"Brother!" Thornhaugh beamed with exuberance. "What in God's name kept you? No matter! Come and join our little party! Make yourself at home! Have some refreshment!"

"Party?" uttered John with as much confoundment as indignation, his reddened, bleary eyes drifting over this surreal spectrum of occupants that few men of his noble rearing could scarce imagine sharing the same space, let alone mixing socially. "You summoned me to a…party?"

"Everybody be silent!" Darcy practically boomed in his rush to take charge. He could not have foreseen his brother-in-law's inexplicable appearance but had been on high alert since the last surprise visit, preparing himself for Thornhaugh's next twist or turn with the determination to offset his deliberate stirring of confusion and chaos with sound and orderly management.

Marching right up to his governess, Darcy firmly demanded of her, "Explain what you mean by 'as you requested.'"

John made to answer at the same moment as Baxter, only to have Darcy thwart the attempt. "One voice at a time," he insisted, calmly but firmly. "Yours will be heard, John, I swear it." Then he whipped around to snarl at Thornhaugh, "And if you dare speak out of turn, I shall end this party as if it never commenced, before having you bound and gagged where you sit! Do we understand each other?"

Thornhaugh held his grin but raised his hands in apparent surrender; and with that mute gesture Darcy felt, though not certain, somewhat assured that the situation was under control. He faced his governess once again. "Go on, Baxter."

She answered timidly, "About two hours ago, Lord Thornhaugh called me to his side. I was then handed a note, sir, to be couriered at once to Lord Russell, begging his immediate presence."

Replied Darcy with some degree of skepticism, "I have no recollection of your entering the room, Miss Baxter."

"Nor I," said Richard.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Matlock," said Baxter, "but you and the master were, erm, rather preoccupied with Sir Frederick at the time. The gentleman had become incensed over…" (she cut a stern glance at Thornhaugh) "…a particularly vulgar remark and swore he would, forgive my language, 'box the bastard's ears.'"

"'S'true, gov!" affirmed Violet, pointing her ill-bred finger in a seething Fred's direction. "That bloke over there was throwin' a paddy, and while you was coolin' his beans—"

"—Thorny told us he had a chore needed doing," finished June in the same coarse and irreverent manner.

Their account was verified by la Croix, who added, "And so I sent your footman to go and fetch Miss Baxter for him, sir."

"If I did wrong," said the governess, "I apologize, sir. The matter was rather delicate, and I had but an instant to think and act."

"Indeed," Darcy returned, less suspicious but less than satisfied. "Then if I understand correctly, Miss Baxter, Thornhaugh relayed to you at a most opportune moment, while our backs were turned, —"

"Sir, I—"

"—this instruction to send one of my riders out into a hellacious storm to disturb Lord Russell's household in the dead of night for no ostensibly critical purpose." Darcy paused to check his shortening temper, then resumed at a lower volume: "Now, does that seem to you a rational request? I would further contend there was time enough to notify me of this order before you rushed to fulfill it."

"Sir, you were very much engaged, and Thorn—his Lordship had assured me, most urgently, that the matter was critical as well as time sensitive, that there was precious little left to him…"

John silenced her with his brusque removal and opening of the note— "'to have one last meeting with you,'" he read aloud, "'for the imparting of my final words.'" He looked at Thornhaugh and, slowly approaching the table, said roughly, "I was expecting to find you quite literally on your deathbed."

With that grim proclamation did Thornhaugh's countenance transition, from sprightly to sheepish, in almost the same instant. "It would appear, John, that you feel misled. Pray forgive my disturbance of your home and all subsequent aggravation, but the truth of it is that I shall be off to London before daybreak and…" He lingered, eyes raking over John's worn and weary figure. "Good God, you look awful!"

"Perhaps because I've not slept in days," John replied, vacantly, to his brother's apparent shock.

"Days! Now why should that be? Come and sit, John." He made diligent work of clearing a place at the table free of cards, gaming chips, and other sundries. "Tell me what is ailing you," he entreated along with his continued urge for him to be seated. "Perhaps I can help."

"Help?" John bent and placed his palms flat upon the table's surface, casting a searing, glassy-eyed glare. "You wish to help?"

"Upon my word, you are acting strangely." Thornhaugh squirmed like a guilty child before a cross headmaster. "It was not my intent to annoy you, John, I just…thought… right, I did distort the truth to some degree, but under the fair assumption that it would take nothing less than a dire and time-pressing circumstance to get you here on such notice. No, I am not quite yet on my deathbed. Perhaps tomorrow with any luck, eh?"

