“‘What have you got in your hand,’ Darcy?” Bellingham demanded of him, his eyes narrowly focused on his face. Darcy stared back at him, a brow raised in warning.
“Bellingham!” Sylvanie responded sharply but then continued in a more conciliatory voice. “All is well.”
“It is a simple enough question.” Bellingham ignored her, his gaze intent upon Darcy. “What have you got in your hand?”
“It appears to resemble a glass of wine.” Darcy brought the glass to his lips and drained half of it, all the while holding Bellingham’s eyes with his own. “Yes, definitely wine! But pray, enlighten me, sir, if you deem it otherwise.” He held the glass out to him.
Bellingham drew back at the offer, a look of supreme disdain upon his countenance. “I thought as much.” He sneered and then turned to his hostess. “ ‘All is well,’ Sylvanie?” he questioned her. “Not bloody likely!” Then, with the briefest of nods, he stalked away.
Darcy stared after him in wonder, but when his gaze returned to those about him, he immediately sensed that his welcome among them was dissipating as quickly as Bellingham’s stride was taking him to the door. What had he said? He quickly downed the rest of the contents of his glass.
“You must take no notice of Bellingham.” Sylvanie leaned against his arm and, reaching across him, took the glass from his hand. The scent of her perfume drifted over him, the smell of new roses and rain-drenched moss. “He is a strange man at best, and tonight he is more than a little preoccupied.” She smiled up at Darcy from under shapely black brows. “Do not let him spoil the evening.” Darcy found he could not help returning her smile and inclined his head in agreement. “Excellent.” She laughed in pleasure with him and then rose from her seat, placing the glass on a table. “Come then; there are those here who, I daresay, you will enjoy meeting.” Rising, he stepped up at her invitation, and once again, she tucked her hand inside his arm. “As your hostess, I must ensure your comfort,” she murmured intimately, “and as I must leave you in a few minutes, I would have you well provided for until I return.”
“You must leave?” Darcy asked, loathe to be left to his own devices in a room of strangers. He found too that he liked the caress in Sylvanie’s voice and the warm pressure of her on his arm.
“Only long enough to sing a few songs for my guests. Tonight is rather special,” she whispered conspiratorially as they made their way across the room. “Monmouth has secured Tom Moore for this evening! He consented to sing but only on the condition that we perform a duet and that I play for him.”
“An honor, indeed,” Darcy acknowledged, much impressed. He had heard the widely popular Irish tenor perform on more than one occasion and in highly prestigious company. That Sylvanie had obtained him for her soiree was, in itself, a social triumph of the first order. Moore’s desire that she sing and play for him was a supreme compliment.
“Sylvanie, darlin’!” Sir John O’Reilly’s exclamation brought them to a halt. “What would you be doin’ with Darcy here? Keepin’ him ta yerself all evenin’?”
“O’Reilly!” Sylvanie brightened. “Have you already met, then?”
“Didn’t Monmouth himself introduce us when he first come in the door?” He paused and bussed her cheek. “I’ve the distinct honor o’ bein’ his oldest new friend here! Is that not the truth, m’fine lad?” O’Reilly winked at him again from under bushy, grizzled brows. If Sylvanie were Faerie Queen, O’Reilly was one of the wee folk writ large, although Darcy suspected his treasure lay in his silver tongue rather than in buried gold.
Sylvanie laughed. “Then perhaps you would not object to taking charge of his further introduction, for I must see to Moore and the entertainment. But I expect you to take good care of him,” she warned, “for I shall return and demand him of you when I am finished.” She nodded to them both but bestowed upon Darcy a lingering caress of her fingers before removing her hand and threading her way gracefully through the knots of guests.
“I suppose that means she’ll be wantin’ you back sober, more’s the pity.” Sir John sighed dramatically. “Ah well, what can no’ be mended must be endured. Here!” He stopped a servant and, lifting two whiskeys from the tray, handed one to Darcy. “To endurin’!” He toasted him and tossed it back.
“To endurance.” Darcy repeated and lifted his glass as well. It had been some time since he had tossed back any appreciable amount of whiskey, and that which was served here was potent. The liquor scorched a trail down his throat, but at least this time it did not bring tears to his eyes. He brought the glass down to behold a smiling Sir John.
“There now, better this time, eh?” He then motioned round the room with his glass, the remainder of his whiskey sloshing dangerously as he did so. “Know many of the others here?”
“Almost no one,” Darcy replied. “Monmouth is a friend from university. I met Syl — Lady Monmouth while visiting her brothers in Oxfordshire last January. Moore I have heard sing before, of course, but have not met.”
“Would you be wantin’ to meet anyone in particular?” Sir John finished his glass and cast about him for a place to lay it.
“I am not certain.” Darcy hesitated, surveying the crowd a moment before recalling the curious incident that had happened earlier. “Yes, Bellingham.” Darcy looked down at Sir John and then stayed him as he began to search the room. “He has already gone, but perhaps you would explain something he said.”
“Somethin’ he said now?” O’Reilly’s tone cooled. “Bellingham says all too much, I’m thinking.”
“It was a question, actually, which I apparently did not understand; for he took great offense at my reply.”
“ ‘What have you got in your hand?’ Would that be the question?” At Darcy’s surprised nod, O’Reilly looked away and swore under his breath. “And what did you answer him?”
“That I held a glass of wine…” O’Reilly almost choked at his answer. “Which was the truth; but he was listening for something else, was he not?”
“Oh, aye!” O’Reilly raised his eyes to Heaven, then shook his head. “You’ll have observed, bright lad that you are, that most of these present at Sylvanie’s gatherin’ are of Irish descent or persuasion. He was testin’ your sympathies to see where they might lie, and ‘a glass of wine’ was no the right answer!”
“Yes, he made that quite clear!” Darcy agreed. “But —”
“Ah, there’s the darlin’ and Moore beside her!” Sir John interrupted him, turning Darcy’s attention to the door. Indeed, Sylvanie was there, posed enchantingly with her harp in her arms and the great Moore at her elbow. The crowd parted to allow them into the center of the room, applause rising as they passed. “Here, Darcy.” Sir John deposited his glass, snagged another pair of tumblers from a tray, and handed him one. Looking about him, he saw that all the servants were busily engaged in distributing identical glasses to everyone present and that all were getting to their feet. “Wait for the toast now, lad!” Sir John nudged his arm and nodded his head toward their hostess and her famous guest as all grew quiet.
Holding her harp loosely in the crook of one arm, Sylvanie tossed back the curls that tumbled in rampant luxury over her shoulder and accepted with Moore a glass from a servant. The expectancy that gripped the room laid hold upon Darcy as well as all attention centered upon them. Suddenly, Sylvanie raised her glass. “What have you got in your hand?” she asked.