Mr. Darcy's Daughters (32 page)

It was a visit to Layard, two days earlier, that had brought Wytton to Paris. Layard was back in London after a visit to Leicestershire; he was sitting back in his favourite chair wearing a brocade dressing gown and with his feet propped up on a footstool, when Wytton was shown in.

Layard looked his visitor up and down.

“You look pale and positively unwell, my dear Wytton. Come, help yourself to coffee, ham, a beefsteak. Ring the bell and Greene will bring you fresh toast.” He waved a hand towards the food.

Wytton remarked that his table resembled the plains of Egypt after the plague of locusts had been through, accepted the offer of coffee, said that he was not hungry and began to prowl about the room.

“The devil take you, Wytton, can’t you be still? You’re as nervy as a cat; what have you been up to while I’ve been away? How was the Mershams’ ball? Was it as smart an affair as it usually is? I am sorry I had to miss it. Did you enjoy it?”

“I did not.”

“Ah, is Sophie giving you trouble?” His voice was casual, but his eyes were alert. It wasn’t Sophie giving his friend trouble, it was Wytton’s own feelings that were playing merry hell with him just at present. What had the girl been up to? Playing off her tricks, bored with the no-man’s-land of the time leading up to a wedding? These longish engagements were a mistake, they were always a mistake. For an eager young couple, it was too long to wait for the natural end of their passion; for a pair marrying for prudent rather than romantic reasons, it was long enough for them to realise how ill-suited they were. For a man as impatient and as much in love as Wytton, it had been a trying time.

“Not long now, the wedding is fixed for June, ain’t it? Then off to hotter climes for your honeymoon; that’ll be a relief.”

“Damn it, Layard, do stop going on about my wedding.”

“Sophie being difficult?”

Wytton kicked at the fender, earning a reproachful look from a tabby cat perched on its leather top. It rose, arched its back and stalked towards Layard.

“No, no, shoo, go away, do,” said Layard. “No, don’t kick the cat, for God’s sake. It belongs to my landlady and she dotes on it. Amiable-enough creature, but it makes me sneeze.”

“I have no intention of kicking the cat,” said Wytton, picking it up and setting it back in its place. He smoothed its ruffled fur and tickled it under the chin.

“Women are like cats,” observed Layard. “I don’t mean they make you sneeze, though some of them do with the scents and perfumes they drench themselves in; I mean you never know when they’ll turn round and fly out at you. Sophie been doing a bit of scratching, has she?”

“If I am in an ill mood, then Sophie is not to blame. It is not her fault. She has done nothing.”

There was a long pause while Wytton gazed into the empty grate and Layard watched him. He couldn’t remember ever seeing him so blue-devilled. If it wasn’t Sophie, then what? Or who, more likely.

“I thought I’d call round to Aubrey Square this morning,” he said.

Wytton’s head shot up. “Aubrey Square? Why?”

“Don’t snap my head off, old fellow. To call on the Miss Darcys. To join the queue, I should say. Fitzwilliam’s door knocker practically comes off in your hand with all the use it’s getting while he has those girls staying.”

Wytton’s short laugh held no humour. “You won’t find yourself jostling among the crowds today.”

“Are they all out on an expedition?” He sat up. “Has something happened? Out with it.”

Wytton’s face was grim. “I suppose I may as well tell you, for if I do not, you will hear a highly coloured version at the club. Rumours are flying all over London about the Darcy sisters.”

“Rumours in London? You astonish me. Still, I’m sorry to hear it. Ring for some more coffee, and tell me about it.”

Wytton gave the bell-pull beside the fireplace a savage tug.

“Now sit down like a good fellow and compose yourself. You may think you’re dashed romantic with your hair all tossed about and with that pallid and drawn countenance, but it don’t impress me, you know. I think you look a regular mess, and fretting up and down isn’t going to help.”

Wytton said something terse and rude under his breath; then his face relaxed into a smile.

“No, no,” said Layard. “You can’t wind me up, Alexander, you know you can’t. I’ve known you too long and we’ve been through too much together for you to get under my skin. Calm down and tell me more.”

Wytton sighed, sinking back into the saggy armchair he had chosen. “First of all, Busby turned up, behaved like a crashing fool, upset Letitia.”

