The Lady's Jewels

by Perpetua Langley

  Mary had got to the pianoforte before Mr. Bennet could waylay her and so the beginning of the evening was serenaded by her banging. Elizabeth finally convinced her to vacate the bench by pointing out that Miss Darcy must be given a turn.

  Mary had sulked in a corner, and then increased her sulking upon hearing Miss Darcy play. The lady was far more proficient than anybody in the Bennet household, her long and thin fingers fairly flying across the keys. Elizabeth was not surprised that Mr. Darcy had bought her a new instrument. That sort of practice and mastery of skill should be rewarded. Elizabeth was also not surprised to note Mr. Darcy’s smug expression during his sister’s performance.

  Elizabeth thought she ought not spend another moment troubling herself over Mr. Darcy’s expressions. It really was too idiotic. The gentleman would remove from the house on the morrow and he would be much less in her view. His opinions and judgments would be safely housed at Netherfield and she need not consider them further. They might continue their work in the war room without much interaction. After all, Elizabeth thought, feeling a bit smug herself, Mr. Darcy had as yet not provided much in the way of solving the case.

  Darcy blew out the candle and lay in the darkness. He was greatly relieved that Georgiana had escaped the fever running through Pemberley. He was greatly surprised at how quickly she had taken to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. His sister was cautious with new acquaintance, and Darcy would have guessed she would have been exceedingly reticent in this unusual situation, but it was not so.

  When he had taken a turn around the room with his sister, she had been all compliments to both Jane and Elizabeth Bennet, but most particularly, Elizabeth Bennet. She was everything gracious, she made Georgiana so much at her ease. Miss Bennet had convinced Georgiana that she had done right in coming to Longbourn, as opposed to going to her aunt. Georgiana had even hinted, though vaguely, that Miss Bennet was superior to other ladies of his circle. He knew perfectly well she meant Caroline Bingley. Georgiana had never warmed to the lady, which appeared to prompt Miss Bingley to press harder for her affection. It had always been uncomfortable to witness.

  Darcy would not dispute Miss Bennet’s superiority to Miss Bingley. They were opposite in nature. Miss Bingley was cloying and Miss Bennet was independent. Miss Bingley would drop a handkerchief or pretend a fainting spell, Miss Bennet was self-reliant. Miss Bennet certainly had more ease, grace and charm than Miss Bingley.

  Darcy congratulated himself on his own self-discipline. Unlike Bingley, who had given in to the first feelings to show themselves, Darcy would not allow it. Miss Bennet might be tempting, but Fitzwilliam Darcy was too disciplined to be tempted.

  As Elizabeth had expected, she, Miss Darcy and Jane were quite snug in Jane’s bed. Jane, as was her usual habit, was asleep in minutes. Elizabeth had always thought it one of the great benefits of having such a temperament as Jane’s—she never said or did anything she would regret, and so had nothing to keep her awake at night. Elizabeth was just on the verge of falling asleep herself when she heard a quiet whimper.

  “Miss Darcy,” she whispered. “Are you ill?”

  “No,” Miss Darcy said softly. “I am terribly sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Elizabeth turned toward Miss Darcy and propped herself on her elbow. “I have thought something troubled you ever since you arrived. I am sure you would feel better if you unburdened yourself.”

  There was a long silence. Then, Miss Darcy said quietly, “I have done wrong, I think. I know not how to think of it nor what to do about it.”

  “Oh dear,” Elizabeth said, certain that Miss Darcy could not have perpetrated any serious wrongdoing. “You have not committed treason or fallen in love with a highwayman?”

  “Heavens, Miss Bennet. Nothing at all like that. I wrote to an old family friend without my brother’s permission.”

  Elizabeth smiled into the darkness. Writing without a brother’s permission was hardly a dark deed. “But you say he is an old family friend?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes,” Miss Darcy said. “He is like a brother to me.”

  “In that case,” Elizabeth said, “I do not see the harm in it.”

