Chapter Fifteen #4
Darcy inclined his head. “I regret that I have been denied the pleasure of her company this evening.”
Lady Bramley’s smile widened. “I have no doubt you will meet her soon. She is seldom long absent from society when she is in Town. Perhaps you and your brother could come for tea next week.”
Darcy did not trust himself to reply further.
Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of two gentlemen whose presence altered the air at once.
Darcy knew his distant relation immediately, though he gave no sign of it.
His expression remained solemn, his manner unaltered.
Langford. Another man was with him, one Darcy did not recognize.
“Bramley,” the unknown gentleman said, his tone smooth, “you must forgive the intrusion—but I see you have already secured the acquaintance we all desire.”
“Mr. Hargrave. Mr. Langford,” Bramley returned. “Allow me to present Count Vendicarsi—and Mr. Dantès.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Gentlemen.” So, this is Hargrave. The man was dressed in the latest fashions. He was moderately handsome, though there was something about his presence that reminded Darcy of the filth that filled the Thames.
Langford’s gaze lingered a fraction too long, searching for something he could not quite name. Darcy met it without hesitation, his expression one of polite indifference.
“Count,” Langford said at last.
Hargrave stepped forward with easy confidence. “We are most fortunate in your arrival, sir. London is all the more interesting for it.”
“You are kind,” Darcy replied, his tone mild.
“I understand you have recently taken Ashcombe House,” Hargrave continued. “A fine situation.”
“It suits my purposes.”
“Indeed,” Hargrave said, his smile sharpening. “And I suspect your purposes may be…expanded.”
Darcy raised a brow. “In what way?”
Hargrave’s expression took on a note of practiced persuasion. “There are opportunities in this country, Count, which—properly managed—can yield returns of the most gratifying sort. I have myself been engaged in several such ventures.”
“I am sure you have,” Darcy said.
“If you would permit me to call upon you,” Hargrave said, “I should be most pleased to speak further on the subject. I believe I could be of service to you.”
Darcy regarded him, considering. “I would be most obliged,” he replied.
Hargrave’s smile broadened. “Excellent. I am confident we shall find much of mutual interest.”
Lucien watched the exchange with amusement. “My brother is not easily persuaded, I warn you.”
Hargrave laughed. “Nor should he be. But one can never have too much money, monsieur.”
Darcy’s gaze cooled, though his tone remained even. “I have money enough.”
Hargrave’s expression did not falter. “Ah—but there is always more to be made.”
Darcy inclined his head. “So, I am told.”
The conversation lasted only a few moments longer, though little of consequence was said. Darcy endured it with composed civility, though beneath the surface, a slow-burning fury took hold as he regarded the men before him—men who had, between them, dismantled his life with calculated precision.
At length, the set was called, and Darcy withdrew, offering his arm to Miss Halstead as promised. He danced and conversed. He fulfilled every expectation placed upon him, but his mind was elsewhere.
Elizabeth was not married. She was at home with a child—her niece.
Within reach.
The knowledge unsettled him in ways he had not anticipated. It altered the careful balance he had maintained, introduced a variable he had neither planned for nor desired.
Lucien observed him throughout the evening, though he did not intrude. When at last Darcy rejoined him between sets, he said only, “You were not attending to your partner.”
Darcy’s expression remained deliberately contained. “I attend sufficiently.”
Lucien said nothing further.
The evening passed in a blur of obligation and observation. Darcy noted what he must—faces, alliances, undercurrents of influence—but none of it held his attention as it ought. When at last they took their leave, it was earlier than propriety might strictly require.
The night air was cool as they stepped into the carriage.
Lucien waited until they were in motion before speaking. “You have much to consider.”
Darcy did not look at him. “I am aware.”
Lucien was silent before replying. “She is not married.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“And she is near.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “Lucien.”
Lucien held up a hand. “Very well. I will say no more.”
They arrived at Ashcombe House in silence.
Inside, the household moved with efficiency, candles lit, doors opened and closed with practiced discretion.
Darcy removed his gloves slowly, his thoughts still in disarray.
Lucien stepped nearer and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Perhaps,” he said, his tone gentler now, “fate is not so unkind as we once believed.”
Darcy did not answer. He needed the night, needed the time to think. Time to understand what this new turn of circumstance demanded of him—and what, if anything, he dared to hope.