Miss Kitty was quite as happy as she could wish to be.
At present she was not eager to marry, instead she was eager for a planned visit to Paris with Mama and Mary in the fall, when she would see Elizabeth once more and be able to thank Mr. Darcy for his kindness to them.
However as the great Scots poet of a generation prior said, “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft a-gley.”
A group of six men hunched in the bushes outside of the cottage, waiting for the candles to be extinguished.
Five of these men were ruffians of the worst sort, four of them had worked the noble trade of the highwayman upon the High Toby in the past. Three would in the future, and two would be hung for it. Two more were London back alley knifers, both of whom had killed a man.
The sixth had once nearly been a gentleman, but he had fallen in the world since then.
One of the Londoners had killed more than one man in his time on this earth.
That man was the scarred Mr. Blight. He had never healed quite right from Elizabeth’s blow, his jaw ached right in front of the ear, and he fancied that he now bit his tongue far more often than before.
He hated Elizabeth for that, and for that reason, even though Lord Lachglass’s plan was ridiculous, and doomed to see him destroyed, likely with Blight himself, Blight was happy to hunch in the shrubbery outside the house where her mother and sister lived.
When the lights were extinguished, and the sounds of movement ceased, one of the ruffians worked the locked latch open on the door.
The wooden door popped open fast and easily, just a simple latch, nothing like what a man in London would use to blockade his castle from the evil ones outside.
One man hung back in the darkness of the woods, keeping an eye about for any sign that they’d attracted attention from the big house. This man was the one who had once been a gentleman, and he had no taste for violence.
If he had not considered himself to be in particularly difficult circumstances he would not have agreed to aid the others, and he felt something like pangs of conscience as he watched the line of rough bestial brutes (as he thought of them) file into the breached house.
The others snuck on tip-toeing feet through the house and up the stairs to where the bedrooms of the family would be. The underling who’d killed a man was placed to stand inside the darkened servant’s stairway, to stab in the neck without warning any servant who was awakened by the noise and ran down to see what was the matter.
A clumsy country oaf accidentally kicked over an incidental table sitting where no rational table would sit in the middle of the hallway leading to the staircase.
The man on guard against the servants stiffened in the deathly silence that followed that clatter.
But no one wakened.
Led by Blight and carrying thieves’ lanterns that only showed their light in one direction, the others went up to the rooms. They softly tested the doors to each bedroom, and none of them were locked.
They easily found the quiet peaceful sleepers.
A quick movement by men used to violence, a knock over the head of each sleeping woman, and then before they could return to themselves, efficient gags were forced over the mouths of both women, making it impossible for them to scream, and difficult for them to breathe.
Hands tied together. Feet tied together.
And then the two burliest of the men in this gang slung one woman each over their back and carted them down the stairs and out into the estate’s large park.
This group of men had not been bothered at all while sneaking their way onto Darcy’s estate, following the line of ground, and avoiding all of the houses of cottagers, and the occasional roving of the groundskeepers. They had moved so well through the estate that one might wonder if they were guided by a person who had grown up on the estate.
Which they had been.
The man who had led them to dowager cottage was the man who had waited outside. He stood masked to ensure he was not recognized in the dark when the criminals led by Mr. Blight emerged from the now emptier house. This man’s eyes flicked over the two captives, blindfolded and gagged, being carried on the back of Mr. Blight’s friends, and something like regret for his actions and the past flashed in his eyes.
He led the party quickly over hills and through hedges and out to the blind where highwaymen had hidden in the old days before the Darcy family had suppressed them, and before the king’s justice was more than a laughable word.
A carriage awaited them, standing empty with a team of four ugly horses purchased more than twenty miles away. The coat of arms on the carriage had been carefully removed, but the gap in the paint where it had been, and the bolts that it had been attached to, were almost visible in the dark.
Mr. Blight sourly looked at the carriage. Still recognizable.
Would have made a damned sight more sense to rent a separate carriage for the night’s work, or better to purchase one, like he had the horses, and then push it off an isolated cliff into the sea in Cornwall when the business was done. But Lachglass had insisted that it be his carriage which would carry the captives to his estate, because somehow that would make it more his own revenge.
Blight had prepared a hideaway, where he could flee to after the inevitable end had come, and Lord Lachglass was thrown in prison for a time, and all his associates arrested and hung.
They’d not hang Lachglass of course. Not a peer. Nor chop his head off, not for any crime lower than rebellion against the mad king and his fat son.
Would give the crowd ideas, it would, if aristocrats could go around being hung.
Blight spat on the ground after he saw the two women stuffed into the carriage. The crowd would hang him faster than Lachglass if they knew everything, and he could not blame them. He’d shout for himself to be hung, if he ever was asked.
He turned to the man who had guided them, and who stayed carefully out of the light in the shadows — to avoid being recognized, because even with the large syphilis sore sitting on his forehead, he was yet a handsome man.
Ha.