  “Neither did I, really,” Miss Darcy said. “It seemed rather a game at first. His letters appeared as if they came from a lady and it was such a joke. Very much like the jokes we played when we were children. But in his last letter he expressed some…romantic feelings. I did not answer. I will not answer, and yet I am very much afraid that I have somehow encouraged him.”

  “Ah,” Elizabeth said, “you have done right not to answer. Up until that letter there was no harm in it. The fault lies entirely with him. Do not despair, Miss Darcy, many a gentleman has professed love for a young lady without the slightest encouragement. He will know from your silence what your answer is.”

  “I feel I should tell my brother of this,” Miss Darcy said, “though I am very much afraid of what he will do.”

  Elizabeth was pensive. “You think he might challenge the fellow?”

  “I am afraid so,” Miss Darcy said.

  “I see your difficulty,” Elizabeth said. “You wish to be open with your brother, however apprising him of the matter may put him in some danger.”

  “Quite a lot of danger, I am afraid.”

  “Perhaps there is some middle ground,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you might resolve to tell your brother of the circumstance if you receive another correspondence. After all, if this nonsense is at an end, what harm can there be in forgetting all about it? The author of the missive might feel ashamed by now.”

  “That is true,” Miss Darcy said, her tone sounding lighter. “Why trouble Fitzwilliam if it is at an end. And, it was nonsense, was it not?”

  “Full of nonsense,” Elizabeth said.

  “Thank you, Miss Bennet. I do feel so much relieved. It is well to have another lady to talk things over with.”

  With that, Miss Darcy deeply sighed and Elizabeth had no doubt she would be asleep in a moment.

  The Bennet’s guests planned to depart for Netherfield sometime after eleven. Elizabeth thought Mr. Darcy had appeared anxious to be off, but no move could be made until Lady Castlereagh had descended and that was never before eleven.

  Breakfast had been had in the breakfast room, as all of the war room notations had been packed up. There was an awkwardness at table which Elizabeth could not account for. She thought it had been noticed by everybody except Mr. Bennet. He engaged Mr. Darcy in a long discussion of coveys. He had even sent Hill running for quill, ink and paper so he might draw a map. Mr. Darcy could go forward well-informed on the lay of the land at both Longbourn and Netherfield.

  After breakfast, Miss Darcy sat with Elizabeth and Jane in the drawing room. Mr. Darcy read a book in a far corner, while Mr. Bingley wandered round, seeming to not know where to place himself. Kitty and Lydia had already set off to Meryton, no doubt to converse with every officer invited to the ball. Mary was in her own corner with a heavy tome in hand, turning pages at a speed which Elizabeth was certain was meant to say, “Yes, I see you are reading, Mr. Darcy, but I read faster than anybody.”

  “You will come to us this afternoon?” Miss Darcy asked.

  Jane laid down her sewing and said, “I think we will not. You will need time to settle yourselves in the house and we should not like to intrude.”

  Elizabeth thought this very sensible, though disappointing. She was quite interested in seeing the inside of the house and there was nothing compelling to keep her at Longbourn.

  “But then,” Miss Darcy pressed, “you will come tomorrow?”

  “I am sure we will,” Elizabeth said. “Though I wonder how much we will accomplish without Mr. Quinn.”

  “I am afraid I shall be no help at all in those endeavors,” Miss Darcy said.

  “Oh, I am not so certain of that, Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said playfully. “I have found that the ordering of tea and various biscuits are of great service to our task. It distracts us from noticin
g that we make little headway and has given our dear Charlotte some welcome interruptions from her note-taking.”

  Before Miss Darcy could answer, there was a loud knock on the front door. Elizabeth rose and peered out the window. A disheveled and rather dirty boy stood there with a note in his hand.

  Hill took it from him and brought it to the drawing room on a silver plate tray.

  “It’s addressed to Lady Castlereagh,” Hill said, laying it on the table.

  “I will see that she receives it when she comes down,” Elizabeth answered.

  All in the room stared in the direction of the letter. Elizabeth was certain that they all had the same idea—it must be news from Mr. Quinn. She was anxious to know its contents. Had she been right in her theory that the maid and the butler had not left England after all? That they had been responsible for the crime? If that was the case, had Mr. Quinn located Warpole and the grooms?