This effort to lighten the mood fell dishearteningly flat, as if it had gone unheard. Humbly, he pressed on. "Really, Brother—John—I had no idea you would be so bothered by so trivial a deception, but…but it is not merely that which has you vexed. No, sir. There is something much graver afoot, whatever is keeping you up at night, a problem that I should be more than glad to help you remedy, should you be willing to speak of it."

John sank into an empty chair, staring into space, appearing drunker than Richard in looks and demeanor but saying nothing, thus raising Thornhaugh's concern to frustration. "Or if I am not worthy of your confidence, then try the in-law variety!" He jerked a slicing hand at Darcy. "Let him be of service!"

More silence, which, coupled with Darcy's blank expression, rose Thornhaugh's frustration to anger. "Are you daydreaming, Darcy?" he cried. "Look at him! Look at John! Clearly something is amiss. It could involve your sister for all you know! Or your niece and nephew! What are their names again—Ruby and James, is it? Matlock, are you seeing this or am I mad?" He searched each and every face in the room. "You all see it. Darcy? Why are you silent? John? Are you not brothers? Are you not loved ones? For God's sake, one of you speak!"

"Shhh, Malcolm…" Darcy softened his voice to an effectively calming lilt. "You would not have him air out whatever is wrong in the company of strangers, now would you." He looked at John. "Perhaps we could talk of this elsewhere, in private?"

Thornhaugh heartily concurred. "Excellent notion! Go along with him, John, for you know there is no one so capable. Frankly, I still believe that I too could be of some use in your dilemma, whatever it may be, but if it is a family matter—"

"That leaves you out, doesn't it, Thorny!" mocked Blackwell from his end of the room.

"Indeed it does, Sir Frederick," he called back, smiling. "Have you decided on a challenge for us?"

"I have, but we must change rooms; for the game is Billiards."

On that reply, John's clouded gaze found his estranged sibling. "Is that what you have been doing all night? Gaming? Playing?" He spat out the words, to which Thornhaugh took noticeable offense as his tone remained flippant.

"Why do you ask, John? Have you a nobler cause for me to assume before I cash in my chips? I once heard it put that way in America, the northwestern region. He was a mountain man, a fur trapper with a long gray beard, tattered clothes, and barely enough teeth to chew porridge; yet he somehow managed to lose at cards with far more grace than..." (cutting a glance at Fred) "…many of our fashionable elite. Brown's Hole was the place. I had made a stop in this sort of tavern, except they called it a saloon, and they called their whiskey 'firewater.' Look!" He displayed to a disinterested John the evening's debt tally. "Look how far ahead I am! I had hoped you would stay to watch me triumph. That was stupid of me. But I digress—"

"Tell me why I am here," John gruffly demanded. "What is it you want?"

"Just a little of your time, John, that is all. There was something of significance I wished to discuss with you, but it can wait. Would you not rather speak with Darcy first?"

"I do not need to speak with anyone; I need to be at home."

Thornhaugh glanced at his watch before begging his brother for five minutes, which was grudgingly granted.

"We shall leave you two alone then," said Darcy, taking charge once more. He announced, "Everyone into the billiard room please, gentlemen and…ladies."

Darcy stood watch as the room gradually and quietly emptied, one after another. On their way out la Croix and her girls passed by the card table, where the blonde bent and whispered, "Love you, Thorny," then kissed his pale cheek to his tepid response. With that woman's exit into the hall did Darcy make further instructions to see that the brothers' privacy was ensured, and seconds later began a silence between them, each listening to the turbulent screams of wind and thunder outside their thick walls. John was the first to speak, with his terse utterance of, "Well?"

"How old is your son?" inquired Thornhaugh in a businesslike manner, all prior emotion wiped clear as if it never emerged. "Were it not important, I would not ask."

John stayed on his guard as he answered, "Seven and a half."

"Hm. A good age to begin looking for the signs."

"Signs?"

"Of course, there is a chance it skipped over him as the firstborn of a second born. Would that I had been so lucky!"

"A chance that what skipped over him?"

"The curse, you fool."

"Oh, bloody hell…" John ran both hands through his unkempt hair.

"Indeed it is a vexing plague on our house, your future Grace, but nonetheless—"

The thunderous pounding of John's fist shook the table— "My son is not cursed! There is no curse! Have you yourself not always argued the predominance of free will and the absurdity of voodoo?"

