The candles burned low in Mr. Darcy's study as he sat in the tufted leather chair his father had sat in before him, years ago, when he was master of the Darcy family. Richard had never returned from Matlock House, there had been no word on the status of George Wickham. All Darcy had to show for his efforts was a patched up marriage settlement for the cad to sign while the lawyers worked on a fraudulent marriage license.
He gulped his third glass of whiskey, his private reserve from his estate in Scotland, mulling over how neat a plan it would be to send his ungrateful wench of a sister and her lover to the Northern lands and be done. Let her marry in front of the blacksmith, or better yet, suffer Wickham's abandonment when the money jingled in his purse. Three times he had trekked upstairs to talk with her, and each time she had rebuffed his attempts. There was simply no reasoning with her!
The study door opened, and for a moment he was hopeful it would be Richard, but instead it was his man Simmons.
"Pardon me, sir, but I knocked a double set, and you did not answer. I thought perhaps you had fallen asleep."
"No, no, I was lost in my own thoughts. Come in, what is it man?"
"I only wished to say your evening attire is laid out and wondered if you require my assistance for the evening?"
Darcy eyed his valet suspiciously. Simmons would never be so bold as to ask his master to retire for the evening, his staff was loyal and respectful. He had no doubt Mrs. Potter was pulling these puppet strings, attempting to care for his well-being when he had no intention of remaining sober. "Go on to bed, I might be going out later."
"Out sir?" The valet and Darcy glanced to the mantle clock's late hour, knowing there was no chance of the steady, dependable Mr. Darcy leaving at such a late hour to begin an evening of entertainment.
"Yes, out! I don't answer to you, Simmons, OR ANYONE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER!" he roared. The valet blinked a few times as Mr. Darcy stood there, spent in anger, and immediately apologetic for his outburst. With a small nod, the valet closed the door.
Darcy sank back into his chair, covering his face with his hands. He pulled and tugged at the skin, willing himself rid of the desperation and loss. How? How had his sister been led so easily astray?
The correspondence piled on his desk from his months of searching for her and then pretending not to search for her mocked him from their perfectly organized stacks. The buzzing in his ears grew to such a noise, the master of Carver House, Darcy House, and Pemberley could not hear his own thoughts. How many of these invitations and falsely offered extensions of friendship would coil back and sneer once they heard of his misfortune? How many would laugh and jibe in their lounges and parlors at his ruined sister? The rage again rebounding inside his chest, with a great bellow of frustration, he knocked everything – letters, quills, ink, and stamps - to the floor, clearing the shiny, cherry desk of every responsibility, request, and report. It was clean. It was calm. He was free.
Leaning back for a moment, he heard the clock strike the hour with a single chime. Dog tired and drunk, Fitzwilliam Darcy pushed himself out of the great chair for great men with a heave and shaky balance. Plodding his feet one after the other, he stared at the door as his ultimate goal, but found himself mildly distracted by the splattering of blood stains on the oriental. With a laugh, he lost his footing and landed haphazardly on the sofa that lined one wall across from the fireplace. Deciding it was as good a place as any, in moments he was fast asleep with a snore loud enough to wake the dead.