A/N: Today's post is a short but important chapter! I know a lot of people are upset with Darcy for acting like a perfect spoiled brat at the moment, and well, I don't blame you! He is a spoiled brat. He makes no apologies for his behavior, so I won't either. Not yet, anyway!

I'm sure he'll pull it together sooner or later... and for poor Colonel Fitzwilliam's sake, I certainly hope it's sooner!

xo brynn


CHAPTER THREE

"As if (which might induce us to accord)
Man had not hellish foes enough besides,
That day and night for his destruction wait."
– John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book II –

Dueling, though now illegal, had long been considered the gentleman's preferred method of defending one's honour. Only commoners brawled in the streets, as every man worth their breeding knew, though from time to time, the element of drink, when taken in combination with some seemingly worthy inducement—usually in the form of either money or women—would lead to outbursts of some rather ungentlemanlike behaviour in even the most prestigious card rooms, great halls, and fine houses in the country.

One such episode, which took place in the small courtyard of White's on one clear late April evening, would later be considered as the precise moment when everything changed for Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. His own behaviour at the moment in question could hardly be called gentlemanly, but it did have the advantage of achieving the desired effect for more than one party that evening—which was more than most such scuffles generally accounted to.

Colonel Fitzwilliam turned back to his cousin and raised his right hand to cradle his jaw. "Well, cousin," he chuckled, "I hereby rescind everything I said earlier about your disagreeable disposition being in any way charming this evening."

With a grin, he eyed his cousin as the younger man shook out his fist and clenched his hands together, rubbing his knuckles through tense fingers.

"Not quite what you expected?" The Colonel remarked with a wink. "We'll get some ice for you back at Darcy House, cousin. Wouldn't want that blunderbuss of yours to swell and ruin all your fancy gloves."

Darcy glanced up from his hands in irritation, the stinging in his fist nearly forgotten. Meanwhile, his cousin had nearly doubled over with laughter.

"I thought you might be a trifle disguised this evening, cousin. But I begin to think you've gone full lion! To strike a Colonel in His Majesty's army! And to think that I've worn my best buttons tonight! And at White's, of all places in Christendom! Darcy, it really is too rich to be believed!"

"That will be quite enough, Richard," Darcy shot back grimly.

"What are you going to do, Darcy?" The Colonel teased. "Hit me? Perhaps you might oblige me and go inside before you try your luck again. I would love nothing more than to see the look on mother's face when the next society pages wax eloquent on the exploits of a certain Mr. D and Colonel F. of D-shire."

For a moment, the two cousins regarded one another in silence as the muffled sounds of more gentlemanly pursuits—cards and gossip—floated in on the breeze from the room they had exited only moments before.

For his part, Darcy tried as best he could to hold onto his anger—or his agitation at the very least—but soon found his features winding into a conciliatory smile. Richard had that effect on him. The bemused grin which now swept across the face of each gentleman was no more an apology for one than the other. Instead, their mutual expressions served as a steady truce between two cousins who knew, respected, and appreciated so much of one another's character. There was for the two to discuss, but it would not be done tonight. There would be a time for agitation later—a time to revisit words spoken in anger, accusations made, and, of course, such a preposterous action.

It was too much.

Darcy heard his own laughter before he felt it. The Colonel quickly joined him, leaning forward to rest one arm on his bent legs while the other remained at his jaw, stroking away the tension and ire which had hit him with full force only moments earlier.

"I'm sorry cousin, I really am," Richard chortled gleefully, "but you must admit that I have far more experience receiving blows to the jaw than you have bestowing them. It was a rather valiant attempt though, I grant you! If I respected you less, I might have winced more."

Darcy shook his head, "Richard, I cannot tell you—"

It was at that moment that both cousins became aware of the presence of the third party present in the courtyard that evening.

The gentleman stood a few feet away, reclining casually against the trunk of a small tree—the slight, distant smile playing on his lips the only indication he had attended any part of their conversation.

While the cousins plainly attempted to take stock of the man, the gentleman himself had time to consider his own observations.

