Lady Bridget’s Diary
The following evening, while Lady Bridget was wearing pink and trailing after Lady Francesca, Miss Mulberry, and Miss Montague at Almack’s, Darcy was at a far more exclusive haunt: White’s, an aristocratic men’s haven from women, society, and anything that wasn’t friends, a game of cards, and an endless supply of food, drink, and cigars. Cravats were loosened and inevitably lost, jackets hung sloppily on the backs of chairs, no valets present to despair over the state of their attire.
The group that evening included Darcy and Rupert, who probably shouldn’t be joining the game of cards given his recent propensity for racking up gaming debts, as well as Mr. Alistair Finlay-Jones, their longtime friend, who had recently and unexpectedly returned from a six-year tour of the Continent.
“Ah, so this is where the party is,” Fox said as he strolled in, late, and pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. “I was at Almack’s earlier, dying of boredom. And sobriety.”
“Were you expecting otherwise?” Darcy inquired.
“Touché. I had promised Francesca I would escort her.” He turned to Darcy. “I noticed you weren’t there.”
“I had an urgent matter to attend to,” he murmured. The urgent matter was playing cards, having a stiff drink, and doing his best to forget about matters of Parliament, estate management, and certain American women. Or rather, a woman.
“Still drying off from your spill in the lake?” Fox asked.
“What did I miss?” Alistair asked.
“You won’t believe it,” Rupert said, and he proceeded to explain. There was little detail given to the rowboats, the race, and the collision, and far too much information regarding the aftermath.
“Fancied a swim, did you?” Alistair quipped.
“If that’s what we’re calling it these days,” Rupert replied.
“I overheard Fran and her friends gossiping about it,” Fox said. Only an older brother could get away with calling the Lady Francesca something as plain as Fran. “They were going on and on about Darcy here, in his wet shirt. Giggling like schoolgirls. It was horrifying.”
“It has been said by some that Lady Bridget swooned right into Darcy’s waiting arms,” Rupert said, laughing. Darcy merely lifted one brow. Should his brother, who had essentially declared his intentions to wed her, be laughing about this? Or did that just prove how ludicrous it was that Lady Bridget should swoon. Over him.
“She wasn’t swooning. She was thrashing about in the water, attempting to swim.” Darcy did his best to sound bored.
“And then you clutched her to your chest . . .” Fox said dramatically, mockingly.
“And she gazed into your eyes . . .” Rupert added.
“I couldn’t very well let her drown,” Darcy said.
Alistair was laughing heartily. “Let me guess. She swooned in your arms once you rescued her from an untimely demise.”
“I daresay she swooned,” Rupert said. “I was there.”
“And they say ladies aren’t much troubled by sexual feeling of any kind,” Fox remarked.
“My regards to the women in your life if you believe that,” Darcy replied.
“Sod off,” Fox retorted, and took a long swig of his drink. Matters with women were not going well in his life at the moment and everyone knew it.
“My, how the mighty have fallen,” Alistair murmured, glancing at his friends. “I go away for a mere six years . . . and come back to find Fox here in a snit over women and Darcy gallantly rescuing young women at garden parties.”
“I don’t know about you gents, but I came here to win all your money at cards and drink obscene amounts of brandy. I have no intention of gossiping like schoolgirls,” Darcy said. And with that they began to play in earnest. A pot of money on the table grew then shrank as they changed hands over the course of the evening. An ancient waiter ensured their glasses were never empty. But even amidst the smoky air and alcohol haze and intense focus on the cards in his hands, something did not escape Darcy’s notice: Rupert, of the ongoing and ever increasing gaming debts, kept winning.
It was long after midnight when the gents stumbled out of the club onto St. James’s Street, where Darcy’s carriage was waiting.
“Would you like a ride?” he offered to Alistair.
“No thanks, it’s a nice evening. I think I’ll walk.”
Shrugging, Darcy climbed into the carriage, and Rupert joined him.
“That evening was much more amusing than if we’d gone to another ball,” Rupert said, leaning back against the squabs and closing his eyes.