“Is Oscar coming?” Richard asked after they had all exchanged greetings.
“No,” the senator said slowly, “I thought it better to have him managing things here.”
There was a great deal left unsaid in that simple reply. Will was grateful, as always, that he wasn’t a politician. He didn’t have the stomach for this kind of intrigue. All he wanted to do was grab Georgiana and Elizabeth and hide away with them in Maine for at least a year.
What was going on? Had George Wickham been waiting all these years out of some warped sense of revenge, or was this a more opportunistic decision? Either way, targeting Georgiana had been exactly the right move. She was the most vulnerable of them all, and once away at school, she’d been without any significant protection. You never have protection, she’d protested. He’d reminded her that he had had training while she hadn’t had much. He should never have allowed her to go unprotected, but they didn’t have a high profile in California, and she’d begged him to allow her to live a normal life.
We’re not normal, G, he had said, we never will be. But somehow, she had prevailed, promising to begin self-defense training, and getting him to agree that they would try things out and see how they went. Well, now they knew. Disaster. And Elizabeth had been caught in the crossfire.
Never in all his paranoid scenarios could he have seen this coming. He wouldn’t have called it in a million years. He couldn’t blame G for not seeing through the man—he’d been fooled by Wickham when the man was a much younger, presumably less experienced con artist. G couldn’t have been more than six or seven when their father had banned George from the house, and while he’d remained on good business terms with Mr. Wickham, the friendship had understandably cooled. Mr. Wickham had died a few years before the accident that claimed his parents, and Will distinctly recalled his father shaking his head and telling his mother that the man hadn’t been prepared. It had been the impetus for the Darcys to visit their own financial advisor to review their estate, a trip that had proved sadly farsighted.
“Will,” Richard said softly, uncharacteristically solemn, “try to stop worrying. We’ll be there soon.”
“He’s right, Will,” said his uncle, a steely glint in his eye. He clapped a hand on Will’s shoulder. “And I’ve sent some friends to take care of things until then.”
Chapter Nineteen
She was sitting in a tall wooden booth. She ran a hand idly along the varnished surface of the table and counted the stones that made up the bar. There was a level hum of conversation on the other side of the room, and from the kitchen, the sound of a plate hitting the floor.
Suddenly, the entrance was awash with bright sunlight as the door swung open. Only a moment passed before there was movement to her right and someone slid into the booth opposite her. Late, she thought, I’ll give him some grief about that.
The door closed. Four men were hovering near the entrance, walking slowly inside, when she knocked the salt shaker off the table. The container moved slowly, flipping completely over as she watched, hitting the ground before she could reach out to grab it. The men stopped at the corner of the bar before spinning to look directly at her.
Three were dark with black hair and brown eyes, but the last man was clean-shaven, blond, and, she understood immediately, holding a Luger. She reached for her weapon but grabbed only empty air. She tried to shout, to scream at the major to take cover, but there was no sound. The blond man’s hand slowly rose, pointing the weapon at her companion. His finger gradually curled around the trigger as Elizabeth leapt across the table to pull him down. The divide between them had inexplicably expanded—she was too far away.
The darkness cleared long enough to see that it wasn’t Richard Fitzwilliam who was sitting across the table, and Elizabeth felt a hot flare of panic. The figure had a long dark braid, and blue eyes wide with fear. She reached out with both hands to Elizabeth as the bitter smell of nitroglycerin filled the air.
Elizabeth felt someone’s hand on her shoulder, and she woke with a jerk and a sharp intake of air. She stared into the startled face of the hotel’s front desk clerk.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the man said, “but your rooms are ready.” She heard compassion in his voice.
Elizabeth said nothing, just shook off his hand and sat up, her heart pounding and her breathing ragged. She bent forward to catch her breath and allow her heartbeat to return to its normal pace. I don’t need your pity, she thought bitterly.
