by Violet King
Darcy opened the package from his solicitor first. His money had been well spent, if not, as yet, yielding conclusive results. Unsurprising. Gambling hells were often frequented by young men of status, and what happened within their walls was understood to remain between them.
Rumors of a bet of a large estate had abounded, along with the name Wickham, but of his opponent, an out-of-towner by the name of Smith, almost nothing was known. He was rumored to be a Northerner of indeterminate age. If he had won and conflicting rumors abounded, he had made no effort to claim his winnings.
Likely, he had lost. Mr. Wickham had soon after come into a sudden windfall, paying off his creditors and soon after buying a commission and leaving London altogether. From there, he had made a direct route to Hertfordshire, though why Wickham would choose such an out-of-the-way location to restart his life, Mr. Darcy had not the slightest inkling.
Maybe Wickham was attempting to reform himself?
Mr. Darcy doubted it. In fact, it would not surprise him in the slightest if Mr. Wickham had once again lost whatever remained of his winnings in barracks and barroom gambling here in Hertfordshire.
The entire explanation given was confusing. According to the solicitor’s notes, Mr. Wickham had played Mr. Smith more than once in various establishments in London. More often than not, his opponent had lost, and yet Mr. Smith had continued to play.
Mr. Darcy shook his head and pushed the correspondence aside. The problem with rumor and gossip was that it yielded only the most salacious aspect of truth. The reality of things was usually less interesting. Wickham had likely fleeced the country gentleman out of most of his fortune, or at least most of the fortune he had chosen to gamble. With his winnings, Wickham had paid off his creditors and fled for fear of this Mr. Smith discovering Wickham had played cards with what was not his.
And Bragg, in his careful reporting of events, must well have been too in his cups to comprehend the outcome of the game.
Perhaps Bragg was a fool but not a drunkard. On the other hand, had Wickham lost and been caught out in his lie, he’d have been sent to prison at the least. Or murdered in a duel. Or in an alley if the “gentleman” Wickham had wronged was more a man of action than honor.
It made sense Wickham would find some place out of the way to wait out his sins, and fate, capricious fate, had put Wickham in Hertfordshire and once again in Darcy’s path.
Wickham would not have known of Darcy’s intention to spend the autumn in Netherfield. Mr. Darcy had not expected to pass the season with Bingley, so it was bad luck, pure and simple, that had forced the two men to cross paths again.
Darcy took another drink of the brandy, a palate cleanser, and then opened his sister’s letter. The address was from the country home of one of Georgiana’s closest friends, Miss Emily Tremayne. It had delighted Darcy to give his permission for his sister to stay there.
Even before Wickham’s betrayal, Darcy and Georgiana had not been close, though Darcy loved his sister with every fiber of his being. After, when Darcy had rescued Georgiana and her reputation from the clutches of his rapacious foster brother, Georgiana’s shame and the hurt of Wickham’s betrayal had strained her and Darcy’s already fragile bond. Darcy feared he was not a comfort to her, and the fact he had erred so fantastically in his own judgment of Wickham’s character had only made it worse.
Darcy was glad Georgiana had found someplace where she could grieve. And Mrs. Tremayne ran her estate with an iron hand. Neither young lady risked even the slightest blush of impropriety beneath her watchful gaze.
The letter began:
Dear Fitzwilliam,
Are you acquainted with a Miss Elizabeth Bennet? The lady has sent me the most unconventional piece of correspondence, and the shape of her words claim a familiarity with our brother that cannot help but give one pause.
He saw red. He had specifically insisted he did not want this letter shared with Georgiana until he had assessed the contents. And yet, Miss Elizabeth had written Georgiana without even so much as a by-your-leave.
Have you learned more about the circumstances of his passing?
What had Miss Elizabeth Bennet implied about Reginald in her letter to Georgiana? Mr. Darcy’s fingers tightened on the leather letter, crumbling the paper’s edges.
I admit to some large degree of foolishness in my past, but I would pray as a punishment for this, you would not deny me our brother’s words should this be the case, especially words of such import.
