Page 4 of London Holiday (Sweet Escapes Collection #2)

Chapter four

“ W here is that manservant? I will see him immediately!” Lady Catherine rapped on the door of Darcy’s dressing room with the silver knob of her cane—less out of a servile tendency to request admission to a room than impatience at finding the way blocked. The lady had already made an inspection of the master’s chambers, most particularly the rumpled bed. She had been informed that Darcy was not in residence at the moment, but that did not prevent her from again demanding entry to his quarters.

“Yes, My Lady, right away!” Dawson, the head butler, was a man of six and fifty and would never dream of defying her ladyship’s wishes. She had spoken of generous pensions, and she was the mother of the future mistress of the house, he had naturally tendered her his loyalties—divided equally, of course, with his fidelity to the master. It might have been reasonable to object to her request, had his master been present, but that was not the case, and he could find no plausible excuse to deny her ladyship’s demand. That it was irregular was a matter of course, but then, irregularity was often the order of the day when her ladyship was a guest at Darcy House.

The butler produced the key, held the door for the great lady to pass through, then preceded her into the recesses of the chamber, so that he might serve his office. Undoubtedly, he was also motivated by a desire to shield the lady’s feminine sensibilities, for a lady entering a man’s sleeping quarters unexpectedly might encounter something she would not wish to see .

In this case, it was Wilson, groggily stretched out on his typical pallet in Mr Darcy’s dressing room. The butler stuttered in horror upon beholding the untucked shirt, the slovenly hair, the half-unbuttoned fall of the man’s breeches. He looked to have arisen from his drunken stupor only long enough to relieve himself, then stumble back to his bed.

“Sir! Have a care for your presentation!” the butler admonished the drowsing man.

Wilson lifted his head, his features slack and his eyes hazy. “Dawson, ish that you, old chap? Closhe that dratted shutter, the light ish burning a hole in the back of my shkull.”

“Mr Wilson! There is a lady present!”

Wilson rubbed his eyes and squinted. “Perhaps she can eashe my headache. Shend her in, man, and be quick about it!”

If the staid and proper valet of Fitzwilliam Darcy were intentionally irreverent and facetious to better serve his master’s interests, it would have been difficult to determine. It was clear that the butler merely considered him still intoxicated; an opinion that was reinforced when Wilson made an attempt to rise, then stumbled to his backside again. In truth, he had faltered more out of astonishment than lingering dizziness, for at that moment the “lady” commenced a diatribe which, in any other circle but London’s ton, would have proved her to be less a lady and more a harridan.

“Mr Wilson! I am ashamed of you; a gentleman’s valet, comporting himself as a slovenly drunkard while in the very chambers of his master? I shall have you turned out at once! What has Pemberley come to, that a sluggard could have risen to such a rank within its halls?”

Wilson staggered to his feet and swept the lady a respectful bow—a motion which discomposed him to such a degree that he found it necessary to grasp a nearby table for stability. “I meant no dishreshpect, My Lady,” he slurred. “I’m afraid I’m not quite myshelf thish morning. My mashter offered me a drink lasht evening that he had not intended to take, after ordering it. I am afraid the mashter’s vintage is finer than I am accustomed to. My humblesht apologies if I have caushed offenshe.”

Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “He offered a drink to his manservant? Which drink, and why?”

“Yesh, My Lady,” Wilson answered promptly. “The brandy Mr Dawshon shent up. Mr Darshy shaid he would have a drink at hish club, and that he might ash well wait.”

“His club! Why was I not informed that he had gone out last evening?” She turned to the butler in an outrage. “I was to be told of all my nephew’s activities! It is only my due, as his nearest relation and his future mother-in-law, to be given the respect of foreknowledge!”

“I am sorry, My Lady,” the butler bowed in abject submission. “This is the first I have heard of it myself. It is not Mr Darcy’s habit to attend his club of an evening, particularly with no notice given for his carriage.”