Georgiana was curled up on two chairs, her face relaxed in sleep. Thank God, Elizabeth sighed, relieved, as the images began to break up and float away. Just a dream.
“Damn it,” Will muttered, planting his elbows on the table and burying his hands in his hair. He and Richard were at the table, watching several videos of the altercation, and he desperately wanted to stop. Each clip had a slightly different angle, and Richard was insistent that they view them all. Repeatedly. Who knows, he’d said with a shrug, one of them might reveal something we haven’t seen. Will knew Richard was treating each one as an individual piece of evidence—that’s what he did. He could block out his feeling for the subjects as his brain worked on analysis. But despite how well she’d done and how capable he knew her to be, it was torture watching Elizabeth being tackled, defending herself, defending G.
He’d never been able to watch the De Roos video, never wanted to, even after he’d met Elizabeth. Especially after he’d met Elizabeth. It was torture of another kind to see the background glimpses of Georgiana standing so close to Wickham. She sent him packing, thank God. Without Elizabeth . . .
“Here’s my favorite part,” Richard announced, interrupting Will’s thoughts. He watched Elizabeth’s knee finding its target. “Ouch,” he said, laughing and flinching at the same time. He stopped the replay and turned to Will. “The best part is that’s probably not even from the Marines. That move has Ed Gardiner written all over it.” He circled the rim of his coffee mug thoughtfully with a finger. “I bet all the Bennet girls can do that.” Will thought that would typically alarm Richard, but his cousin seemed unaffected, merely stretching his arms above his head and leaning back into a languid stretch. Will sighed and stood.
Uncle Terry had viewed two videos before he began making calls, walking away as he spoke in low tones. At least he has something he can do, Will thought enviously. I can only wait for this flight to end. He’d called his own attorney for a reference in the San Francisco office before they departed New York and had left instructions to get someone to Elizabeth as soon as possible. The senator had been given permission to use his phone while in flight, but he was the only one. Will tried to text both Elizabeth and Georgiana from his laptop, but there was no response. He knew they might be dealing with the police or even, if they were lucky, be asleep at the hotel, but the silence was making him increasingly anxious. The flight took just about five and a half hours. It was a long time to stew. Maybe that’s why Richard’s making me watch with him.
He gave up and rubbed his head with both hands, frustrated.
“You’re going to rub yourself bald, cuz,” Richard said reprovingly. “They’re okay.” Will just turned his back. I’ll believe it when I see it. He tried to calm his agitation. There was nothing he could do from here. Numbers, do the numbers. How quickly would they arrive? There’ll be a car waiting. If we can get out of the airport fast enough, we’ll miss most of the morning traffic. He groaned quietly. If they didn’t get to the car until six, the traffic might already be heavy. Will the traffic mostly be heading into San Francisco, or going south? He spent several minutes reviewing what he knew of the area and set his mind to plotting every route, every possibility. He felt himself relaxing a bit. Thirty minutes at best. He didn’t want to consider what the worst might be. We can be there by seven for sure.
“Wait a minute,” he heard Richard say. Will heard the tap of a key and stepped back to the laptop they’d been using.
“What is it?” he asked, eyes drawn to the screen. This video had bee
n taken from the front door area, so it had a good angle on Wickham’s face.
“Right . . . here.” Richard pointed at the screen. “After Elizabeth has G, she pulls her out of frame, and then . . .” He paused the film.
Will saw it at once. Elizabeth appeared back on screen as she maneuvered to cut Wickham off and keep him from fleeing. G, still off-screen, told him to leave, and he turned away to face the door and the camera. For no longer than a second, his gaze moved over Elizabeth’s shoulder to the right of the camera. He offered the slightest lift of his shoulders, as if to say “What can I do?” Elizabeth must have noticed because she turned her head to look.
He slid into the seat beside his cousin. “Are there any videos that capture that side of the room?”
Richard queued them up one by one, but nobody had caught the right angle. He sat back. “He has a partner. One, at least.”
