"No, I had to sneak out. He forbade me from attending, can you believe it? So I said "Yes, dear' very demurely and went up to bed. He did not suspect my intentions at all."
Her statement conflicted with the fact that a seething James Darcy, costume-less and unmasked, was currently stomping his booted feet across my waxed ballroom floor. Darcy men are just so exhausting.
"You are nine months pregnant! You cannot be gallivanting around in the middle of the night—in public. Think of your health—think of the baby!" he said without preamble upon reaching us.
"I am not pregnant—I amenceinte.And I do wish you would not discuss my delicate state so freely. Someone might overhear," said Rebecca casting a paranoid glance around her.
James pinched the bridge of his nose in that universal sign of frustration. "You are going home at once," he growled.
"I am staying here.Youshould go home. You are ruining Elizabeth's lovely ball with your negativity."
Whatever retort James might have made was drown out by the sudden piercing scream that emanated from the center of the ballroom.
My view was obstructed by the crowd, but Darcy, aided by his superior height, was apparently able to see the cause of the fracas. "Oh God, that cannot be—"
"Henry Vane," finished James, his face full of violent promise.
"Oh no, James—don't," pleaded Rebecca.
It was at this point everything went to Hades.
Twenty-Three
6thJanuary, 1812
Still early morning
Darcy surveyed the ballroom with a look of disbelief that I am sure was echoed on my face.
The room was empty—well, empty of guests I should say, the servants were already diligently at work cleaning up the broken glass and bits of shredded red taffeta that covered the floor—all our guests had fled excepting the ancient Sir Gregory Davenport, the spectacularly wealthy notorious skinflint who last I checked was still in the refreshment room stealing the cheese out of all the little sandwiches and stowing it in his helmet, (he came dressed as a knight) possibly unaware of everything that has happened.
There is a common belief that if your ball ends before dawn it is an utter failure, destined to be forgotten by the end of the week. While the success of this ball was certainly up for debate, I felt it was unlikely to be forgotten anytime soon. I think it will be spoken of for years. Possibly centuries.
"I never realized a little dog could do so much damage," said Darcy somewhat dazedly.
I turned to him in all astonishment and said, "Your uncle tackled a man in our ballroom with three hundred people watching and you are talking about the bloody dog?"
"I am not certain anyone noticed James restraining Henry, I think they were all a bit more focused on Sir Sebastian."
"Yes, he did make rather an ass of himself when Mary slapped him."
"I was speaking of the dog," Darcy paused then, taking in what I said, asked, "Mary slapped Sir Sebastian Seymour?"
"Oh yes," I replied with relish. Minor destruction aside, I really enjoyed most of the chaos. Perhaps there is something wrong with me.
"I missed that entirely," said Darcy, sounding more than a little disappointed.
"Understandable, there was quite a lot going on at the time."
It all began with the scream.
Mrs. Vane, upon turning around to find the husband she had assumed to be dead standing behind her, let out a tremendous shriek. This alerted James Darcy to his brother-in-law's presence and, because he is a Darcy male and thus is naturally compelled to do the most idiotic thing possible in any given situation, he raced across the ballroom and brought Henry Vane bodily to the floor, despite the vociferous objections of his wife and a heroic, yet ineffective attempt to impede him by his nephew.
If this breach of propriety had been the only thing that occurred tonight it would have been enough to take up the entirety of every gossip sheet in town for a week.
But of course it was not the only thing that occurred because we are Darcys and if we do something we are going to do it to the fullest extent possible, even if the thing we are doing is embarrassing ourselves thoroughly (especially then). Go Brobdingnagian or retire quietly to your country estate to rusticate. That is our motto.
At the same moment James was tackling Henry Vane, Sir Sebastian the Dog was going mad. He had missed his after dinner nap, he was dressed as a sheep, and people were shrieking which must have been unbearable to his sensitive little ears; only so much can be tolerated. After six hours of repressing his inner Bad Dog his true self arouse with hell hound-like savagery. His target: the Queen of Hearts skirts.