Wilson was standing—somewhat crookedly—as his head tilted to follow the conversation. The dazed look in his eyes cleared in some measure when he perceived himself the object of scrutiny again, and he seemed to come to his senses. His speech, this time, had improved marginally, though he still dragged his ‘r’s. “Mr Darcy received word from a friend just before he retired, asking for his company, My Lady.”

“At night! What can you mean, did this man drive to the house and carry off my nephew in a curricle, with no one to witness? Impossible!”

Wilson caught himself as his body was beginning to list in the other direction. “He… he walked, My Lady.”

“Walked! Now I am certain of it. Dawson, you must have this man set out of the house at once, for he is neither fit to be seen nor suitable for service. His tongue drips lies, and his person is offensive!”

Wilson had busied himself tucking the tail of his shirt into his breeches, but he dared do nothing about the two loosened buttons of his fall. He left that part of his shirt hanging to provide for some degree of modesty, glancing down with conscious discomfort at his shameful appearance.

“It shall be done, My Lady,” Dawson bowed, then levelled a stern look toward Wilson. “Your ladyship may rest assured that intoxication while on duty is never tolerated in this house.”

Lady Catherine stepped nearer the footman, untroubled by his dishevelled attire, and sniffed his breath. Wilson stood erect, his pupils dilated and staring directly ahead as she examined his eyes, contrasting them with the lack of redness and perspiration upon his complexion one might expect of a drunkard. She stepped back, after an invasive examination of his person, and declared, “You were unconscious all night.”

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. “I… slept rather soundly,” he confessed.

She smiled faintly. “Then you could easily have been mistaken about Mr Darcy’s activities.”

Wilson made no answer. It was not necessary, for Lady Catherine had accurately surmised his state, and there was no possible way to deny it.

“Darcy went to no club,” she informed the butler. “He was here long enough for the damage to be done last night and has gone to another’s house in an attempt to hide his disgrace. Club, indeed!” she scoffed, shooting a dismissive glance toward the valet.

“My Lady, I only report what I was told,” protested Wilson. “I assisted his preparations for departure myself, and he left at once.”

The butler, upon receiving permission to speak from the lady’s demanding expression, answered, “Mr Wilson has always been known to be honest, My Lady. He may be in disgrace at present, but I think there is no duplicity in him.”

She looked back to the shamed valet, her eyes crinkled. “In his condition, his memory of last evening’s events cannot help but be faulty. No one could credit his words. Now, Mr Wilson, where is that tradesman friend of your master’s? Is he in Town? ”

“My Lady, Mr Bingley is presently in the North, but I believe he is expected in Hertfordshire next week. Mr Darcy had intended to join him there, to advise him on an estate he has just leased.”

Lady Catherine frowned. “Then I shall speak with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Dawson, have this man removed from the house!”

“With all due respect,” Wilson objected, “if your ladyship wishes to advise and counsel my master, I might be able to persuade him to listen. I have been Mr Darcy’s valet since he was a boy, and Mr George Darcy himself commissioned me to look faithfully to his best interests.”

This seemed to give her pause. She glanced back to the butler, one eyebrow lifted. “Think not that your continued employment is conceivable, after the figure you have cut here this morning. However, if you wish to be of one last service to your master, I shall retain you at my leisure until his future is secured.”

Wilson bowed, his face awash with apparent relief. “Thank you, My Lady.”

Darcy quitted the mortifying address in Cheapside as discreetly as possible. That anyone might see him in residence at a tradesman’s house was a dreadful enough thought. That they might note him clad in livery and exiting through the servant’s entrance was unthinkable. Why, an entire month of ablutions would be insufficient to restore his dignity after passing the night in such a neighbourhood, and on a footman’s cot!

The deplorable circumstances which had placed him in this ridiculous costume and under the power of others half his rank could have been resolved by a simple explanation, and a bit of transparent honesty. However, nothing was simple when Lady Catherine was involved, and nothing could be permitted to remain transparent when single young ladies sniffed out an eligible bachelor .

The shoes hurt. Darcy paused for a moment to flex his aching foot, already blistered from the previous evening’s short walk. What a farce! He still could not fathom what he had been thinking, venturing out on his own in such attire, all while knowingly drugged. The coach and four rattling round inside his head did little to assist him in ordering his thoughts. He pounded a fist to his forehead as a particularly brilliant ray of sunshine stabbed his brain.

