Page 39 of The Lost Prophecy

Chapter Seven: The Scoundrel in the Shade

THE PUNCH BOWL HAD been facing Darcy’s chamber door since dawn.

It sat on its usual table near the curtained windows, its polished surface reflecting the candlelight with innocent distortion. Fletcher had recovered it from the upper passage shortly after Miss Elizabeth’s departure, and it had spent the twenty hours since making intermittent assaults on the door.

It had not moved for almost an hour.

Darcy distrusted it completely.

Fletcher entered from the dressing room carrying a small glazed jar and placed it beside the bowl. The silver vessel shifted away from it.

“Do not start,” Fletcher warned.

The bowl stilled.

Darcy stood by the window while Fletcher opened the jar. The salve inside was pale, dense, and offensive to at least three senses. Darcy had never discovered what it contained. Fletcher’s father had developed the recipe while serving him and had guarded it until his death, when the secret passed to his son along with Darcy’s wardrobe, household habits, and occasional need to survive the morning.

Fletcher dipped two fingers into the jar.

“Must you use so much?”

“You intend to ride, sir.”

“I rode four days ago with half that amount.”

“You returned before ten and kept under trees.”

Darcy raised his chin while Fletcher spread the cold substance on his jaw. “I had understood that I was the master in this household.”

“You are, sir. I am the man preventing your face from catching fire.”

A knock sounded, followed by Bingley and Hurst entering without waiting for permission. Both wore riding coats, boots, and gloves. Their own valets had completed every ordinary preparation but lacked the knowledge required for the final one.

Hurst stopped when the smell reached him. “Good God.”

Fletcher did not turn. “No divine assistance has been requested, sir.”

“It smells worse than last time.”

“It is the same preparation, Mr Hurst.”

“Then my powers of endurance have diminished,” Hurst huffed.

“That would explain many things,” Bingley muttered.

“We are lucky that it resembles the foul aroma of a gentleman’s liniment,” Hurst said shuddering, “and therefore Meryton has concluded that we are all martyrs to rheumatism.”

Bingley closed the door and moved to the window where Darcy stood. A narrow blade of sunlight had entered between the curtains, and he stepped around it before settling into a chair.

Fletcher guarded the salve with an economy that would have impressed a miser. He applied it to Bingley and Hurst only when they were obliged to spend a considerable period outdoors. Crossing a sunlit room did not qualify. Neither did standing in front of an uncovered window through carelessness. Riding did, provided they could demonstrate an intention to leave the house rather than a desire to waste Fletcher’s supply.

For this reason, Hurst and Bingley had become skilled at walking around bright patches on the carpets without appearing to do so, although on one occasion Bingley had been trapped behind a sofa until a cloud covered the sun.

Fletcher finished covering Darcy’s throat and moved to his ears.

“Your father never used so much,” Darcy observed.

“My father frequently complained that you never used enough.”