  The minutes ticked by with nobody saying much of anything. Elizabeth silently willed Lady Castlereagh to descend the stairs.

  “I suppose it is promising that Mr. Quinn sends word, rather than returning to us,” Elizabeth said. “He must have news.”

  “Are you certain the letter is from Quinn?” Mr. Darcy asked from across the room.

  “Indeed, I am not,” Elizabeth said. “I suppose I only made the assumption.”

  Mr. Darcy nodded and went back to his book.

  “Though, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, “you did mention that you corresponded with Mr. Quinn when last he assisted Lady Castlereagh. You must know his hand and it can be no intrusion to glance at the outside of a letter.”

  Mr. Darcy laid down his book and came to the table. He stared down at the paper and said, “That is not Quinn’s hand. I am certain of it.”

  Elizabeth was momentarily perplexed. She had been sure it was from Mr. Quinn. Then she reminded herself that it could be from anybody. Lady Castlereagh would have a vast acquaintance and had been in residence long enough to apprise her friends of where she was. Elizabeth felt the excitement slipping from her as she realized it was likely only a friendly missive from an individual in the lady’s circle.

  “I cannot account for it,” Mr. Darcy said. “The penmanship is rough. Very rough. Even Hertfordshire is misspelled. Any person writing to Lady Castlereagh who was this unskilled would have employed a letter writer. This lack of care verges on insult.”

  “Who is insulted?” Lady Castlereagh said, sailing into the drawing room. Mr. Darcy blushed, as if he had been caught snooping, which Elizabeth supposed he had. It had been her own idea, but on reflection she was glad that it was not herself standing over the letter and she rather regretted suggesting it to Mr. Darcy.

  “This was delivered to you, my lady,” Mr. Darcy said, handing her the letter.

  Lady Castlereagh took the note and tore it open. She read the contents and sank to a nearby sofa. Elizabeth thought she looked near to fainting. She held the note out to Mr. Darcy and said, “Read it aloud, if you please.”

  Mr. Darcy took the note and perused its contents. He paled and read it aloud. “My lady, I regret to inform you that it was I that took the jewels. Warpole.”

  “I can hardly believe it,” Lady Castlereagh said. “Why? Why would Warpole do it? He must know he’ll end up in a noose eventually.”

  “Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said. “When the knock came upon the door, you went to the window. Did you see who delivered the note?”

  “I did,” Elizabeth said. “It was a young boy, very poorly dressed and appearing somewhat dirty. Dark hair, far too long and uncombed.”

  Mr. Darcy turned to Mr. Bingley and said, “Let us set off in search of the messenger. He may know where we can find Warpole.”

  Mr. Bingley nodded and they strode from the room.

  As Darcy and Bingley galloped down the drive, in pursuit of the boy who had delivered Warpole’s note, the man hid himself behind a tree. He was amused to send such a letter. The high and mighty of England were not much used to being toyed with. Rather, it was their own habit to do the toying. He assumed the two gentlemen rode off to intercept the boy he’d employed to deliver the thing. He suppressed quiet laughter. A rogue like Billy Banter would not allow himself to be caught by the sharpest eye on a London street. He certainly would not be caught by those two fellows. Billy would disappear into the countryside like a wood spirit, never to be seen again.

  Elizabeth had sent for tea to raise up Lady Castlereagh’s spirits. The lady was deeply affected by the letter from Warpole. It seemed inconceivable that a person in her employ for so long could have betrayed her in such a manner. Especially such a one as Warpole, as he had always struck her as full of good sense.

  Elizabeth poured tea for the lady and said, “The one thing that puzzles me exceedingly is why he has sent the note. Why admit guilt when one has not yet been caught?”

  “It is his guilty conscience, I am sure,” Lady Castlereagh said. “Warpole was not cut out for this sort of thing. Some momentary madness gripped him, and now he is consumed with guilt.”

  “But if it were momentary, my lady, then what of the grooms? Surely they would not have gone along with the plan so readily. I imagine they would have had to be convinced over time. After all, it is a shocking idea and a perilous risk.”

