“No!” Darcy responded feelingly to the regret in his friend’s voice. At Bingley’s question, he explained, “Brougham’s favorite horse, and gotten by the same sire as my Nelson. What happened, Dy?”
“Stupid accident, really. I have been over Melton any number of times, know it like the back of my hand; save that this year one of the local landowners took his fields out of the run. I arrived too late to have a look at the new fields and, for certain ‘considerations,’ which I shall not name, rashly joined the fray.” He paused to sip at his brandy and looked solemnly across to Bingley. “There was a hedge, you see, tallest I have ever tried and, unknown to me, a ditch on the other side like to reach China. Samson took the hedge like a hero, but the ditch caught us both by surprise. We went down hard, but Samson took the brunt of it, allowing me to roll away with only a twisted ankle and a bruised shoulder. I had always laughed at the formality of Melton: the pistol and shot in the saddlebag and all that. But I tell you now, that day I was glad of it. To condemn him to hours of such pain while I dragged myself off to find a farmer…and all because of my folly —” Brougham stopped abruptly and looked down into the amber liquid in his glass before taking a swallow. “Be sure of your ground, my friends, be damn sure.”
The crackle of the fire in the hearth was all that disturbed the silence for a few moments after Brougham’s adjuration. From under lowered eyelids, Darcy observed Bingley’s response to Dy’s story and was gratified to see the thoughtful turn of his manner. He glanced then over at Brougham, nodding his head in thanks for his help.
Dy gave him an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders accompanied by a quick, tight smile and then rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, I must bid you good night. This has been a very eventful, not to mention revealing, evening. I think it safe to say we saw more of some people than we bargained for.” Groans interrupted him, but he persisted. “And were exposed” — more groans — “to some new experiences.” As Bingley chuckled over his puns, Brougham offered him his hand. “Mr. Bingley, a pleasure, sir!”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, Lord Brougham!” Bingley clasped his hand and bowed over it, utterly pleased to have been granted entree into His Lordship’s interest.
“Fitz” — Brougham turned to Darcy — “I doubt I will see you again before you leave for Pemberley. You will give my love to Georgiana?”
“Have no fear!”
“Good! Send me a note when you return to Town, or I shall have to try to bribe Witcher again, much good will it do me. Oh! Give Fletcher my very best regards and congratulations. Would it puff him up too much if I sent him a token of my esteem? The expression on Brummell’s face was one I shall meditate upon with glee for days to come.”
“I am tempted to put him into your hands entirely! Charles” — Darcy turned to him — “excuse me a moment while I accompany Brougham to the door.” At Bingley’s nod, Darcy ushered his friend out into the hall, pausing only to assure himself of the click of the library door. With a jerk of his head, he led Brougham down the hall to the steps.
“Dy” — he laid a hand on Brougham’s arm — “my sincere condolences on Samson; he was a magnificent animal.”
“Yes, he was, was he not?” Brougham sighed as they descended the stairs. “As I said, ‘a hero’! It could have been me with the broken neck. Any chance of Nelson getting his like?”
“I shall look into it, I promise you.” Darcy glanced about and, seeing no servants, continued, “But I really wished to detain you in order to thank you. Your story has given Bingley pause, I think.”
“Do you really?” They reached the front hall, where Witcher and the footman on duty hurried forth with His Lordship’s outer apparel. “Interesting, that!”
“Why? What do you mean?”
Brougham slipped on his cloak and placed his beaver jauntily atop his head. “Because the story was for your benefit! There is more to Hertfordshire than you have told me, old friend. I know you wish to do Bingley a service in this affair, and he may well be in need of it, but ’ware yourself, Fitz. Make sure of your ground and doubly sure of the nature of your interest.” Brougham clapped him roughly on his shoulder. “Good night, then, and Happy Christmas! Witcher” — he turned a broad smile upon the old man — “my compliments to your lovely wife, and a Happy Christmas to you as well.”
“Thank you, Your Lordship, and a Happy Christmas to you, sir!”
As Witcher closed the door upon Brougham, Darcy climbed the stairs back to the library, distracted by Dy’s parting remark.
“Darcy.” Bingley’s sudden appearance from the shadows at the top of the stairs sent Darcy’s thoughts skittering. “It is getting rather late. I believe I shall take myself off as well.” Darcy turned, and they both descended the stairs. “What an evening!”
“Agreed, and one I intend never to repeat!” Darcy rejoined. “I shall take my chances at Drury Lane to hear L’Catalani in the future.”
“Oh, that’s right, we never did hear the diva! But really, Darcy, I have never seen such opulence and elegance in my life! Everything was in the height of fashion and taste. Although there were more than a few whom I would not hesitate to call ‘high in the instep,’ many were quite amiable. And Brummell, Darcy! To think you cast him in the shade!”
“Yes, well, the less said about that, the better I will like it.”
“As Lord Brougham said, there is not much likelihood of that! He is a great gun, is he not? Such condescension.” They reached the bottom, and Bingley took his things from the footman. “Great pity about his horse. Makes one think, does it not?”
Darcy looked steadily into Bingley’s now sober countenance. “Making sure of your ground before you take the fence?”
“Yes…quite.” Bingley took a deep breath. “I begin to see the wisdom in your counsel. I was rushing my fences, not sure of the ground, and disregarding the warnings of a friend,” he confessed. “I must think about Miss Bennet rationally, as you have advised me.”
Darcy ruthlessly suppressed his elation at Bingley’s words. “That is all I could wish for, Charles,” he responded quietly. “Proper reflection on the matter will, I am certain, yield a satisfactory answer.” Although the smile Bingley returned him was weak and wistfulness had returned to shadow his eyes, Darcy allowed himself to hope that his campaign was nearing a triumphant conclusion. If Miss Bingley could add to his counsel a suitably disinterested testimony corroborating Miss Bennet’s indifference, the matter would be resolved, he was sure of it. A note must be sent immediately.
“Good night then, Darcy. Dinner at Grenier’s on Sunday?”
“Make it Monday after I beard Lawrence in his den, and I shall be there.”
“Lawrence!”
“Yes, I intend him to paint Georgiana when I bring her back with me after Christmas. The next morning, I hope, will see me set out for Pemberley.”
“Then it must be Monday! Good night, again, Darcy. Mr. Witcher.”
Darcy waited until Bingley had climbed into the hack summoned for him and the driver urged his horse forward before turning from the door.
“Will that be all, Mr. Darcy?” Witcher asked, recalling him from his bemusement.
“Yes, Witcher. Dismiss the staff to their rest and have breakfast ready at ten, I think.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I ring Fletcher?”
“Yes, do so! And Witcher” — he stopped the butler as he reached for the bell pull — “I shall have a note ready to send round early in the morning. No answer is desired.”