Page 5 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Netherfield Park

Darcy

The remainder of the day passed with an air of deceptive calm.

Mr. Darcy, having at last restored his wardrobe and regained some measure of composure, had installed himself in Bingley’s modest but well-stocked library.

A volume of Gibbon rested open upon his knee, and though his eyes appeared fixed upon the printed page, his mind wandered frequently to the events of the past few days.

While he endeavoured to make sense of it all, the faint tapping of hammers from his chambers above reached his ears, as the carpenter toiled to bring the unruly bedpost to order.

From somewhere beyond the library, Bingley’s voice could be heard, light and amiable, as he bore the steady interrogation of his sisters with forbearance.

“But what exactly was wrong with it?” Louisa demanded. “Beds do not simply fall apart, Charles.”

“Perhaps it grew tired of being a bed,” he replied breezily. “Or Darcy’s dignity proved too weighty for the frame.”

Caroline sniffed. “Nonsense. I should like to inspect the construction myself. It sounds very ill-made.”

“Then by all means, speak to the carpenter,” Bingley said, gesturing grandly. “But I warn you, he speaks only in grunts.”

It was only after dinner, once the dishes had been cleared away and the port properly decanted, that yet another misadventure prompted Mr. Darcy to reconsider the true origin of his sudden and inexplicable ill-fortune.

Mr. Hurst, pleasantly flushed from claret and overindulgence, leaned back with a satisfied grunt. “Now, Darcy,” he drawled, swirling his glass, “I do believe you promised to prove your reputation at cards.”

“I do not recall making any such promise,” Darcy replied, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“No matter. The honour of London demands satisfaction.”

Bingley chuckled as he leaned back. “He shall be fleeced, you know. Darcy never loses at cards.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hurst, cutting the deck with theatrical precision, “tonight may be his first.”

Darcy settled into his chair with the quiet assurance of a man seldom bested. He accepted his hand with practised elegance, eyes cool, expression unreadable. The first game commenced—swiftly—and ended even faster.

“By Jove!” cried Hurst, slapping down his final card with relish. “I do believe I have you!”

Darcy stared at the table. For a moment, he did not speak.

His gaze shifted to his own hand, then to the smug curve of Hurst’s mouth, then back to the cards once more, as though they might reorder themselves upon second inspection.

“You have,” he said finally, the words slow, faintly incredulous.

Bingley’s gaze darted between the cards on the table and Darcy’s puzzled, too puzzled, expression. He did not speak, but his lips parted slightly, brows arched high in silent astonishment. The half-agape mouth told Darcy all he needed to know.

In the more than five years of their acquaintance, Darcy could not recall a single occasion upon which Bingley had witnessed his defeat at cards. In truth, he could not recall losing a game since he had grown old enough to hold the rules of card games in his head.

Yet here he was, the cards turned against him in a manner so perverse it could only be the jest of Providence.

“One more,” said Hurst, all cheer and smug triumph, shuffling the cards with a flourish that bespoke a man overly pleased with himself. “Come now, Darcy. We cannot end it at a fluke. One win might be fortune, but two? That will speak to my skill.”

Darcy remained very still, only a breath longer than was natural. Then, with a nod both curt and composed, he extended his hand to receive the cards. Yet the slight tightness about his mouth and the narrowing of his eyes betrayed a vexation he was unused to concealing.

The second game followed much the same pattern. Darcy played with all the precision he could muster, but still, the right cards evaded him. Hurst, half-lidded and flushed with port, scooped up his winnings with the easy glee of a man who had never tasted such triumph.

“By heavens, that is two,” he crowed, grinning broadly. “And here I had thought you an unbeatable adversary, Darcy.”

Bingley leaned forward from the settee, astonished. “You are not teasing him, are you, Hurst?”

“Teasing?” Hurst repeated with mock indignation.

“My dear fellow, this is simply the fruit of superior play. When you said Darcy was never bested at cards, I expected a formidable opponent. Perhaps he has always chosen opponents of lesser skill. Or perhaps he has simply never met his match until now.”

Darcy arched a brow, his expression still coloured by disbelief.

He shook his head slightly, the gesture betraying his uncertainty.

If the major of the London regiment had failed to best him at cards, how was it that Mr. Hurst, already well into his wine, was dispatching him with such untroubled ease?

He cleared his throat, striving to preserve his composure, though inwardly his thoughts turned once more to the odd sequence of misfortunes that had pursued him in recent days.

He could not help but wonder whether these events were indeed chance or something more.

“Twice may be accident,” he said with studied calm, arranging the cards with deliberate care. “But let us have a third round. That, I believe, shall satisfy even your heightened sense of triumph.”

“Ah,” Hurst said with theatrical relish, “now he’s woken. This is where legends are either crowned or cast down.”

Darcy shuffled the cards with measured precision, certain that no sequence had been repeated. Hurst had dealt the first two hands, and if there had been any mischief in the arrangement, it would not be so in this round. Darcy was determined that, at the very least, the odds would be honestly dealt.

