Suspense and Sensibility Or, First Impressions Revisited: A Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery (3 page)

Whilst the Middletons were thus besieged, three gentlemen entered the room. Two of them appeared very much alike: large, athletic young men who looked like they could sit a horse or box in Jackson’s Rooms with equal skill. They wore close-fitting single-breasted coats – one claret, one brown – and fair hair carefully styled to appear as tousled as if they had just come in from a foxhunt. The third gentleman wore his dark locks in the same mode, as deliberately arranged as his cravat. He had a more slender but no less vigorous build, his broad shoulders and narrow waist shown to advantage by a blue dress coat so up-to-the-minute in fashion that it could have been cut that morning. Tight-fitting pantaloons and silk stockings revealed muscular legs, and his polished shoes competed with the chandelier for shine.

By all appearances, they were typical London bloods, all three – -aristocratic gents with too much time and money, and little ambition to do anything productive with either. Elizabeth dismissed them without another thought, until she heard Kitty sigh beside her.

"Look at them, Lizzy – pinks of the
ton
if ever I saw one." She sighed again. "Oh, they’re coming this way!" Kitty looked as if she might swoon with the effort of keeping her excitement in check. "Quickly – is my hair still in place?"

"At least as well as theirs."

The gentlemen reached Lady Middleton’s table. "Mother," said the young man in brown, "Lady Carrington is looking for you. We left her in the dining room."

"Thank you, William. I shall go to her directly I finish this rubber."

"William, tell Mama to let me stay!"

William looked somewhat amused by his sister’s demand, but the other fair-haired gentleman cast her an impatient glance. "Marguerite, ought you not be in bed?"

"Go away, John. You are always such a spoiler!"

"A soiree is no place for children."

Marguerite was on the verge of another retort when the third fellow intervened to diffuse the family squabble. "Miss Marguerite, if I asked your mother very sweetly, do you think she would honor me with an introduction to this gentleman and the pretty ladies with him?"

"They are only a Mr. Darcy and his sisters. Mama, if you do not let me stay, I shall scream. I shall!" Her shrill voice already carried above the din.

"Nonsense, child. You will behave like a proper young lady while Nurse escorts you back upstairs." Lady Middleton turned to the Darcys as the nursemaid stepped forward once more to take her charge. "Forgive me. These are my sons, John and William Middleton, and their friend Mr. Harry – Henry – Dashwood. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, his wife, and their sisters – "

"Nooooooo!" ‘ Marguerite’s shriek brought the burbling room to abrupt silence. Lady Middleton gaped at her daughter, her expression flashing from horror to embarrassment to anger to self-consciousness in rapid succession. Marguerite regarded her mother warily, realizing too late that even mothers worn down by the demands of seven previous children have thresholds of tolerance that cannot be crossed.

"Now that you have caused a scene, we need not indulge you further to avoid one," Lady Middleton said quietly.

The young nurse, whose further attempts to lead her charge away had occasioned the outburst, apologized profusely to her mistress and reached for Marguerite.

"I think you have sufficiently exhibited your ability to control the child," Lady Middleton said to her servant. She took her daughter by the hand. "We are going upstairs. Now. And if you want Nurse to keep her position, you will stay in the nursery and behave yourself for the remainder of the night."

Those at the card tables went back to their games of whist and lottery but awkward silence lingered in the air.

"Mr. Darcy, was it?" Mr. Dashwood stepped toward them. "I believe I’ve heard of you down at White’s. You have an estate in Derbyshire, do you not
⁷
"

Darcy bowed. "Yes, Pemberley Near Lambton." He studied Mr. Dashwood. "Your name sounds familiar to me, as well."

"Perhaps you are thinking of my father, Mr. John Dashwood – a longtime member of White’s."

"Of course. How is your father?"

"He passed away last autumn."

After Darcy and the rest of their party offered condolences, Sir John cleared his throat.

"Mr. Darcy, if your wife will excuse us, Carville and Hartford are in the billiards room, along with some other gentlemen I would like you to meet. You must hear Hartford recount his last foxhunt. What a tale! To tell it properly takes a full half-hour."

"Half an hour?" Darcy stammered.

"At least."