"This is a separate argument entirely, and with but four minutes remaining I should appreciate your attention at the very least. I speak not of curses as the gypsies do, John. I speak of hereditary defects, inborn propensities, a disorder for which there is no cure, magical or otherwise, for it is in our blood and shall continue to be. As men like our grandfather and uncle chose to suffer the affliction, so they carried on to fatal excess in slovenly, self-loathing surrender, whereas I chose differently. I refused, you see, to subject myself to their suffering and decided rather to adopt and nurture it, for the most part. There are lines that may be drawn; and that is where free will is applied. Thusly I declined every offer and opportunity to indulge in the most detrimental compulsion of all. Look at me, John." Thornhaugh loosened and removed his cravat, then opened his shirt to reveal the scarring spread about his bare chest. "This is how I lived as a teetotaler; just imagine me as a tosspot! Imagine all my time spent in hells, taverns, brothels, cardrooms, ballrooms, dining rooms, drawing rooms…" His hand fluttered in the direction of that corner laden with spirits, continuing in a voice swelled with pride, "So much temptation at my fingertips, and not once did I succumb. Plenty have tried, one way or another, to bring me down to the level of our woefully dependent predecessors, to scramble my brain as the bottle did theirs, dull my senses and rob my wits, to weaken me, to break me if you will. There was even the odd, savage attempt to hold me down, pry my mouth open, and force it down my throat. And yet I managed to fight them off. I persevered." The last statement was coughed out and muffled by the handkerchief crushed against his mouth.

"You call this perseverance? I should call it comeuppance."

Thornhaugh shrugged, fingers deftly folding white linen over the crimson blot. "Dissipation might have played a part. Then again, perhaps not. Have not both angels and devils been thusly claimed?"

"It could have been prevented and you know it. Had you not traveled to America—"

"Marvelous point. Had I not traveled here or there, or had I been a good little boy, minded my manners, lived by tenets so reliably instilled and hypocritically unheeded by those who—"

"Had you lived in bloody moderation!" John motioned toward the nearest vessel of amber-colored liquid. "Pardon if I do not find your abstention from that so very impressive. Though a drop may never have touched your tongue, you still made damn sure your thirst was ever quenched. In the end, you fared no better than our, as you say, 'woefully dependent predecessors.' Tell me, Malcolm, what would you have me do? see that James lives by your example? Shall I forbid all forms of temptation lest my boy be cursed? Shall I hide the rum, sell my vintage, smash the decanters, slap every flute or flask out of his hand before it reaches his lips?"

"If you wish him to resent, despise, or possibly murder you, then by all means; but I should advise against it. Just look at what forbiddance did to me. And to him. The harder he endeavored, the fiercer I fought. There was no decree I did not defy with ten times the potency, no feeling I did not match with ten times the passion. I was a glacier to his coldness, rage to his revulsion. No, John. You must be better, so that your son may be. As I have said, look for the signs. Study the boy. Understand him, or at least try. Find where his tastes run, where his talents lie, what drives him forward, what he desires from you, from himself, from others, and he will decide. Him, not you. Forbid nothing. I cannot stress that enough. John…" Thornhaugh leaned forward, eyes glimmering with earnest intensity. "Please trust me on this if nothing else. If my nephew…if your son is cursed, there is nothing, and I mean nothing that you can say or do to redirect his path. He will know you disapprove. A son always knows; it takes little reminder. A mere look will suffice. Do not hate him, John. I pray you try…you must try so very hard not to, no matter how difficult it may be. Try to find some…just a little room in your heart…if only to avoid disaster. That is all I wished to say."

"You never lost our father's love, Malcolm."

With a roll of his eyes Thornhaugh replied, "Take my counsel, John, or leave it, but spare me your maudlin claptrap—"

"It is not—"

"We are not having that conversation, and this one is over." He glanced again at his watch. "A minute or so yet remains. You mentioned something about having not slept in…how long was it?"

John shook his head. "We are not having that conversation."

"Never mind, I know the reason, for it is screamingly transparent. You are still fretting over the old man's whereabouts, still grieving over his fate, even more so now that he has reduced himself to nothing, that he may yet be living to watch himself die a nobody. How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished! And, oh! were he alive, what I would not give to see the look on his face now! I should laugh myself silly." (his brow lowered suddenly) "Or is it…John? Is it your own future you are fretting over? Are you Matlock?"

"Matlock?"

"No indeed, it is not the same," Thornhaugh revised on second thought, "for you actually were groomed in accordance with the old man's hopes, wishes and expectations. You were primed, I should say almost from birth, to replace me, though the title sincerely holds no charm for you. Have I got it right? Am I close, at least?"