The third round proceeded slowly. Darcy’s movements were crisp, precise, calculated to the last degree. At one point, he saw a path to victory, clear and sure.

Until the final turn.

With a grin stretched across his face, Hurst laid down his hand—an infuriating masterpiece.

“Three times,” he said, clearly revelling in the moment. “It seems I have a gift. Who would have imagined it? Perhaps the tables of London have simply spared you the sting of competition all these years.”

Darcy stared at the cards, then at his own. He glanced around the room, his expression unreadable. The air held a stillness, broken only by the creak of a chair and the soft clink of a decanter.

“Three times?” Mrs. Hurst echoed in disbelief. “Goodness. Mr. Darcy never loses at cards.”

“Indeed,” added Miss Bingley, eyeing him curiously. “He is rather famed for being unassailable at the gaming table.”

Darcy stood, pushing his chair back with a quiet, firm motion. “It appears the cards had other intentions this evening.”

Bingley, lips twitching despite himself, murmured under his breath, “Nor the bed, nor the mosquito, nor the teacup.”

“What mosquito?” Miss Bingley asked sharply, but Darcy had already turned toward the door. Bingley, rather than respond, simply watched him go, his gaze following his friend as a faint crease formed upon his brow.

Hurst poured himself another generous glass, entirely unabashed. “I must say, it is refreshing to find that Mr. Darcy bleeds like the rest of us. Cards are an honest judge, I find. No title or fortune can sway a good hand.”

Miss Bingley’s brow furrowed. “I daresay the country air is most unkind to him. He scarcely seemed himself.”

Bingley shook his head with a quiet chuckle. “Or perhaps, at long last, someone else simply played the better game.”

***

Back in his chamber, Darcy scratched his forehead, as if by the action he might soothe the growing ache behind his temples.

Three times.

He had lost three games of cards consecutively. And not to a man of celebrated cunning, but to Mr. Hurst, whose usual distinction lay in his capacity for wine and indolence.

Three times.

It echoed like the tolling of some grim bell.

Darcy moved to the hearth and stood a moment in silence, his jaw set, his eyes fixed upon the dancing flames.

Surely it could not be mere coincidence.

He had played card games against Bingley, against gentlemen of far greater wit and practised deception, and he had never before suffered such humiliation. And yet here, in the sleepy peace of Netherfield, he was brought low not by guile, but by a man who had very nearly snored through supper.

Worse still, Bingley had looked at him with a kind of stunned pity, as though the order of the world had shifted, as though the stars themselves had blinked in confusion.

And then there was that absurd declaration: “Darcy never loses at cards.”

He clenched his jaw. Bingley meant it kindly, of course, but even such faith could not shield him from reality.

" Fortune turns, Mr. Gentleman... The wind changes for you… Your path will twist ."

Darcy's eyes widened as it all came rushing to him again. He took two steps backwards as the thought hit him. The voice, long buried in the recesses of recollection, now rang with a clarity both vivid and unwelcome.

Darcy pressed his fingers to his temple, willing the sensation away, yet the memory crept forth unbidden.

London . The fair . The rustle of worn silk.

The sharp glint of a woman’s eyes beneath a threadbare shawl.

The fallen cards, which were picked with unnerving precision.

Her voice, measured and indifferent, as though she merely recited what must be.

Was she a fortune-teller or some other wandering fraud? He could not say.

He had given her no further thought in days, dismissing the encounter as a meaningless diversion, scarcely worthy of recollection.

He had not given it a moment’s thought when his journey to Hertfordshire became so curiously unsettled.

But now, after a night disturbed by ill rest, a broken teacup, three humiliating losses at cards, and a string of other irksome misfortunes since his departure from London, her words returned to him with disquieting clarity.

“Nonsense,” Darcy muttered to himself. It must be nonsense.

He had scoffed at it then, as any man of sense would. The babble of a fairground woman could hold no sway over Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Such things were for the fanciful, the credulous, the idle.

And yet, despite every rational objection, the thought lingered.

He released a long breath and ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of unrest.

Could a man of reason entertain the notion of unseen influence? Could coincidence repeat with such precision as to feign design? It defied logic. It invited ridicule. And still, the sense of it clung to him like a mist.

Darcy shook his head, resigning himself to think no more of it than he had at first—the idle words of a clever swindler, intent on separating the unwary from their coin.

He decided not to speak of it either. Not to Bingley, nor anyone.

Pride, if nothing else, forbade such folly.

He would not make himself the subject of amusement or doubt. He was no superstitious fool.

Still, if misfortune meant to dog his steps, Darcy concluded that he would meet it with caution. Every movement henceforth would be measured. Every detail, attended with care. If chance were to strike again, it would not find him unaware.

He would not falter before strangers who might mistake him for a man of weak constitution or uncultivated habits.

He was Fitzwilliam Darcy.

He extinguished the candle and settled into the bed. It held firm beneath him, without so much as a groan. The room was still. No mosquito hovered at his ear, no sudden creak broke the quiet. For the first time since his arrival, there was nothing to disturb him. Sleep came quickly for Mr. Darcy.