away, the new Lord Sayre packed mother and child off to Ireland with a pittance upon which to live and both he and his brother engaged to forget their very existence.”

“Altogether infamous!” Darcy expostulated, bridling with anger as Fletcher spoke. “But I do not doubt you, for I had never heard of a second wife — or a sister — all the years I knew them at school.”

“Such was the state of affairs, sir,” Fletcher continued, “until a little less than a year ago, when a letter arrived from Ireland announcing the death of the Dowager Lady Sayre. The message was accompanied by legal documents that Lord Sayre immediately placed in the hands of his solicitor, who forwarded notification of their contents to His Lordship’s most pressing creditors.”

“Legal documents?” Darcy sat down upon the bed again, relieved to put his mind to the solving of a tangle not associated with acts drenched in bloody superstition. “An inheritance, or interest in some financial venture? It would have to be something substantial.”

“Land, sir,” Fletcher supplied. “A legal suit over the ownership of some land initiated by Lady Sylvanie’s Irish grandfather decades ago had been but lately settled in Chancery in the family’s favor. The sale of this property might go some way in solving His Lordship’s financial problems.”

“But the land would devolve upon Lady Sylvanie, not Sayre,” Darcy objected.

Fletcher shook his head. “The land was deeded to Lord Sayre in the dowager’s will.”

“To the man who dispossessed her!” Darcy snorted derisively.

“Indeed, sir, but on one condition only. It seems that the property is not of such a value that the interest on its sale would afford Lady Sylvanie more than ‘respectable’ independence in the hinterlands of Eire. Therefore, the lady’s mother made it over to His Lordship to do with as he will on the condition that Lady Sylvanie be brought back to England and that he do all in his power to arrange her a marriage into a wealthy, prominent family, with the added proviso that the lady be freely agreeable to the match. When the deceased lady’s solicitors in Dublin are informed of Lady Sylvanie’s ‘happy’ marriage, the will’s provisions will be enacted.”

Darcy stared unseeing into space as his mind turned over Fletcher’s discoveries. Of course he knew that the lady was in want of a husband, just as he was in want of a wife. Fletcher’s tale did no damage to his esteem of her. Rather, his sympathy was further engaged, and his admiration increased at the plight of the lady and her proud handling of the situation fate had dealt her.

“There is no mystery in this, Fletcher.” His focus returned to his valet. “Her Ladyship’s mother furnished her daughter with a means to a future in the only way that her stepsons were likely to heed.”

“The mystery, sir, is that the lady has refused to entertain any of the prospects His Lordship has lured to Norwycke Castle, and no one can answer for it!” Fletcher answered, obviously vexed with the resistance he had encountered. “Neither His Lordship nor his brother has yet been able to prevail upon her to choose a husband from among their acquaintances or attend any public or private assembly in which to meet other eligible gentlemen. The two are said to be enraged with behavior that can only make their own situation more desperate the longer the lady refuses.”

A scene from the previous evening flashed before him: Trenholme seething in a fit of anger while Lady Sylvanie calmly looked through him. The explanation for this curious exchange was now evident. Trenholme had been attempting to force her attendance among the gentlemen for the evening, and Lady Sylvanie had been in the midst of a cool refusal when he entered the room. The lady’s eyes had then met his, and the lady had stayed.

“From all I can observe, sir,” Fletcher continued in the same vexed tone, “it is nonsensical that Lady Sylvanie would wish to prolong her stay at Norwycke Castle. Far more reasonable to expect that she would hasten to take advantage of the opportunity her mother has bought her. Yet she stays, and none can furnish a reason for her obduracy. On this there is absolute silence!” Fletcher fairly shook with irritation. “The lady confides in no one but her maid — an old and close servant brought with her from Ireland who, in turn, treats with none but her mistress. The household servants hold her in aversion and, when she is about, take care to be out of her way.” Fletcher paused to heave a long sigh. “It is she of whom I wrote in the note, Mr. Darcy. The old woman bears watching, and that is what I was about for the better part of this night, but with little success. I very much doubt,” he concluded abjectly, “that
I
shall be able to cozen anything from her, sir.”

Darcy yawned again as the clock struck the quarter hour. The truth that lurked beyond Fletcher’s information was too well masked to reason out while his brain and body insistently demanded the sweet relief of sleep. It required a clearer head than he was now possessed of. But the man’s faithful service needed to be commended first; it was his duty to his valet every bit as much as taking a wife was his duty to his family’s name.

“Well done, Fletcher,” he stated with unfeigned sincerity. “I could not have discovered a quarter as much had I a week! You have more than earned the sleep that is fast claiming us both.”

The valet’s anxious countenance relaxed at Darcy’s words, but when he arose from his acknowledging bow, his face was once more deeply etched with lines of concern. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, but I cannot be easy about the matter. It is a veritable serpent’s egg that could well hatch at any time to your harm. With your permission, I will set up in the dressing room and lodge there until it is killed in its shell or we leave this place.”

“You do not put any credence in these Othellian ‘charms and conjurations,’ I hope!” Darcy peered at him curiously.

“Certainly not, Mr. Darcy!” Fletcher protested. “Any unnatural power called upon by such revolting fardels was rendered impotent long ago. It is the
natural
evil and the desperation behind such pitiable delusions that I respect, sir. I will not presume upon Providence when Heaven has furnished a warning.”

“As you wish.” Darcy was too tired to object to Fletcher’s plan and not at all certain it was not a wise precaution. It had all become too deep to reject out of hand anything that would contribute to his advantage. He lay back on the pillows of the grandly ornate bedstead.