He had been waiting for the opportunity to cross Fitzwilliam Darcy's path for some time, of course, although he'd convinced his old friend Lord William Russell to extend an invitation to White's only a few nights earlier. It hadn't been difficult. He had known Lord Russell for years, being related through the marriage of some very distant cousins whom he himself barely recalled. The two had always been on good terms, but after the death of his beloved Lady Charlotte only three years earlier, Russell had acted with uncharacteristic haste to renew the acquaintance once his admittedly distant relation returned to town.

After only a few well-placed comments regarding his growing dissatisfaction with the company at his own club, Boodle's, Lord Russell had practically called for the ballot box that very evening. He had begged off, of course, claiming that a decision as momentous as signing a club register, especially one so esteemed as White's, should require at least an equal measure of consideration. After all, not a single gentlemen had ever willingly retired from the club, and he had carefully explained that he had no wish to involve himself or Lord Russell in the scandal which would undoubtedly follow his being the first, should his now rather infamous inclination towards the spontaneous lead him in another direction. Worse, if he found himself the recipient of a black ball in the club's ballot box, he would find it much harder to achieve his true purpose in coming to town. It hadn't taken him long to persuade his friend—ever the conscientious patrician—that they would both be better off if he were to become more familiar with the gentlemen who gathered and dined at White's before making any more permanent arrangements.

Well, one gentleman, anyway.

While he had enjoyed Lord Russell's company well enough, he was certainly no confidante. And so, he neglected to mention that he had no interest in joining White's—now or ever. And though his wit, reputation, and popularity amongst the gentlemen of the ton certainly were points in his favour, he knew had no guarantee of being admitted as a full member even if he had wanted to join. While Lord Russell had assured him that even some of the more fastidious club elders had become somewhat attracted to the novelty of having a few 'men of action' such as himself within their ranks—it wasn't worth the risk as far as he was concerned, and the point was inconsequential at best. He had one object when it came to visiting White's—and that object now stood a mere five paces from him, still as a statue, the very picture of propriety.

He made note of the man's quick recovery from his fit of distemper and filed the thought away for later inspection. His sole intent—for now—was to match the glacial stare which emanated from the familiar pair of dark eyes fixed on his.

What luck!

It may have surprised the gentleman to know that Fitzwilliam Darcy was having a very similar thought at the moment—though the sentiments attached were quite different.

What luck, Darcy bristled—his momentary flash of good humour extinguished. He supposed he should be grateful that his altercation with Richard hadn't attracted more attention from the club, but his stomach lurched at the thought that they had acquired an audience of any size. And a stranger at that, Darcy groaned inwardly. Whoever this man was, Darcy certainly couldn't count on his discretion.

The long moment of silence which had followed the interloper's entrance into the courtyard was now making its presence felt—and though Darcy could not account for the chill he now felt creeping up his spine, he suddenly felt as though the gentleman's discretion might prove to be the least of his concerns.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, still recovering from the shock of the interruption as much as the blow to his jaw, shifted slightly and turned to address the unknown figure.

However, it was the gentleman who would speak first.

"I beg your pardon, sirs. I could not help but overhear—" he paused and gestured in the direction of the card room "—some of the gentlemen inside remarking on the presence of Mr. Darcy this evening." He took a step forward, closing the distance between the three men and nodded towards Darcy, offering a crooked grin that—Darcy could not help but notice—did not quite reach his eyes.

Darcy remained still, irritated that he was unable to enact his typical response to a challenge such as the one which the unknown man's unwavering stare presented. As the stranger moved forward, Darcy realized that the gentleman's height—which equalled his own—would not allow for him to adopt a sufficiently foreboding posture. In lieu of physical intimidation, he remained where he was and continued to stare blankly at the man as he continued in a decidedly unaffected manner.

"I knew at once that I had to seek you out, of course."

Darcy's countenance remained frozen in an unreadable mask, though he was becoming increasingly unsettled—a development which annoyed him greatly.

The stranger was decidedly less distracted.

