During that split second of hesitation, Fitz moved his blade to his left hand. A left-handed fencer had an advantage when fighting against a right-handed man, and Fitz clearly meant to throw Darcy’s concentration off by changing in the middle of the challenge. It was an unfair tactic, but Darcy merely lifted one brow and switched his own blade from right to left, erasing the benefit of Fitz’s gambit.
The noise of the crowd increased and at last intruded upon his notice, but Darcy was not distracted. Fitz’s eyes widened before he barked out a laugh and switched back to his right hand. Darcy mirrored the movement. He had been practicing assiduously during Fitz’s time on the continent, but his left hand was still a touch weaker. Not that he would ever admit it.
Fitz advanced, then Darcy, as they circled the floor. Finally, Darcy attacked, Fitz parried, and Darcy answered. As the tip of his weapon touched his cousin’s breast, the voices of the gathered men burst into loud calls and scattered applause.
“Brilliant riposte,” he heard Dudley say, and “I thought the colonel had him this time,” from another man, one Darcy did not know. Money was exchanging hands, but Darcy ignored it all and bowed to his cousin.
Fitz returned the bow, his expression a mix of admiration, frustration, and pleasure in the exercise. “I will best you one day,” he grumbled.
Darcy laughed. “I do not doubt it, cousin,” he said. “But not today.”
Fitz wandered off to accept his share of the congratulations for a match well-fought and the ribbing that must accompany his loss. Darcy suspected that any felicitations he received himself would be influenced by how many pounds had been made or lost on his victory. Still, he received both the thanks and the friendly oaths graciously. He could do no less.
“Bravo, Darcy!” shouted Webb. Darcy’s lip curled. Webb had been a friend at university. When Darcy had finally emerged from mourning his father, Webb had been all sympathy and kind advice, but traded on their friendship to lay wagers in Darcy’s name. As if this were not insult enough, Webb had fully expected him to absorb the losses. Rather substantial ones. When he had warned the man to stop, Webb had agreed, but the friendship was permanently fractured. Webb was far less affected by that than Darcy had been.
“See now, Darcy?” Webb asked pleasantly. “I have yet to run myself aground. You ought to take more after your cousin the viscount.”
Darcy forced his features into indifference. How dare the man throw the viscount in his face? Henry was a reckless fop. He asked politely but directly, “Why do you not lay a wager on yourself and step to the floor with me?”
Webb laughed. “There would be no odds on that match,” he replied, and turned away.
Darcy scowled. Though he had made no sound, Fitz’s eyes were upon him.
“Now you must feed me,” his cousin announced, and the men around them laughed.
“I believe I was the victor,” Darcy replied sardonically. “Should you not be feeding me?”
“You do not wish to eat what I can afford,” Fitz responded blithely.
Darcy shook his head. “It is hours before dinner, Fitz, but let us go back to the house and try our luck.”
At home, Darcy was informed that his carriage had arrived from Hertfordshire while he was out, and that his presence had been requested. Darcy thought it strange but said nothing, instead leaving Fitz to refresh himself while he walked out to the mews to speak with his valet.
“Mr. Darcy,” Slipworth greeted him, as several of the footmen carried Darcy’s trunks into the house. “I had to wait a time at Longbourn, as the housekeeper was not in and the family was still abed, but eventually I was able to leave your message with a manservant.”
Darcy nodded. Mr. Bennet ought to have his longer letter by now as well. “And the Bingleys?”
Slipworth shook his head. “They did not approach me, sir. The servants did say Mr. Bingley spoke with Miss Jane Bennet at length before the family left Netherfield. The Bennet carriage was the last to be called.”
Darcy had no doubt of that, nor how it had happened. Mrs. Bennet was not subtle. It was interesting that Bingley had approached Miss Bennet even after Miss Elizabeth had witnessed the scene in the library. Perhaps he hoped to convince Miss Bennet that her sister was mistaken.
He wondered why Slipworth had not simply spoken to him in his chambers—there was nothing urgent in his explanation—but the man did have a few oddities. He was about to thank his valet and return indoors when his coachman cleared his throat rather loudly.
“Anders,” Darcy called. “Are you well?” The coachman was sitting atop the large trunk that served as the boot at the back of the carriage.
Anders opened his mouth, but closed it again, and Darcy was alarmed by the sickened expression on the man’s face. He left Slipworth and strode over to Anders, who scrambled to his feet.
“Are you ill?” Darcy asked directly.
“No, sir,” Anders replied, stiffening a bit at Darcy’s brusqueness. He glanced back at the trunk. “It is only . . .”
Darcy waited while Anders paused and swallowed. His impatience must have shown, because Anders glanced around and said, quietly, “It is only that some of the tools in the boot require repair, sir. I think we ought to take the entire box inside so I can work on ‘em tonight.”
“The tools,” Darcy repeated, staring at the man.
“Yes, sir,” Anders said stoutly.
Had the man been drinking? He stepped a bit closer and sniffed but did not detect the odor of any spirits. He was relieved. Anders was the best coachman Darcy had, one of the best in all of London, he believed; he should hate to have to send him away.