“But why?” Will asked, frustrated. “What can they possibly hope to gain?”
“I don’t know,” Richard said quietly, but his cousin could see that he had a few ideas.
“If it was to marry G for her money,” Will said, trying to think it through, “he’d have been disappointed. If there’s no prenup, there’s no inheritance.”
“Until she’s 21,” Richard said stonily. “A few years isn’t long to wait for that kind of a payday.”
Will shook his head. “Ever.” Richard was surprised, and Will held up his hands. “That’s the way my parents set it up for us both, and G is fully aware.” He yawned. Stay awake, stay awake. “My parents didn’t go over it with me before the accident.” He cleared his throat. It still hurt to talk about it. “But there was a detailed clause in the will that explained what our responsibilities were and how we would inherit if my father or mother were incapacitated, if he died first, if my mother died first, if they died together, how the money would be handled when we married. They really left nothing to chance.”
Richard waved him off. “I didn’t know, though I should have suspected.” He gestured to the screen. “Would they be able to find out?”
Will shrugged. “The terms of the will were confidential until the accident. After that, there was so much publicity . . .”
“So,” Richard said, thinking aloud, “it’s possible they knew. It’s possible it wasn’t for marriage.”
Will pondered this before adding, “But it’s probably still for money, don’t you think? I’m sure George would enjoy making me his mark again, but that wouldn’t be enough on its own. Blackmail of some kind, maybe? If he could get G to think she was in love, who knows what he could get her to do.”
“Will,” came the senator’s voice from behind them, “how good is your girlfriend?” Will turned to see his uncle staring at Richard’s laptop screen, phone still in hand.
“What?” Richard asked, shocked.
Methodically and silently, his father grabbed a magazine from a nearby seat pocket, rolled it up, and hit his son over the head with it. “Don’t be vulgar, Richard,” the senator replied, aggravated, while Richard mumbled something about being treated like a dog. “Will, how good is she at finding information online?”
Will gazed directly at his uncle. “I don’t know much about it,” he said honestly. “But from the money she’s making and the customers she’s signing, I’d say she’s good.” He nodded, still thinking. They were willing to fly her out to Marin. “Very good.”
“I’ve got Steiner checking into her service record. We may need her help.”
Richard sat up, alert. “Do you know what’s going on, Dad?”
The senator shook his head. “Not yet. But I suspect this might have less to do with Georgiana or Will than it does with me.”
Elizabeth emerged from the shower, wearing a robe and towel-drying her hair, and heard a knock on her door. Her heart leapt a little in anticipation, though she knew it was too soon for Will to be here. He’ll need to see his sister first anyway, she chided herself. Elizabeth snuck a look through the peephole. Georgiana. She let the girl in, trying not to feel disappointed, and closed the door, automatically turning the deadbolt behind her.
“I thought you might be able to use these,” Georgiana said, handing her a small box.
Elizabeth looked at the writing and then back at G, perplexed. “Sleeping pills?”
Georgiana shrugged. “I heard you had a nightmare, that’s all.”
Elizabeth frowned. Who told her that? “I don’t need pills to sleep, G. If I needed to sleep that badly, I’d probably just drink a beer.”
Georgiana laughed. “You want a beer for breakfast? Mmm.” She tossed the pills on the bedside table.
Elizabeth grinned. “No. Caffeine is my drug of choice.” She stood in front of the window. The sun was rising, and there was a small balcony overlooking rolling hills where horses were grazing. It reminded her of early days at Longbourn, though the trees were different and the grass greener. Still, it was a welcome reminder that there was more history here than bits and bytes.
The room itself was lovely, large, the lower half of the walls covered with white wainscoting and the upper papered in light blue, a raised diamond pattern in the same color offering a subtle elegance. It reminded her of the play of light on water. Restful. “It’s much nicer here than the place I was headed.”
Georgiana smiled. “It’s okay. Better than my dorm, for sure.”
