Page 1 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Clark’s Parlour, London

Darcy

“How is such a thing possible?” cried Major Beresford, his brow darkening as he cast a disbelieving eye upon the cards before him.

He was a man of angular build and exacting habits, with features sharpened by years of military discipline and eyes of such piercing blue that they seemed scarcely at rest within their sockets.

That he was unused to defeat at the card table was evident, not merely in his manner, but in the mortified glances exchanged between himself and his companion, who had announced earlier that Major Beresford could read a deck as a scholar reads Latin.

And yet, he had lost. Again.

The fifth hand of the evening lay spread across the table, all in Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s favour. The gentleman from Derbyshire appeared neither triumphant nor amused, but merely inclined his head, as if victory were the natural consequence of having sat down.

Afternoon light seeped through the tall windows of the private parlour, casting a gentle glow over the card table where the gentlemen sat.

From the adjourning rooms, the soft murmur of conversation drifted in, while the rain against the glass signalled an unexpected shift in their day’s entertainment.

Captain Wilmot, who had come with the Major and was seated at his right, gave a measured shake of the head, his countenance expressing the mildest shade of astonishment.

“Truly, sir, had I not been present, I should have deemed it quite impossible. Until this very evening, I was persuaded there existed no gentleman, whether in town or country, who might hope to best Major Beresford at cards.”

Darcy's cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had reclined throughout the evening with the easy air of one already acquainted with the outcome, allowed himself a satisfied smile.

"Indeed, you made your boasts most freely.

I believe there was even mention of Major Beresford's 'unrivalled mastery,' a term I have committed to memory for precisely this moment. "

He turned to include them both in his mirth. “But I warned you, did I not? I told you plainly that my cousin is the most fortunate creature alive. Cards fall into his hand with all the grace of fate itself. If he desired a plum from the pudding, it would leap into his spoon unbidden.”

Captain Wilmot shook his head, his astonishment still evident. "He scarcely looked at his hand, and yet he has won five rounds without faltering. One would think the cards took pity on him and arranged themselves accordingly."

“There is no pity in it,” Fitzwilliam replied. “It is simply his way. Darcy is always thus. When rain falls, he remains dry. When horses shy, his remain docile. He once caught a pheasant mid-flight without lifting his gun. I was there. It was intolerable.”

Darcy, who had borne what he considered theatrical commentary with an expression bordering on polite disdain, now leaned back in his chair with quiet deliberation. "You are pleased to exaggerate, Richard."

"Oh, don't be so modest, Darcy," Colonel Fitzwilliam drawled, lifting his glass with evident satisfaction. "You've not lost a round since we arrived. Admit it, you are blessed by Providence. Else, one would think that you have made a pact with the devil."

Darcy regarded his cousin with cool amusement, one dark brow raised in perfect arch. "If I had the power to bargain with the devil, Richard, I should have used it to avoid this evening altogether."

“Now, now,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, with a smile that was entirely too pleased with itself. “You are in Town to visit Georgiana, true—but even you cannot deny the virtue of proving one’s cousin right.”

Major Beresford leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You mean to say you arranged this evening simply to parade your cousin’s absurdly consistent good fortune before us?”

“Exactly so,” said the Colonel, entirely unashamed. “You lot acted as if my tale of Darcy’s luck were too wild to be believed without demonstration. I thought it high time to summon witnesses.”

Captain Wilmot leaned forward, squinting at Darcy’s impassive face. “But he shows no delight in winning. No triumphant grin. It’s unnatural.”

“He is a Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said as if that explained everything. “They do not gloat. They merely conquer in silence.”

Darcy sighed, collecting the last of the discarded cards with practised precision. “If I had known I was to be put on display like some fair performer, I should never have left Grosvenor Square.”

Fitzwilliam smirked, a glint of amusement lighting his features. “But then,” he drawled, “you would have missed the chance to crush the confidence of two seasoned officers and prove me entirely right, all in the space of one evening. A most efficient use of your time.”

His eyes brightened, as though struck by a sudden recollection. “And speaking of fairs, I believe you have one yet to attend with your sister. Before your departure, I mean.”

Darcy had scarcely drawn breath to reply when a footman appeared at the drawing room door and bowed.

“Pardon the interruption, sirs. A message from Miss Darcy. She requests a moment of Mr. Darcy’s time, if it please you.”

Darcy rose at once, folding his cards without fuss. “Gentlemen, I leave you to your speculations. My sister’s comfort is of far greater interest to me than the colour of my luck.”

As he departed after shaking the men, Fitzwilliam leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Do you see it now? Nothing unsettles him. Not war, not scandal, not the Queen’s fortune at whist. And yet, the moment his sister calls, he vanishes like smoke.”

Beresford shook his head with grudging admiration. “Perhaps it is not that he is lucky, but that the world simply falls into place around him.”

"That, Major, is precisely the definition of luck," said Colonel Fitzwilliam as he refilled his glass with evident satisfaction. "Which is why I never play him for money."

***

The grounds were lively with noise and colour, a chaos of painted tents, jangling bells, and the erratic cheer of the populace.

Ribbons fluttered in the breeze, children dashed between the stalls with sugared confections clutched in sticky hands, and a troupe of acrobats somersaulted with noisy aplomb before a gathering of tradesmen and ladies' maids.

Mr. Darcy, standing rigid amidst it all, could scarcely suppress the frown tugging at his brow.