Yours sincerely,
Georgiana
Miss Elizabeth’s words echoed in his mind at their first meeting: “This letter is not addressed to you.”
Perhaps not, but he was Georgiana’s brother and guardian. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had gone too far. He would have words with her, retrieve Georgiana’s letter, and go to Georgiana at once to make amends.
20
Elizabeth read through her deciphering of the letter again.
Who are you to be so cruel as to imply my brother is alive?
Alive? Elizabeth had meant to imply no such thing.
Was Reginald Darcy the mysterious Lord Cunningham? But if he was, then Miss Darcy would already have known. Was it something about the butterflies? Remember the butterflies? Chrysalide?
Elizabeth’s skin was cold, and a worm of shame burrowed itself into her gut. She had been so concerned with the second cipher, the first had made itself almost insignificant. But perhaps there was no second cipher. Or perhaps it did not matter.
No! The second cipher had meant what she had found. She had dismissed the first part as uninteresting, but Mr. Reginald Darcy had hidden meaning in those words. Meaning that Georgiana understood even as Elizabeth had not.
Like his brother, as Elizabeth was coming to learn, Mr. Reginald Darcy was a man of many layers.
The fortune teller’s words brushed through her thoughts again. A complicated man. Your fates are entwined.
Entwined or no, Elizabeth had made things worse by contacting Miss Darcy.
“Lizzie? What is wrong?”
Jane was awake. Elizabeth looked up from Miss Darcy’s letter and swallowed. “I have made a terrible mistake, Jane.”
“Oh, Lizzie!” Jane said, “I believe Mr. Darcy may develop a fondness for you, if that helps.”
Elizabeth blinked, confused. “Mr. Darcy? No! I mean, it is about Mr. Darcy, but not his opinion of me. I have erred with his letter.”
“The code? I thought you were still working on it. Did you decipher it?”
And Elizabeth had lied to Jane as well. No more. Elizabeth explained, “It was a cipher within a cipher, and I had thought if I wrote to Miss Darcy, she might offer insight on the second part. But instead—” Elizabeth sobbed.
Jane scooted over on the bed and tapped the space beside her. “Come here.”
Elizabeth, bereft, sat next to her sister, who wrapped her arms around Elizabeth. “It cannot be so terrible.”
And they were children again, and Elizabeth had run to her sister with a scraped knee and a bruised wrist after having fallen out of a tree. Except this wound was not the sort to be healed with rest and a kitchen salve. Elizabeth closed her eyes. Her lashes were wet with tears. “Miss Darcy believes her brother is still alive.”
Elizabeth explained everything. The cipher, the cipher within a cipher, and all she had discovered. “So you understand why I thought I should contact Miss Darcy, as he intended the initial code for her.”
“You think the Regent’s life is in danger?”
“I thought so. But I was wrong about everything.”
At that moment, an angry knock sounded on the door, and then before either Elizabeth or Jane could respond, Mr. Darcy flung it open and stalked in. He was flushed, his blue eyes flashing with a hotter and more intemperate rage that Elizabeth had ever witnessed in him. “What business have you writing to my sister?” he demanded.
“She told you?”
“Georgiana wrote of a Miss Elizabeth Bennet who was claiming imposs
ible things about her brother. What did you say to her?”
“I told her only of the first cipher. Your brother intended it for her, and I thought she might know the identity of Lord Cunningham.”
“There is no Lord Cunningham. I told you this.”
As terrible as she felt about leading Miss Darcy to a false conclusion about her deceased brother, Elizabeth could not stop the flare of temper at Mr. Darcy’s words. “The letter was not written to you,” Elizabeth said. “It was intended for Miss Darcy, and so, as the intended recipient, I thought she could lend more insight.”
“And did she?”
“No.”
