Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

“Yes, old friend,” he said patiently and with mild humor. “I know who I am. What is it you wish to say to me?” Anthony smiled warmly at this most beloved of servants and dear old confidant. “Out with it, please. Be courageous, man. Is there a problem with the salmon? Has the cook overdone some sauce again? What is today’s disaster? What?”

As he began to fuss with the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting their length until just the proper amount of lace peeked from the sleeve of his jacket, he suddenly groaned. “If it is the champagne ices, I am afraid you will have to deal with the wine steward yourself this time. He terrifies me.”

The butler grimaced, sadly shaking his head. “Your lordship,” he intoned again, “it is with great regret that I must inform you… there is a British officer here to see you.”

Anthony froze. “Sorry? What did you say?”

“A quite massive British officer, a colonel, I believe, wishes to see you. He is in a somewhat emotional state.” Bascome removed a large white handkerchief from his cuff to dab at his brow. “Truth be told, sir, this is the first Englishman I have seen in any emotion. It is an unnerving and ugly sight and— Mother of the Divine Savior, intercede for us— he has a sword on his side that he keeps touching and— God have mercy on our souls—I believe a pistol hidden within his uniform.” The elderly butler stuffed his sodden cloth back into his pocket and attempted to stand at full attention, his arthritic five-foot-five-inch aching frame poised for the defense of his master. He dropped his voice several octaves. “Shall I summon the constabulary?”

Anthony blinked for several moments as his extremities became numb. “ Merde… I will kill her one day. Ah, I have dreams, Bascome, oh yes, wonderful dreams of a world without my dearest Amanda. We will ship her remains to Greece. I have people there you know. No one would suspect.” He studied the terrified old man and reined in his rhetoric. “I go down directly. Please pour yourself a glass of brandy. You look as if you are about to have a seizure. Put your feet up, old friend, all will be fine.” He pointed to a chair, and when he was certain his butler was settled, he turned to contemplate his own certain death.

Chapter 11

“May I help you?” Fitzwilliam turned to see the familiar and elegant gentleman peering at him from the doorway. “Ah! Colonel Fitzwilliam, how good to see you again. It has been too long.” Despite voicing such welcoming pleasantries, however, Milagros did not approach him or extend his hand for greeting. Fitzwilliam was not displeased—it denied him the opportunity to encircle the good doctor’s throat with his hands.

“Yes, it has been a while, Doctor. I trust you are well.” Without waiting for an answer, Fitzwilliam continued. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.” Fitzwilliam absently rested his hand on his sword and had the satisfaction of seeing Milagros’s eyes nervously follow.

“Of course, Colonel. Please have a seat. My home is your home.” The gentleman sauntered into the room and motioned for Fitzwilliam to sit. He himself then sat at some distance away, crossing one leg over the other. “Can I have my butler provide you with anything, Colonel? Port? Brandy? Hostages?” He laughed anxiously, quickly quieting into a subdued cough, and then ended with a penitential throat clearing.

“This is not a pleasure call, Milagros.”

Resting his elbow on the chair arm, Anthony cupped his chin while he perused his visitor. “’More’s the pity,’” was his mumbled response.

Fitzwilliam had a fleeting impression that he was receiving a sort of sexual scrutiny from the man. He shook off this impression as hysteria or lack of sleep or gas. “I have come to discuss your relationship with Amanda Penrod.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rose momentarily. “My goodness, we are direct, aren’t we?” He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I have been expecting you.” A hand went up to smooth his already perfect hair.

“If you have been expecting me, then you must know what I have come to discuss with you, gentleman to gentleman.”

“I have a fairly good idea.” Milagros settled back into his chair, slouching in an attitude of evidently benign indifference, while in reality, his heart pounded. His fingers pinched at his lower lip while he assessed his opponent. Suddenly he spoke. “Let me make this somewhat easier for you, Colonel.”