He hasn't said a word, he mused to himself, and yet he finds a way to be insufferably arrogant. Yes, this boy is every inch a Darcy.

Undeterred, he offered a slight bow in the cousins' direction.

"Ah, yes. Of course, we have not been introduced," the man practically sneered, his voice dripping with innuendo. "I am aware of the overwhelming impropriety such an imposition provides. You and your cousin the Colonel must feel positively scandalized." He seemed to remember himself during the course of his speech and straightened his posture even further before continuing. "But though it has been some time since I have made either of your acquaintance, we have met before."

The allusions made to the cousins' behaviour stitched into the gentleman's introduction were not lost on Darcy, and he considered how unlikely it was that either he or his cousin had ever made his acquaintance. He had no memory of ever seeing the man before and had always congratulated himself—until recently—on the many benefits of having an excellent memory.

He briefly lowered his eyes to sweep the gentleman's form. He was tall and of a fair complexion. His eyes, the colour of smoke, complemented a firm countenance which was only enhanced by the decided set of his squared, solemn jaw. His face was framed by the subtle wisps of tawny hair which spilt forward and curled lightly around his features, his temples barely touched by light flecks of grey. He was older than either cousin, Darcy assumed somewhere in his late fortieth years—though, as the gentleman stepped into better light, Darcy made note of the slight gathering of lines about his steel-grey eyes and recognized a certain weariness which at once betrayed him. If such eyes were to be believed, this man might be older than the peaks themselves. Yet, unlike many of the elder men of Darcy's acquaintance, the stranger was undoubtedly fit for a man of his years and clearly an active sort. Certainly this was not some languishing Earl or spindly statesman. He might as well best Darcy in a match, for all he knew. The thought was an unwelcome one, and Darcy pushed it away as he turned his attention to his dress.

He was well-fitted, and much like his own, the gentleman's clothes were made of the finest materials. He was not a dandy by any stretch of the imagination, but it was impossible to ignore the quality of his silk waistcoat, the apparent expertise of his tailor, or the intricate and well-executed tie of his cravat.

Still, there was something about the gentleman that Darcy did not—could not bring himself to trust. His eyes narrowed of their own accord and he felt an itch traveling up the length of his body. Something about this man set him on edge. He was not accustomed to the feeling and he hoped it would be of short duration.

What was his purpose with them? Some scheme? Were they to be ransomed in his own club? Darcy had heard of such things occurring in some of the lesser clubs and gaming halls around town—well dressed criminals posing as gentlemen, offering investment opportunities so enticing and implausible that they had convinced more than one well born bacon-brain to sink his fortune into a bottomless well of no return.

He cleared his throat in agitated confusion, preparing to inquire as to the nature of their presumed acquaintance in a manner as civil as he could muster—which was likely to be decidedly uncivil at present, when Colonel Fitzwilliam startled him back into silence. He had entirely forgotten his cousin's presence.

"I am afraid you have us at a disadvantage, sir. I don't believe we have heard your name."

"How positively savage of me, gentlemen! I am Hyatt Hadley." The gentleman punctuated his introduction with another step forward and looked well pleased by the Colonel's attempt at ease.

Darcy's eyebrows rose in surprise at his advance.

You are entirely close enough.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam, I believe you know my estate, Foxhollow Hall, as it is located quite near your father's. It is nothing to Milton Hall or Wentworth Woodhouse, of course, but I was very well acquainted with the Fitzwilliams at one time."

He turned to Darcy, feeling a familiar twist in his gut as he met the younger man's gaze through the shadows. Even in the near-dark of the walled courtyard, he would know those eyes anywhere.

"And Mr. Darcy. I can claim an acquaintance with your own father, George Darcy, as well. I understand that he has passed?"

Darcy gave a nod in his direction, but the gentleman issued no additional condolences. Instead, he tilted his head to one side and pursed his lips together to form a tight smile. "Your father was… certainly unparalleled, in both character and deed."

The long-sought object of his attentions only returned his stare.

"I already see so much of him in you."