“I want Georgiana’s letter returned. I had low expectations of your character from the moment your scheming mother tried to push you upon me in your father’s study, but I tried to school my mind to a more charitable disposition. And now this! You intimate to my sister some form of slander from her brother. Because he was knifed in the dark and robbed? Is it because he was behind enemy lines? Do you call him a traitor!”
“I said no such thing!”
“You said something. Georgiana is inquiring into the circumstances of his death.”
Miss Darcy had not told him. Elizabeth could not breathe. How could Georgiana Darcy have told Elizabeth about her hopes but not their oldest brother? So much silence between people who claimed to have the closest bond.
“What is it?
Elizabeth said, “Miss Darcy thinks your brother still lives.”
Mr. Darcy just stared.
“Read it for yourself.” Elizabeth handed him the letter Miss Darcy had sent.
Mr. Darcy looked at the Latin and her translation of the cipher beneath. His hands shook, making the sound of the crinkling paper seem disproportionately loud. “What did you tell her?
“The same as I told you. No more. I used the code of the first cipher, and she worked it out herself. It was intended for her.”
“The first cipher?”
Elizabeth wished for a moment she could swallow her own tongue and choke if only to spare herself more mistakes. But it was too late for that. “Do you know why my father agreed to decipher your code?”
“It is his hobby. Codes and ciphers. That is as Mr. Bingley told me.”
“It is more than a hobby. My father’s skills are essential to the war effort. And they found your brother’s body behind enemy lines. My father thought there might be something more to your brother’s missive than mere last words to his only sister.”
“And he thinks Georgiana was involved?”
“To some extent. She passed your brother’s coded letters along to this Lord Cunningham, whoever he may be.”
“I cannot believe Reggie was mixed up in such things. He should have known better!”
“Perhaps he did. Perhaps he trusted his sister because she was worthy of trust, more trust than you have given her.”
Mr. Darcy looked up. “How dare you!”
“How dare you! You poisoned the trust between you and your sister, not I.”
“What can you know? You are a meddling woman who oversteps herself every opportunity. Your father ought to keep a better watch on you, that you should steal his work and try to make your own way with it.” Mr. Darcy loomed over Elizabeth, his expression a mask of energy and fury. He crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it onto the bed.
Now Elizabeth was furious. “It is you who meddles. Who do you think cracked your brother’s cipher? My father’s eyesight is failing, and I have been doing most of his deciphering work over the past year. And your sister understood the cipher I sent well enough to write her letter using the same code. An Ave Maria cipher, not that you have a care for that.”
Elizabeth spread out Miss Darcy’s letter and explained to him how one might go about deciphering the outer cipher, the Ave Maria, without the key. “I sent to your sister in code exactly the message I sent to you. You did not come to such a revelation, so it must have referred to something private between your brother and your sister. Butterflies are reborn. Maybe that is what your brother meant? I do not know. But even if it was your brother’s intention to reassure your sister as to his safety, the letter is five months old. At least. He may have lived and since died. It is not for me to say. If you truly wish to understand, speak with your sister, as you should have done from the beginning.
“You overstep yourself. Get up. We are leaving for Longbourn.”
Jane began to cough and Elizabeth, distracted, turned to her.
“Jane!” The weight of mistake upon mistake fell upon Elizabeth’s shoulders. Jane had been doing so much better, and now she was worse again.
“What is this then about a second cipher?” Mr. Darcy asked.
Jane leaned forward so that her lips were almost at Elizabeth’s ear. “Tell him,” she whispered. “All of it.”
Elizabeth had already broken her secrecy in telling Jane, but Jane was almost like a second piece of herself. To tell Mr. Darcy?
No. Elizabeth could not risk it. She had already broken too much trust. “I have told you all I can, Mr. Darcy.”
“That is unacceptable. Who are you to keep such secrets? It is my sister’s letter. If she is involved in something dangerous, I have a right to know. To protect her!”
“The danger is not to her.”
“I will speak to your father then. If you will not tell me, then he will. And if he will not, then I will take the letter to my sister and demand answers.”
“For her sake or your own?”
“Excuse me?”