Elizabeth chucked a pillow at G. “‘It’s okay,’” she repeated, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “And they call me princess.”
A few minutes later, Georgiana had returned to her room, and Elizabeth was on her back in the middle of an incredibly soft king bed, staring at the ceiling. The nightmare had unsettled her deeply, and despite being tired, she stubbornly refused to close her eyes. Not that she would take pills or drink—no crutches for her. She’d seen too much of that.
She’d listened to a voicemail from the Marin winery politely informing her that they were no longer interested in hiring her. She’d called back to confirm and had not been placated with the explanation.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for a security expert to have such a high social media profile,” Mr. Houghton, the president, had said. “Even as a national hero, you weren’t attracting this level of interest. No, given the news this morning, we think you’re going to be too busy to focus on us for the foreseeable future. I’m sorry.”
He’d said they would still pay the cost of her trip and car, but his kind words still stung her pride. She turned clients away, not the other way around. She’d thanked him and ended the call.
Houghton’s words rang over and over in her head. “National hero,” he’d said. National hero. She squeezed her eyes shut. The words hurt. Who could live up to that label? Not some kid from upstate New York with a bipolar mother, absentee father, and three frightened little girls following her like ducklings.
It had been all she could do to keep her sisters clothed and fed and bathed that year, all she could do just to get them and herself to school while pretending everything was all right at home. Her mother had lurked around their lives like a malicious house spirit, hovering around just often enough to reinforce her threats and remind Elizabeth not to tell anyone that her father was gone. “He’ll be back,” she’d said, certain at first, less so as the months wore on. “He’s too in love with me to stay away.”
Elizabeth had known her sisters were being teased because she couldn’t keep up. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, their clothes weren’t laundered because she’d not got around to it. Mary had been bullied because she’d once gone to school without washing her hair for a few days. Elizabeth hadn’t noticed. Lydia had been punished because she’d forgotten her lunch and was so hungry that she’d stolen food from another student. Kit was always picked on because her outfits were increasingly outlandish. She herself was so desperate to make money for college, she’d stayed up until two every morning working on websites for her local customers, using some of that money for her sisters
when her mother either forgot or refused to give her any for the bills.
Despite keeping everyone together, barely, she’d failed them so miserably. All those lost hours on the computer, socking as much money as she could into her college account, only to learn, at the last, that she couldn’t withdraw anything without her father’s signature. Not at liberty to explain to the banker that her father had vanished from their lives and therefore she couldn’t get his signature, she’d just walked home.
She’d seen Catherine de Bourgh in the park that day, she remembered suddenly. She’d greeted the elderly woman before sitting down on the bench and letting the whole sordid story pour out of her. To her great surprise, the grand dame had said, quite clearly, “Men are more trouble than they’re worth, dear. Women have to rely on themselves in life.” Then she’d stared out into the distance with watery blue eyes and amended her statement. “Except my husband. He was a man among men.” Elizabeth had felt marginally better, even if Mrs. de Bourgh’s words weren’t terribly comforting. Perhaps because they weren’t.
To her great shame, there were even times she resented Jane for not coming home that summer, or even at Christmas. She’d have been able to handle Fanny. She’d have gotten us out of there. I just wasn’t clever enough. She tossed an arm over her eyes. Stupid, she berated herself. Jane was just a kid too. If you’d been the one who was away, you’d have done the same and never looked back. No question.
Richard was handling his increased profile so much better. He wasn’t a screw-up. He’d attended private schools, college, been raised for life in the spotlight as a senator’s kid. He’d entered service as an officer, and a good one, from all accounts. He’d probably seen more combat than a few firefights and one attack in a European bar. It didn’t bother him much at all, G’s words at dinner notwithstanding. Being able to watch the door wasn’t a sign of problems; it was just prudent. So much stronger than me, she told herself. They all are. And none of them realize it.
Adapt Page 22