He felt conspicuous. His attire, while not a formal serving costume, clearly marked him as a footman belonging to a fine house—much finer than could be found upon Tradesmen’s Row! He suppressed a curl to his lip and tried to lengthen his strides to avoid more curious gazes, but his toes protested. Unable to resist seeking relief and wishing to arrive at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s abode before crippling himself, he sought out a small alley which stood between two houses. A pitiful attempt at a tree had been planted there, likely with more hope than skill, and it provided just enough leaf to conceal his face. He glanced about to see that none might notice him, then slipped into the dark corner and instantly tore off the offending footwear.

As he leaned back against the trunk of the spindly maple, ruining the silk stockings in the dirt and massaging his throbbing toes, he heard ladies’ voices approaching. He groaned. Precisely what he needed. He drew as far into the shadows as his tall frame permitted and only hoped they were no more observant than most ridiculous ladies.

Fate had determined to be cruel today, for it was the tradesman’s two nieces. The silly one seemed inclined to gad about, oblivious to her surroundings save for one red-coated officer on the far side of the street, but the other… he clenched his teeth and growled when those expressive eyes lit directly on him. One eyebrow curved, her lips did likewise, and she clutched at her sister’s hand to draw the other back to where she stood. Laughing .

Oh, she may not have made a show of it. Surely, she did not chortle or snicker aloud, nor did she point or otherwise call attention to his presence. But there was laughter in her eyes and unrestrained amusement in that enigmatic smile. Devil take it, but she did have a charming smile.

“Have you already lost your way, sir?” she asked when it was too obvious that they had acknowledged one another. “Or is your employer a wood nymph?”

He repressed a scowl. A footman would never scowl at a lady, and he was a footman if he wished to avoid being served up as a husband for the vexing creature. Heaven help him if her relations ever discovered exactly whom they had sheltered for the night! What further lies might be spun to force his hand? He cringed as he tried to wedge his feet back into the shoes and stepped from the branches. “I have no proper explanation, madam.”

“Perhaps you merely enjoy what there is of nature to be found in this neighbourhood. Shall I imagine a tragic boyhood for you, where you sought refuge and seclusion in the peace of the woods from your unfortunate home? Or shall I content myself with the explanation that you truly are… peculiar?”

Darcy stepped fully clear of the alley now, manfully stifling whatever protests his body would make to his attire, but she saw through the tight expression on his face and the foreshortened steps as he minced toward her.

“Oh! Oh, your shoes must pain you. I noted last night that they fitted you ill. You should apply to your master for a better pair, for surely he would not deny you such.”

“I beg your pardon, madam, but did you say you noted the fit of my shoes?”

At that moment, the sister, at last, deigned to speak. “Well, of course, she did. Lizzy notices everything, and she could hardly help it when she was assisting Jones to drag you into the carriage.”

His eyes widened. She? Had helped drag him? He may not have been acquainted with many tradesmen’s daughters, but he did not think them generally inclined to personally cart unconscious men—footmen, no less!—off the streets at night. And she had the audacity to call him peculiar!

The lady was attempting to hide her chagrin. She made a sideways shushing noise, and her elbow twitched into the younger girl. “My sister speaks out of turn,” she pardoned herself, sending another firm look to her left. “I hope you have not far to walk. Good day.”

The younger lady was compelled to walk on by the impatient elder, and for a mercy, neither offered a backward glance. Darcy sagged… only a little. Few folk were yet out upon the streets, but their number would only increase—and with it, his chances of being recognised.

He considered hiring a chair to take him to his cousin’s residence, for it would take him the better part of an hour at his gimping pace. He dismissed it on the grounds that it would only encourage speculation about him. No, a footman out on an errand for his master either walked or was given a mount. Since he had no mount and could not countenance the gossip if it were reported that a driver had picked him up in Cheapside dressed as a domestic, he would walk. Curling his toes under the balls of his feet and limping evenly on both, he did just that.