John laughed bitterly. "Why I hardly know, Malcolm, for I've had scarcely a moment to think on the subject. And if I were fretful, had I doubts or reservations about the old man, about succession, curses or, well, virtually anything, you should be the last person to whom I would confess it. Only a fool would bare his burdened soul to you in hope of some relief—for you are guaranteed to deliver the opposite! And I need not look to Darcy, either. I need only my wife and children. They will see me through this family matter as I will see them, thank you all the same. And in this final minute between us, I shall impart to you my last words. I shall have, even if it is one-sided, the conversation from which you shrink like a coward." It was now John's turn to lean forward, to level at Thornhaugh a piercing stare. "Our father was bad to you, and for his treatment of you deserved some of the consequences. Some. Your refusal to honor him, your resolve to live freely…that part of it was justified. But the rest of it, Malcolm…oh God, the excess! The ruin! The waste! You, a man of prodigious intellect, feel somehow vindicated yet shockingly unrewarded after so many years spent despising him, humiliating him, harming him…hunting him! For decades you viewed him as big game fit to toy with and torment as he viewed you a cursed progeny. You had plenty of occasion to renounce the title and go your own way forever, but you could not give him the satisfaction. As I see it, there is little difference between the two of you but intent, yours having ever been decidedly malicious. You will laugh, but he sincerely thought he was doing right by you, and quite lacking as many of us in imagination, could see nothing better for you than the strictest, harshest forms of discipline. Misguided as he was, for a good number of he worked on you and worked hard, while all you have ever done is play. And why? Because playing is easy. Wrath is easy. The descent to hell is easy."

Thornhaugh pulled a face that was unreadable, blank as a white canvas, held throughout the rest of John's impulsive speech delivered in the wild throes of grief, anger, and exhaustion.

"And for that same reason he, too, descended," John continued. "Of course he always blamed you, for you were too hard to manage and a growing threat to his ambitions. Essentially he gave up on you, began shipping you abroad to save bother and his good standing. He called your sanity into question as a pathetic means of salvaging his own. As punishment for your insolence he denied you a home, a family, everything that would have made you human and not twice the monster he was. He even denied you our mother. When she took ill, he ought to have done all he could to have you fetched and brought to her side. You cannot really believe that she never asked for you. Why I knew her nowhere near as well as you did, I barely remember her, and even I was always skeptical of that claim; for she was by all accounts wonderful, warm, and unconditionally affectionate with her children. Of course she wanted you home. He knew that but would never admit to it. I knew better and never spoke out. I was weaker than him. I revered him, and I dared not question or cross him. I see now that I should have, much sooner, long before finding my happiness, my Georgie, my family. I should not have taken his every word as Gospel. I should have called him on his corruption and cruelty, towards you and everyone else. I had the decency, but not the mettle. Armed with both, I might have foiled your efforts to destroyed him. You, Malcolm, take vengeance to a level few mortals can contemplate, far less comprehend. You eat your enemies from the inside out, and now your own insides are rotting. Indeed it is comeuppance, perhaps divine or perhaps not, but it is earned. And a damn shame it is, for he always said your potential was boundless. You never knew that, did you? No, he would not give you the satisfaction of knowing how brilliant he thought you were, how deeply he admired your natural gifts, your God-given talents that could have been employed creatively, productively, for good instead of evil. You might have even made him a better man, had you a notion to, had you found a little room for him in your heart. You do not even pity him. Given the chance, you would continue to torture him. You would kill him—your own father! Damn you! Time is up!"

John shoved himself from the table and made for the exit, shouting for the doors to be opened and sliding through the widening crack without a backward glance nor a word of response. No sooner had he quit the room to begin a determined exit from the home, than he felt and heard Darcy's presence just behind him. "John!" he cried in a hushed but desperate tone. "Do not rush off in such haste, please—"

John whipped around upon gaining the entrance hall. "Why are you indulging him?"

"I take it your meeting did not go well."

"Oh, just splendid! And your party, has it gone well?"

"It is difficult to explain."

"There is no need to. I know already that whatever notions you had in mind—whether for this night or his entire stay—has been for naught. Your countenance alone is hint enough of the hell he has put you through."

"I was going to say the same."

"Yes, well, it seems we are both fixed in a mire of our own making. Let us not pity each other."

John turned and resumed his stride, having almost reached the door when Darcy stopped him with the seizing of his arm and sharp dismissal of the footman guarding it. "Please, Brother. Tell me something, anything. How is Georgiana? Did you leave her alone with…him?"

"Of course not!" John wiped a hand over his grizzled face before taking a deep, calming breath. "Georgie is well, I assure you. You needn't worry for her."