“Goodnight then, Mr. Darcy.” Fletcher bowed again. “And God be with you, sir,” he added, closing the dressing room door softly behind him.

T
he very last person that Darcy expected to find upon entering the breakfast room the next afternoon was the not-so-Honorable Beverly Trenholme. But there he was — his elbows propped on the table and his head resting in both hands, a large mug of steaming black coffee set just inches away from his nose. His head came up momentarily upon hearing Darcy’s footsteps on the polished wooden floor, but only long enough to identify their owner before dropping again into his hands.

“Oh…it is you, Darcy.” Trenholme groaned as he gingerly rubbed his temples.

“Evidently,” Darcy returned brusquely and went over to the buffet board to find something with which to break his fast. Trenholme’s bizarre behavior of the previous day coupled with Fletcher’s discoveries made the man’s company difficult to bear. If it were not for the rumbling of his stomach, Darcy would happily have quit the room. In fact, Fletcher had asked whether he would prefer a tray this morning, but he had refused in the little hope that something might cross his path which would lend rationality to the events of the day before. Instead, he was to be burdened with a sullen, reprehensible excuse for a gentleman as a dining companion.

Trenholme winced so terribly when Darcy set his plate and saucer upon the table that he was sorely tempted to let his silverware drop on the polished surface as well. But years of good breeding intervened against the impulse. Laying them down quietly, he took his seat with the intent of finishing quickly and ignoring Trenholme’s presence as much as possible. His companion obliged him by remaining silent through most of the meal, entertaining Darcy only with intermittent groans and sighs as the bracing brew before his nose was slowly and carefully consumed. Left thus to the contemplation of his own situation, Darcy chewed meditatively upon the country ham, boiled eggs, and buttered toast that made up the selections upon his plate. His situation was one that a hasty removal from Norwycke Castle would appear to solve admirably, but such a course could be considered nothing less than an insult to his host. This he was almost willing to brave save for what the desertion might portend for a certain lady. The protective nature embedded in his character that so sheltered his sister was awakened on behalf of the castle’s beleaguered daughter. Although that impulse had not as yet brought him to the point of wishing to offer for her, he could not abandon her to the machinations of her relatives or, his lip curled in distaste, whomever was playing at sorcerer.

Offer for her.
The thought returned to tease him. What would life be like with Lady Sylvanie at his side? In terms of breeding, manners, and understanding, she was well qualified to become mistress of his estate and mother of his heirs. He could not ask for a woman with a more austerely beautiful bearing who yet had something of poetry about her. Because she was the daughter of a marquis, any gentleman of discrimination would consider her an asset to his consequence despite her lack of dowry. In addition to practical considerations, he was inclined toward her. Her company was preferable to any other at Norwycke, certainly, and to that of most young women who had been pressed upon him as suitable mates. Then also, as his wife, she would have his protection from those who troubled her and the position and dignity she had been so cruelly denied.

His thoughts flitted then to more intimate aspects of the question. She was fiercely beautiful, and her passion obviously ran deep; but would it turn to him? Would she ever love him, welcome him?
A
bsently, Darcy’s fingers went to his waistcoat pocket.
What was this?
Glancing quickly at Trenholme, who was still contemplating the interiors of his eyelids, he dug a finger into his pocket and slowly withdrew the silk strands that had lain curled in its depth.
Elizabeth.
His vision of Lady Sylvanie as mistress of his heart and home melted away in the instant it took Darcy to acknowledge what lay in his palm.

“Reading your own palm, Darcy?” Trenholme interrupted his thoughts. Darcy closed his fingers about the strands and tucked them back inside his pocket with a promise to himself of an interview with Fletcher on how they came to be there.

“Is that commonly done hereabouts?” he responded, gazing indifferently at Trenholme.

“Oh, no!” Trenholme snorted. “Tricking pigs up as infants and slashing their throats is more our line!” Darcy made him no rejoinder. The look of bitterness in Trenholme’s face faded, only to be replaced with one bordering on desperation. “Darcy, what do you think it meant?”

“This is your country, man! You should know far better than I,” he answered with an edge of irritation.

“My
brother’s
country, which he is fast losing to the squeeze crabs. You see how he is! I expect he will begin laying his bets with the family silver any time now!” Trenholme laughed, the bitterness returned. “If only…”

“Yes?” Darcy invited him to continue, curious whether his companion would confess to him the business of the dowager’s will.

“Well, all is not lost…not completely. It is just a matter of the proper persuasion in certain quarters.” Trenholme returned to a study of his mug of coffee, signaling that the subject was closed.

The polite response, Darcy knew, was an expression of good fortune, but he held his tongue. Such a wish might be construed wrongly and would, he was sure, redound upon Lady Sylvanie, the “quarter” to which Trenholme must have referred. He tried a different tack.

“At the Stones, Trenholme, you said that what we saw was ‘beyond everything.’ Have there been other incidents of the like?”

“Like and not like.” Trenholme eyed him over his mug. “There have always been superstitions and legends about the Stones. We have had visitors, even from the Continent, come and make a great deal of nonsense about them. Daffy some of them, too, wanting permission to prance about them…well, indecently.” He placed the mug carefully on the table. “And, of course, the locals in the villages hereabouts sometimes leave tokens — charms, that sort of thing — lying about, hoping for good luck of one sort or another.” He sighed, then laughed. “Perhaps
I
ought to give it a go myself. Cannot possibly make things worse!”