He surveyed the scene with the air of someone who would far rather be at his club—or anywhere, in truth, that did not smell of roasted chestnuts and damp straw.

The raucous cries of hawkers and the scent of something fried and overly spiced offended both his sensibilities and his coat.

This was not a place he would have chosen of his own inclination.

It suited neither his tastes nor the society to which he belonged.

Yet, his sister, Georgiana, had expressed a desire to attend, and in light of all she had endured the previous year, he could not but acquiesce to her wishes.

“It is rather…lively,” he murmured at last, adjusting his gloves as though their fit had suddenly become intolerable.

Beside him, Georgiana clutched her reticule with visible delight, her eyes alight with the unaffected joy only the young and hopeful could sustain in such a setting.

“It is wonderful,” she said, her tone hushed with admiration as she glanced towards a whirling contraption bedecked with lanterns and laughter.

“I have never seen anything so—so wild!”

“I should not think that a recommendation,” Darcy replied dryly. “How, may I ask, did you hear of this spectacle?”

“A friend,” she said at once, too quickly for his comfort. “Miss Harcourt mentioned it in her last letter. She said she came with her cousins and enjoyed herself very much.”

“Miss Harcourt,” he repeated, the name tasting faintly of mischief. He glanced behind them, where Mrs. Annesley, Georgiana’s governess, walked at a respectful distance, vigilant, yet allowing her charge the illusion of independence.

Darcy suppressed a sigh. The sight of Mrs. Annesley following at a discreet distance afforded him a measure of reassurance, though he remained unconvinced that such a place could be proper or beneficial for his sister.

Still, Georgiana had entreated him with such gentle insistence that to deny her would have seemed needlessly severe.

At least Mrs. Annesley, he mused, was nothing akin to that unfortunate creature, Miss Younge.

He had chosen the former himself, with the utmost care.

And though he had dismissed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s earlier remarks concerning luck with cool indifference, he could not deny, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that fortune had favoured him in this instance.

Mrs. Annesley would never prove a danger, as Younge had been—a woman whom he, in his misplaced trust, had permitted another to recommend.

A sudden tightness gripped his throat at the recollection. He swallowed against it and gave a slight shake of the head, willing the memory to recede. The tumult of that affair was not one he desired to revisit.

“You know,” Darcy said quietly, glancing at the gaudy stall to his left, “we might have gone to the rose gardens at Danbury instead.”

“And forego all this excitement?” Georgiana replied, her eyes bright with amusement.

Darcy gave a soft shrug after a moment’s reflection. “I suppose I owe you at least this much before I leave.”

“I only wish I might accompany you,” she said, her voice lowering a little.

He offered a faint smile. “Believe me, there is nothing in Hertfordshire so very diverting. If Bingley had not insisted upon my presence, I should have preferred to remain here, or perhaps retire quietly to Pemberley.”

They proceeded farther in silence along the gravelled path, passing a juggler with painted cheeks and a monkey dressed most absurdly in a tiny waistcoat.

The din of the fair surrounded them, with spinning contraptions, ribbons streaming in the breeze, and the occasional shriek of delight from within a tent where girlish laughter mingled with the strains of a rustic fiddle.

Mr. Darcy’s steps grew more measured; his shoulders, already held in habitual formality, grew tenser.

As they approached a group of sailors near a pie stall, he shifted slightly to guide Georgiana to the opposite side. In doing so, he collided gently with a hunched figure who had stepped unexpectedly into his path.

A startled cry escaped the woman as a deck of cards scattered from her hand, falling in a flutter of yellowed paper and curling corners.

“My apologies,” Darcy said at once, stepping back and lowering himself slightly, though with the hesitation of one unsure how best to assist. “I did not see you.”

The woman raised her head. Her features were largely hidden by a dark shawl, yet her eyes, sharp and curiously intent, glimmered beneath the fringe of her cap. She crouched to gather the fallen cards, her fingers brushing over them slowly, as if reacquainting herself with something long familiar.

“No harm done, sir,” the woman said, her voice low and coloured by an accent he could not easily place. “But your stars are in motion.”

Darcy studied her with a look of quiet amusement. She retrieved the final card, a worn queen with a faded crown, and held it up between them, her eyes unreadable beneath the shadow of her shawl.

“Fortune turns, Mr. Gentleman,” she said. “The wind changes for you… and only the right heart may steady it.”

A quiet breath escaped him, something close to a laugh. “Does it?” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “How convenient.”

“You do not feel it yet,” she replied, her gaze steady. “But soon... very soon... your path will twist.”

He said nothing, though his brow rose faintly. Before the silence could lengthen, his eyes found Georgiana standing nearby with Mrs. Annesley. She had not spoken, but her curious expression revealed she had seen the exchange.

Darcy straightened and adjusted his sleeve. “I think we’ve had enough of this fair, Georgiana,” he said, offering his arm with quiet composure. “Let us return. I dare say the drawing room holds greater comfort than the promises of a painted tent.”

As she slipped her arm through his, Georgiana looked back over her shoulder. “What did she say to you?”

Darcy gave a soft snort. “Nothing of consequence. Only the usual nonsense... clever folk earning their coin by speaking fancies to the overly imaginative.”

They turned to walk away, but Darcy felt the woman’s eyes upon him still. He glanced behind him. She had not moved. Her gaze remained fixed, as though she could still see something in him that he refused to acknowledge.

Her words came again to his mind... the wind changes for you.. .

Darcy gave a small shake of the head, willing the foolishness away.