He turned to Elizabeth, his expression revealing to her alone the felicity he anticipated. "Can you get on without me for a while?"

"We can survive." She suppressed a wry smile and lowered her voice so that it reached only his ears. "Will you?"

Before Darcy could respond, their host addressed his sons and Mr. Dashwood. "I’m sure you fellows will attend to the ladies?"

"Of course, Father," answered William.

Darcy departed with the baronet to enjoy Hartford’s regaling account, and William immediately fulfilled his filial obligation by asking Georgiana to dance. She accepted, and the two went to join the reel just beginning.

John Middleton suggested that perhaps the two remaining ladies might care for some refreshment. Though not hungry or thirsty, Elizabeth welcomed the opportunity to move to another room of the house. No sooner did the party pass through the doorway, however, than Mr. Middleton spotted a chap he simply had to speak to about a horse, or a hound, or something or other, and would the ladies please excuse him? He abandoned them before they could answer, leaving Elizabeth and Kitty in the sole custody of Mr. Dashwood.

Elizabeth half expected him to drop them as quickly as Mr. Middleton had, in search of more fashionable people with whom to while away the night. However, he offered his arm to Kitty, who almost tripped over her own feet in her eagerness to accept it, and proved himself most attentive as he steered them through the crowded rooms.

"So, why haven’t I seen you at Almack’s yet this season?"

"We have only just arrived in town," Kitty replied. "And Mr. Darcy doesn’t like Almack’s."

Mr. Dashwood laughed. "None of us likes Almack’s."

"Then why does everybody go there?"

"Because everyone
else
is there. And to talk about how much they dislike it. The only thing more fashionable than being seen at Almack’s is complaining about it."

"Oh." Kitty’s gaze bordered on worshipful every time she looked at Mr. Dashwood. "Well, then, if I am fortunate enough to go, I shall object the whole while."

Mr. Dashwood laughed again. "I should wail until afterward, were I you. The last feathers you want to ruffle in London are those of Almack’s patronesses."

"Why is that?"

He stopped, regarding her with a look that was half surprise, half amusement. "My – you
are
new in town, aren’t you? Admission to Almack’s is decided by seven ladies who guard its vouchers more fiercely than dragons their gold. Their influence in society extends well beyond the walls of their assembly rooms. Cross one of them, and you might as well go back to the country for the rest of the season."

Kitty absorbed this intelligence with the solemnity of an acolyte being indoctrinated into a new religion. Had Mr. Dashwood revealed that the
beau monde
subscribed to an official creed, she would have memorized it.

They moved on. Mr. Dashwood greeted numerous acquaintances, appearing to know nearly everyone. As they passed two fastidiously dressed dandies, he nodded in acknowledgment. "Albertson. Leopold." They bowed in response.

"Those jeweled buckles on their shoes look absurd," he said when they had passed out of earshot. "But I shall have to ask them who designed their waistcoats."

Kitty turned round to get a second look at the shoes, but another party had closed in behind them, blocking the view. One could still glimpse Albertson’s chest, however. "Your own waistcoat is more flattering," she said.

He stopped to look her lull in the face, assessing her sincerity "Truly?"

"At least – well, I think so anyway." A flush crept into her cheeks. "But what do I know about gentlemen’s clothes?"

"Enough to know your own mind. That puts you ahead of half the ladies in this room." He took her arm once more and continued leading them toward the dining room. "I’d be careful about expressing it, though. You wouldn’t want to let on that you can think for yourself."

"Is that a liability in a woman?" Elizabeth asked.

"In some corners of the Polite World, that is a liability in anyone. We are a frivolous, mindless lot."

Kitty continued to gaze at Mr. Dashwood as if he were the first gentleman she’d ever encountered. Indeed, she seemed to be concentrating harder on making conversation with him than Elizabeth had ever seen her focus on anything else in her life.

"Are you in London for the whole season?" Kitty asked.

"I live here most of the year. I have a house in Sussex, but I haven’t spent much time at Norland since I was a boy. First I was at Eton, then Oxford, and now I prefer the entertainments of town to country living."