“She the oldest one? Full of sanctimonious views, spends too much time with that ill-bred clergyman, can’t remember his name.”

“Valpy. Yes, he was all over her, actually proposed. She didn’t like that at all, and being at the ball, that set all the witches’ backs up.” He rubbed his eyes. “God, was that damned ball only two nights ago? It seems a lifetime.”

“I dare say, but what is there in that to put you in such a mood?”

“Oh, that was only the beginning. Belle was there, and in very high spirits.”

“Flirting with anything in breeches and setting all the turbans twitching, was she? Irresistible when she’s like that, only I shouldn’t care to be hitched to her.”

“If she carries on as she is doing, there is not a man of reputation in London who will think of her as a wife. Much can be forgiven of one so young and pretty, and God knows, I am not one to set up as a moralist, but you cannot tease and arouse so many men without tripping up sooner or later.”

“She needs to be spanked and sent home to that beautiful house of theirs until she’s learned some sense. That’s what I’d do if she were my sister or daughter. Still, I can’t see that any real or lasting harm can come from flirting.”

“She quarrelled, publicly, with Sophie. Or, to be accurate, Sophie accused her of being a heartless flirt. At the top of her voice, in front of Lady Sefton, Lady Jersey, Princess Esterhazy, the Countess Lieven and a good few others from that damned cliquey set.”

Layard winced.

“It was very ill behaved of her, and she could not have picked a worse time and place. I have no idea why she felt so provoked by her cousin’s ways. Belle does not attempt to flirt with me, so why should Sophie be cross with her?”

Layard looked up. “Spurned, are you?”

Wytton shrugged. “I am not her type.”

“Belle may feel it would be wrong to flirt with her cousin’s betrothed.”

“She may.” Wytton’s voice was dry.

“So, two sisters and a cousin in some disgrace. Not enough to turn away the entire horde of admirers and fortune seekers, I would have thought.”

“I save the best for last.” He tilted his head back, shutting his eyes for a moment, then looking up at the ceiling, once white, now a yellowing pattern of smoke stains. “George Warren and Mrs. Beecham chose the occasion of the ball to spread the rumour that Miss Camilla Darcy has been trying to alienate my affections from her cousin Sophie and attract them to herself.”

Layard couldn’t believe his ears. Camilla Darcy, of all people; how could anyone say such a thing? His hackles rose. “George Warren is a regular commoner. Dear God, you’ll have to call him out, Wytton. You’ve no choice.”

“I have no grounds. He has not accused me of allowing my attentions to drift from Sophie towards her cousin. The actions and the intent are all on her side. She is besotted by me, you see, so that honesty and family feeling and propriety and any kindness she has towards Sophie are set at naught.”

“What she must be going through! Every feeling must be offended, she of all people. You can’t let it rest, Wytton. You have to prove there isn’t a shred of truth in it.”

“Have I? Is that so easy?”

“You mean because the world will always believe the worst? That is true, however—” He paused, as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. “Wytton, you don’t think there is any truth in it, do you? You do not imagine that she’s setting her cap at you, or any such thing? Why, I’ve spent as much time in her company as you have, and I’d as soon maintain she was making a dead set at me—which she most certainly ain’t, more’s the pity. If you want my opinion, I’d say she hasn’t got over that shocking business with the sodomitical Leigh.”

“No. She isn’t setting her cap at me. Or you, either, as you so rightly say.”

“Well, then. There you are. Out you go, pour scorn on it, accuse the scandalmongers of ill-informed tittle-tattle. Tell Warren he’s a liar and an ass—and if he calls you out, then so much the better.”

Wytton was silent. Layard looked at him with deep concern. “This has hit you hard, hasn’t it? Is Sophie very distressed, as well she might be? Is that what’s wrong?”

Wytton shook his head. When he spoke, it was in a tired, flat voice that Layard had never heard before.

“Camilla isn’t setting her cap at me, far from it. The devil of it is that I’ve fallen in love with her.”

The silence stretched out into minutes. Layard heard the soft ticking of the clock on the shelf above the fireplace, the low purr from the cat, the creak of the stairs outside the door, the distant rumble of wheels on cobbles, the soft cooing of a pigeon perched on the windowsill. What could he say? His friend was in the worst bind imaginable, betrothed to a girl that he certainly had loved, or at least had been bewitched by, and now claiming to be in love with her cousin.