"That cannot be helped, but I have no right to interfere. I trust you, John. If you say my sister is well, then she is well. I ask only because we've not had a word from either of you since…the church."

John bowed his head. "Forgive me, Brother."

"For what? You are not obliged to keep us informed; nor is my concern for your wellbeing founded on pity. If I can, I should like to help. That is all I wished to say."

"And I wish you could help," John whispered, "but there is nothing for this. He grows worse by the day. He is completely blind now. Frightened. Despondent. Angry. Fitful. Manic! He cries and moans, spouting words without context, droning on and on about an orchard, fallen apples, the sun, breeze, clouds, sky, birds…milk? milking? I cannot make sense of it. 'On this beautiful day,' he mutters to himself. 'Why, oh why, on this beautiful day?'"

"And still no acknowledgment of his firstborn?"

John hesitated before answering, "Yesterday. It was a quiet moment, a docile moment. I said his name, plainly and distinctly, and Father…he began to weep. 'Milking,' he muttered, again and again. What can it mean?"

"Your brother would know, I am certain. Go to him now and tell him. Tell him everything."

"You cannot be serious."

"John. You saw the state of him. He will not…" Darcy took a deep, ragged breath. "He will not live out the week. He seeks a purpose, any purpose, any diversion that may fend off the reaper for just a little while longer. That is why I humor this…this…frivolity! For hours he has been batting at my thick-headed neighbor like a ball of yarn. Sir Frederick has delivered the ferocity he had hoped for but not the challenge, and now he is bored of him."

"Who were those women, Darcy?"

"Oh, never mind them. Just another diversion that he has, too, grown bored of. He would trade the remainder of this evening for a worthier cause if you will let him, if you could find it in your heart to think well of him, to find him at least somewhat capable of doing some good. If you believe in him just a little, he will prove himself to you. Beneath the pretense—all the swaggering, the vulgarity, the apathy, the self-interest—therein lies a powerful regard for the human race, I dare say even those he would call enemies. If only we could return that regard. If only he knew how to win our love and approval as he wins at cards. If only he were as capable of pleasing us as he is eager. That feeling never died. It is only pushed down so deep that he is almost frightened of it rising up to the surface. But it is there, dormant, awaiting an opportunity. I believe that."

John swallowed. His features distorted into a blend of expressions on top of crippling fatigue. "It is too late," he said with some remorse. "Even if you are correct, I have…that bridge is burned."

Darcy nodded. "I see. Well, I might have been wrong. He might have done you more harm than good. I suppose you had better go along now, John. Give my love to Georgie."

"I shall. She…she has been so good, Will, so very understanding. I am ashamed to have her endure this, but she never complains. She is my rock, my little tower of strength. I should go mad without her! But I have forbidden…that is, I have told her she must stay away, for he has grown too volatile. She argues differently, but…no, I cannot have her near him. Her care is much better spent on the children. Yes, I had better go. Before he awakens. Take care, Brother. Farewell."

John tightened his coat around him, then rushed out into the gusty, rainless storm, leaving Darcy in quiet, solemn reflection.

"Dearest?" he said without moving, having sensed her presence long before John's exit.

"Yes, darling," said Elizabeth from the first landing up the darkened staircase.

Darcy met her at the foot as she drifted down, gradually coming into the light and his awaiting arms. He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Priscilla? The children?"

"Asleep. Thornhaugh?"

"Ahead. Exceedingly so."

"Why am I not surprised? But the contest is…"

"Still going," he sighed. "Fred is stubborn but depleted. And for an invalid, Thornhaugh is brimming with vitality. His victory is all but clinched."

"And then he shall go with Richard?"

Darcy nodded. "It is for the best, darling."

"I should like to say goodbye then."

"Now is a good time, I think. The others are moved to the billiard room, but he may still be in the drawing-room."

The couple strolled in that direction with hands clasped between them. Masculine banter and the cracking of cue balls could be heard amid the incessant prattling of la Croix and her girls. "Sounds like Fred is warming up," said Darcy. "Did you know he is a three-time tournament champion?"

"Oh, dear me." Elizabeth smiled. "And what is our lodger's level of skill, I wonder?"

"Comparable, from what I have seen. Fred has the physical advantage, of course, but should Thornhaugh stay as sharp as he has been…"

The sight of a vacant card table gave Darcy pause as the couple entered the drawing-room. In the next moment he felt the tightening of his hand and quickening of his heartbeat. "Dear God," he whispered; for across the room stood Thornhaugh, leaning against the sideboard, slugging a full glass of that aptly dubbed 'firewater' down the cough-ravaged lining of his throat.