Unlike so many other women in the room, whose eyes roamed while in conversation with one partner to see whether anyone better happened nearby, Kitty bestowed her full attention on Mr. Dashwood – a fact not lost upon him. When the press of people attempting to squeeze through a too-narrow doorway required their party to pause, he observed that they stood mere feet from the Marquess of Avonbury, one of society’s most eligible young gentlemen.

"Have you met the marquess?" Mr. Dashwood asked.

Kitty, who just hours earlier would have swooned at finding herself in such proximity to any unattached peer, barely spared him a glance. "No."

"Would you like me to introduce you?"

Mr. Dashwood extended his offer in a nonchalant manner, but Elizabeth sensed a larger question lay beneath the surface. His eye held a subtle look of appraisal.

"Perhaps later. You were speaking to me of Sussex," Kitty replied. "Is your mother still at Norland?"

His expression bespoke approval. The marquess was left behind as Mr. Dashwood guided them through the doorway. "She divides her time between Norland and London, though she’s been in town since my father died."

"Is that when Norland fell to you?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, although it was entailed to me when I was a child by the will of a great-great-uncle I can’t even remember."

"I’m sure it’s a lovely house," Kitty said.

He shrugged. "As I said, I don’t spend much time there." He led them around a cluster of ladies who eyed them with particular interest. He ignored their curiosity. "I understand Pember-ley is quite grand?" he asked Kitty.

"It is! Lizzy calls it the most beautiful house in all England. I look forward to visiting there this summer."

He regarded her as if she’d said something odd. "You don’t live there, then?"

"No. Why would I?"

He cast her another approving glance. "I see we are of like mind."

Kitty drew her brows together in puzzlement, not knowing how to interpret his reply. For that matter, neither did Elizabeth.

"In preferring town over the country," he clarified.

"Oh! Yes – town has so much more to offer, doesn’t it?"

Mr. Dashwood acknowledged three more friends, one of whom bestowed a rakish grin on Kitty.

"You are keeping fine company tonight, Dashwood," he said.

"Save the charm for your wife, Cavanaugh." After they passed, he leaned toward Kitty and spoke in a conspiratorial voice Elizabeth heard only with difficulty. "Only one week wed, and already the baron is back on the prowl."

Kitty’s jaw dropped. "Does his wife know?"

"I don’t think so. She’s been too busy this evening making eyes at his closest friend."

Mr. Dashwood delivered the gossip as dispassionately as if reading a
Times
item about wholesale tea prices. The
beau monde,
with its endless intrigues and scandals, was a world away from the small Hertfordshire village where the Bennet sisters had grown up. It remained an utterly foreign culture to Kitty and a place Elizabeth would much rather visit than inhabit. But Mr. Dashwood was clearly in his element, moving through the intricacies of this society as easily as he navigated the busy rooms.

At last, they reached the tea table. Mr. Dashwood saw that they were served, but did not partake of anything himself.

"Are you not thirsty?" Kitty asked.

"Perhaps I’ll want refreshment after dancing the next set."

Kitty’s smile faded. "I didn’t realize you had engaged a partner." She glanced round at several of the ladies nearest them and seemed disconcerted to discover many of them already regarding her.

"I haven’t. I hope to dance with you."

Joy lit her face. "I would like that very much." She glanced again at a cluster of ladies nearby who spoke in whispers and avoided her gaze. "Mr. Dashwood, perhaps you can explain something to me?"

"I shall do my best."

"We seem to be drawing quite a bit of notice."

"Correction, my dear miss. You are the one drawing notice. I merit attention this evening only because I am talking to you."

Kitty shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "Of what interest am I to any of these people?"

He paused, his gaze once more probing. "Do you play at modesty, or do you truly not know?"

She shook her head.

"You are a new face at the Middletons’. Everyone is assessing your prospects in the marriage market. Within three minutes of your arrival, there was a report in general circulation that Miss Darcy has thirty thousand pounds, and within four, rampant speculation about which gentlemen would be leaving their cards at your house tomorrow."

Kitty simply stared at him in confusion. "But what have those thirty thousand pounds to do with me?"

His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Of course, any lady wants to be courted for herself, not her dowry. But Miss Darcy, surely you realize how attractive your fortune makes you in the eyes of the
ton?"