With a sense of revelation, he told himself it wasn’t so strange, once one had got over the initial shock. Camilla Darcy might not be her cousin’s equal in looks—Sophie was a monstrously pretty girl—but for intelligence and humour and vivacity, there was no comparison. Sophie would make any man a decorative and doubtless obliging and agreeable wife. Being married to Camilla would be to begin a lifetime’s journey of love, liking and discovery. Would that she cared tuppence for him. Any sign of affection and he’d marry her like a shot.

Oh, hell and damnation. She was the very woman to suit Wytton, he could see that now. Why had his friend fallen so hard for Sophie? It was all the fault of that wretched Beecham woman, curse the day that his friend had taken up with her. She might be as well-bred as any woman in the kingdom, but she was a whore, through and through. It was understandable that Sophie’s youth and innocence would appeal after that attachment, but why had Wytton not seen that Sophie’s looks and fun and high spirits were not a sound foundation for happiness, not for a complex, clever, difficult man like him? And there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. He had proposed, been accepted, and everything was arranged. That was a contract there was no going back from.

“I did have one slight hope,” Wytton was saying. “I felt that Sophie might prefer to withdraw from the engagement. I hoped she might release me. She does not wish to.”

“She is in love with you.”

“I do not believe so. She, like Belle, is very young, and I think that although she likes me well enough, her feelings have never matched mine. It was my vanity that made me think her as much in love with me as I was with her. It is of no consequence. I am in honour bound to marry her if she so wishes, and she does.”

“Meanwhile, everyone exclaims at the wickedness of Miss Camilla, and she is shunned where she was courted, cold-shouldered by those who admired her and scorned by the harpies who envied her for her position, her fortune and her looks.” Layard was visibly shaken. “I cannot believe it.”

“Even her cousin, the earl, who never sets foot in London, as you know, has let it be known from his country fastness that he is severely displeased by the scandal attaching to this member of his family.”

“Pompous fool.”

The coffee came. Layard told his man to be off and get his clothes ready. He drained his cup at a single go, and stood up. “It makes me even more sure that I should call on the Darcy sisters. I shan’t ask if you go with me; that would be out of the question.”

“I am due to drive Sophie and her mother out to Hampton Court today. An outing of pleasure.”

Greene returned. He was a short, stocky man, who had to stand on tiptoe to help his master, himself not tall, into his close-fitting coat.

“If I may be so bold, sir,” he said, as he flicked a cat hair from the shoulder of Layard’s dark green coat, “but I couldn’t help hearing that you had the intention of calling later on in Aubrey Square. I doubt if the family are receiving any visitors at all today.”

“You must break yourself of this nasty eavesdropping habit, Greene, or I shall have to let you go. Why are the ladies not at home?”

“Sir, the whole house is in a turmoil. I heard of it from Figgins, as is maid to the youngest Miss Darcy. She came round on her father’s behalf, him being head coachman to Mr. Fitzwilliam and having promised your groom an ointment for your hack, that sore place by the withers as he suffers from.”

“Yes, yes, I know all about the sore place. Get on with it; what has this to do with anything?”

Wytton was watching the man intently. “What has happened there, Greene?”

“Why, one of the young ladies has run off. Eloped! In a chaise and four! At dawn! Right under their noses.”

“Which of the young ladies?” said Wytton. He gripped the back of a chair so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

“One of the young ladies as are twins. Figgins didn’t say which, she was in that much of a hurry.” He gave his employer a sly look. “Figgins says as how the man she’s taken off with is an older man, not one of their young beaux. And he’s married, so it won’t be the Border that they’re heading for.”

Wytton’s voice was cold but perfectly calm. “Was a name given?”

“For the man? Figgins says they believe she’s with Sir Joshua Mordaunt, no less, and that he’s taken her to Paris. Mr. Gardiner is setting off for France as soon as may be, to try and find her and bring her back before she’s ruined.”

“And you be off before you are kicked to kingdom come,” said Layard unfairly. He ejected his man from the room and slammed the door shut behind him. “Wytton, if that’s true, then those girls are truly ruined. Hey, where are you going?”

Wytton was flying across the room to the door, sending his coffee cup tumbling to the floor in his haste. “To France.”