To think, Elizabeth had begun to warm to this man. “It is you who meddles and you who interferes. With you, there is no way but your own.”
Mr. Darcy’s face was almost as red as it had been weeks before when he had witnessed Mr. Wickham’s entry to the assembly hall. Mr. Darcy grabbed from the bed Miss Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth. “You have no right to this.”
“I see you make a habit then of stealing the correspondence of ladies in your acquaintance.”
“Your father will return my sister’s letter to me, and you will never write to her again.”
As Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth were arguing, Miss Bingley, not being able to find Mr. Darcy at any other place in the premises, decided to remind Elizabeth that it was time to change for dinner. As she approached the door, she heard what sounded like a clear argument between a man and woman.
Entering the room, Miss Bingley’s shock, and yes, curiosity, only sharpened. Mr. Darcy was standing far too close to Elizabeth holding what appeared to be a crumpled letter. Miss Bennet was awake and looking frankly overwhelmed by her sister and Mr. Darcy’s angered tones.
“Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley blurted out, and all three others in the room stopped and stared.
Mr. Darcy glanced out the window and then back at Miss Bingley. “It is time to change for dinner,” he said flatly.
Miss Elizabeth just blinked.
Mr. Darcy folded the letter. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said with glorious coldness. “Tomorrow, in the morning, I will collect my sister’s correspondence.” He bowed and departed.
Miss Bingley, her curiosity overcoming her, asked, “Whatever was that about?”
But Miss Elizabeth ignored the question in its entirety, instead standing up from where she had been sitting on Miss Bennet’s bed and gathering up the stack of correspondence, now organized into two distinct piles. She curtsied, “Miss Bingley.”
After she had left, this Bingley turned to Miss Bennet, but the young woman lay with her back against the pillows, her eyes shut and mouth parted in a snore. Had she not been awake moments ago?
Now, her sleep seemed genuine. Miss Bingley, having no other option, gave a curtsy to the sleeping woman and said, “I must take my leave.”
21
That evening, Jane was well enough to spend some moments in the parlor after dinner, and at her insistence, the pair were set to depart promptly the next day after morning service.
Mr. Bingley received this news wi
th true sorrow, and tried to persuade Miss Bennet that leaving so soon would not be safe for her, as she was not yet fully recovered, but Jane was firm. Though Miss Jane Bennet did not spare Mr. Darcy a glance, he knew the reason for their hasty departure was himself. Miss Bennet would wish to keep a watchful eye over his visit to their home, which he resolved to take with her to speak with Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth together.
Reginald had always been prone to taking risks, but for him to drag their sister into it was unforgivable. Georgiana was young and had almost sacrificed her virtue when she fell victim to Wickham’s seduction. Certainly Reginald would not have trusted her with affairs of state!
It was more likely Miss Elizabeth had made a mistake and was now trying to cover for herself. And Georgiana, wanting so much for her brother’s death to be a mistake, had fallen prey to false hope. It infuriated Darcy that Elizabeth had written his sister and thus caused her such pain. He should have just dragged Elizabeth back to Longbourn right then, no matter the hour or his own social obligations. But waiting a single night would make no difference, and after Mr. Darcy had retrieved his sister’s letter, he could visit his sister at Mrs. Tremayne’s with all due haste after.
They left the next day after the morning service. Though the departure was at first agreeable, Miss Bingley grimaced when Mr. Darcy declared that he would accompany the two ladies with a maid in their borrowed carriage to Longbourn as he had important business with the master of the house.
As the carriage approached, it became clear the household was in disarray. A buggy, which Mr. Darcy recognized as belonging to Mr. Jones, was parked outside the main entrance. Perhaps another of the Bennet sisters had caught ill.
But upon entering the main house, Miss Lydia met them with in the parlor with dire news. She ran to Jane and threw her arms around her oldest sister’s waist.
“Lydia, what is wrong?”
“Papa.” Lydia shook her head.
“Was it an apoplexy?” Elizabeth said, her hands shaking and face pale.