  “I do not claim to know how he’s done it,” Lady Castlereagh said, “but we have from his own hand that he has done it.”

  “And you are certain that this is Warpole’s hand?” Elizabeth asked.

  Lady Castlereagh furrowed her brow. “I cannot be certain, of course. I am not in the habit of regularly corresponding with my coachman.”

  Elizabeth had a sudden idea. “I am sure you do not, but my lady, you did say you received a note from him prior to the journey. The note that explained there was to be a parade. Is there any chance you retained that note?”

  Lady Castlereagh set down her teacup. “I would not have discarded it. Not yet. I am in the habit of reviewing my correspondence once a month and directing what is to be saved in what category and what is to be burned. Everything I have not yet sorted should be packed in my trunks somewhere.”

  Elizabeth rose. “I will find Jenny and ask her to fetch the correspondence. If we can compare the handwriting on the notes than at least you can assure yourself that this actually is from Warpole. We ought to be certain of it, since it is so unusual for a thief to apprise their victim of their deceit.”

  Lady Castlereagh nodded. “Very enterprising, Miss Bennet. Very enterprising, indeed.”

  Elizabeth had located Jenny gossiping with cook in the kitchen, while feeding tidbits to Mr. Murderfoot. The maid waved a piece of chicken in the direction of Monday and Tuesday, who sat forlornly by the door, before handing it to the fat tabby. Both the cat and the maid appeared highly amused.

  After Jenny was informed of her task, there was a long complaint about how she had only just packed all of her lady’s papers and how it seemed to her that when you got a letter you read it and put it in a drawer. Jenny did not see the sense in categorizing it at all and why should anybody have separate boxes for Almacks business and personal friends and household matters?

  Elizabeth was generally good humored when faced with a servant’s complaints, but she was anxious to retrieve the original note. She took Jenny by the arm and marched her up the stairs.

  Once in Lady Castlereagh’s room, Elizabeth was taken aback by precisely how much luggage the lady traveled with. Trunks were piled high and Jenny had to move them this way and that to get to the one she sought. The maid rifled through the papers and then handed the note to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth flew down the stairs and into the drawing room. The letter that had arrived an hour ago lay on the table. Elizabeth laid the second note next to it.

  “Well, Miss Bennet?” Lady Castlereagh asked.

  Elizabeth sighed. “I am afraid it is the same hand.”

  Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley were gone for some hours. When they returned, they delivered
the unhappy news that they had not been able to locate the boy who had delivered Warpole’s confession. They had separated, with Mr. Bingley heading toward Meryton and Mr. Darcy toward London. There had been no sign of the boy though they had questioned everybody they met upon the roads.

  Elizabeth explained that she’d had a moment of hope that it could not be true, but had compared the note to the prior note written by Warpole. The handwriting was the same.

  “Still,” Elizabeth said, “there is something odd in this. Why would he confess when he is not compelled to do so?”

  Nobody answered, and then another idea presented itself to Elizabeth’s mind. “It is not only strange that he should confess, but how did Warpole know where Lady Castlereagh had been taken?”

  The thought sent a shiver down her back. All along she had presumed that when she and Jane had come upon Lady Castlereagh, the thieves were long away. But that must not have been so. They must have hidden themselves and watched.

  “They stayed,” Mr. Darcy said, “and followed you. And they remain nearby even now. The boy was on foot and so could not have come from too far afield. But for what purpose do they linger?”

  “I do not know,” Mr. Bingley said, “but it strikes me as the sort of thing Quinn might be able to work out.”

  “I’ll write to Quinn and lay out all we have discovered,” Mr. Darcy said. “He is on a wild goose chase at the moment. Whatever your maid and that butler got up to, it does not appear to be stealing your jewels.”

  “I had rather believe it was that little minx than Warpole, but I have no more choice in the matter.” Lady Castlereagh said. “Though I have only just risen, I find I grow tired. Bingley, if we are to move to Netherfield today, let us go so I may arrive and rest. Miss Bennet, be sure to come to us on the morrow.”