The steward hesitated. “Returned to Yorkshire, sir. Some emergency for which his tenants required his attention.”
Indeed? Darcy’s gaze shifted to the card room, where only one table had been laid. “Captain Ellis?”
“Still in Sussex, I believe. He married last month.”
“Yes, I was aware. I had heard he and his bride expected… well.” Darcy shook his head and let that die. Ellis would have talked of nothing but horses and household arrangements, and Darcy would have let him. There was comfort in such particulars. He had not known how much until now.
The steward lingered, as though expecting another name. Darcy supplied it. “Sir Robert Crosby?”
“Remains in Manchester, sir. Business troubles.”
Darcy inclined his head and dismissed him. The room beyond lay quieter than it ought to have been, chairs neatly arranged, fires banked rather than blazing. A few gentlemen sat scattered along the walls, absorbed in their own concerns, not one of them a face he would have sought.
He crossed to the dining room, then stopped short. Only one table had been prepared. No scent of food rose to meet him, no low murmur of anticipation. A servant stood idle near the sideboard, hands folded.
“Is dinner delayed?” Darcy asked.
“No, sir,” came the reply. “There have been fewer reservations this evening.”
Darcy turned away before the explanation could gather shape. He had no appetite for conjecture dressed as reassurance. Instead, he made for the far corridor, where the fencing salle adjoined the club by long-standing arrangement.
The door stood open. Inside, the racks were orderly, foils polished and waiting. But the room itself felt hollowed out. No voices echoed off the walls, no staccato footfalls marked the hour. A single lamp burned, its light falling across a floor unmarred by recent use.
A familiar figure emerged from the adjoining room, sleeves rolled, hands chalked. “Mr Darcy,” the master said, with evident surprise. “I had not expected—”
“Nor had I, Monsieur Armand,” Darcy replied, his gaze sweeping the empty space. “Is instruction concluded for the day? A little early, is it not?”
The man gave a rueful smile. “Concluded for most days, of late. Gentlemen have been otherwise engaged. Travel delayed. Matters at home.”
Darcy removed his gloves, folded them once, then again. “I am sorry to hear that. Very sorry, indeed, for I had come anticipating some company.”
Monsieur Armand hesitated. “If you wish it, sir, I could oblige you with a private lesson. It would be irregular, but you find me at odd ends.”
Darcy did not hesitate. “That will do.”
He set his gloves aside and stepped forward, the decision made not because it promised relief, but because stillness no longer could.
Darcy took the foilMonsieur Armand offered him and weighed it once in his hand.
The balance was familiar. Reassuring. He adjusted his grip, tested the flex with a short, controlled movement, then stepped onto the piste as though he had never left it.
They saluted.
“Begin with footwork,” the master said.
Darcy did. Advance, retreat, recover. Again. The rhythm settled into him at once. His legs burned where they should. His shoulders loosened. Sweat gathered at his temples, honest and earned. When the master corrected him—two fingers to the elbow, a brief shake of the head—Darcy adjusted without thought.
Good.
They moved into simple engagements. Parry. Riposte. Reset. The foil rang against its mate, the sound sharp in the empty room. Darcy pressed, then yielded, his body remembering its lessons with gratifying obedience.
“Again,” Monsieur Armand said.
Darcy lunged. Clean. Too clean. He recovered a fraction too fast and found himself guarding against nothing at all.
The master lowered his blade. “Do not hurry the return.”
Darcy inclined his head and set himself again. He advanced more slowly this time, judging the distance with care. The next exchange was brutal. Steel met steel, the familiar jolt running up his arm. Precisely what his body craved just now.