Blight wondered how long it would take the disease to ravage the man and kill him off. The pox tended to carry off a man slow and painful like. Drove them mad before it killed them too. Would drive them mad like Miss Bennet — she had been a pretty thing — had driven Lord Lachglass’s brains out the back of his head.
“Here’s the dirty ready.” Blight placed into Mr. Wickham’s hands the bag of guineas that was the agreed upon fee. Mr. Wickham had bargained hard for his help, but then the poor man was destitute these days, no longer as capable of charming those around him. Anyone who knew the signs would know exactly what was behind the makeup hiding the pox.
Didn’t matter none to Blight in any case. Weren’t his money, and Lachglass wasn’t holding to his money, or his wits too close no more. Not after he’d been hit over the head. Blight was particularly glad Lachglass hadn’t asked again after the boxing master he’d been ordered to kill.
Blight made an effort, he did. But the pugilist was constantly with friends or in open daylight for the three days Blight watched him.
Ha! He might like to kill a man twice as much as the next bloke. But Blight wasn’t going to get pinched and hung for Lachglass’s whim. Not old Blighty. That’s what’d happen if he stabbed or shot the boxer in front of witnesses.
So Blight gave up, he had other things to do — the boxer knew Lachglass wanted to have him murdered, and wasn’t likely to give him an opportunity for at least a month or two.
And, Lachglass, poor tupper, he’d forgotten plain about the screamed order to murder the man.
Upon receiving the ready, Mr. Wickham bounced the bag of coins up and down in his hand and he then counted them out, one by one.
Worthless half gent tosser.
Blight’d given serious thought to just killing Wickham after they were the done with him. He’d have liked to give him the poke or the blown open head. But the noise of a gun would be too much, and th
ere was something about Wickham that said he knew how to handle a dagger himself. Half likely he had some friend with some letter to send right to the authorities.
That’d upset his Lord of Lachglass’s notion of how to manage his revenge. And it’d put neatly paid to any hope Blight had to pretend he was simply a sad fellow being forced to go along with his Lordship. A simple sad fellow who definitely didn’t deserve to hang.
Mr. Wickham bounced the clinking purse up and down in his hand one last time, and then put it in his coat. He said in a whisper, and a low gravelly voice that sounded nothing like he normally did, clearly in hopes his voice would not be recognized by their victims, “The amount. Off with you all, off. You don’t want to be caught here.”
There was something tense in how Mr. Wickham held himself.
“Hahaha, what, worried I’ll stab ye in the back?”
Wickham did not reply, and his face could not be seen in the dark.
Blight laughed again, climbed into the carriage, and they set off.
*****
Mr. Wickham was left alone in the little secluded ravine. He laughed and pulled a coin out from the purse and waved it high in the air, smiling at the old friend in crime who he’d hidden in the hills above this blind. An excellent man with a gun that friend.
The friend bounced down from the hillside and, laughing, took off with the guinea that was his fee for the night, and Wickham collected his horse.
Damned business for a night. This was a terrible way for a gentleman to make his way in the world. But such was what Darcy had driven him to. It was all Mr. Darcy’s fault, preventing him from gaining the proper position he deserved. Darcy had no one to blame but himself.
No one else.
Like as not Lord Lech was going to shoot the all of them. The entire point was to kill Elizabeth Bennet, he knew. Course, Wickham still liked the girl. She was a woman to be admired, crushing the nose of a gentleman.
Participating in this was a betrayal of himself in a happier, freer time. God, he sometimes hated himself.
Poor Mrs. Bennet — she had always been kind to him — and Miss Kitty.
He’d fucked Lydia Bennet many a time before they parted, and that should mean a little to a gent.
Jove, he had not been nice to leave her like that, but he’d been out of money, and the damned woman liked money. It was not his fault her father died, supposedly of a broken heart at the crime of his daughter. Wickham didn’t believe that at all — not Mr. Bennet. He was a cold man, who didn’t care anything for anyone. Wickham didn’t have any guilt for his death.
But he did have guilt for tonight’s crime.
Wickham patted the purse. He lit a lantern to light his way, and set off down the road towards Derby at a canter. He hadn’t been back to Derbyshire for ten years now, and he wondered if Madame Berry’s brothel was still there in Derby. Fine establishment.
Such women.
Oh, he had known such women in his life.
Like as not the madam wouldn’t let him sleep with any of the girls. Or she’d force him to sleep with one her poxy whores. Some houses did that. He’d not be allowed to touch a clean girl. Not with the sores. Wasn’t worth the patronage. He hated women like that. Wasn’t his money good as the next gent’s? Didn’t he deserve a chance to tup a pretty girl, even though he had the pox?
Damned disease, he had only observed the first signs in the past year. His wickedness catching up with him.
But it wouldn’t catch him. The mercury treatments helped a great deal, and he could afford more of them now with this bag of the ready he’d picked off Blighty’s employer. Just for seeing Mrs. Bennet stuffed blindfolded and gagged into a carriage that was to drive her to a madman.
Wickham felt that chill, and it ached in his stomach, as though he’d made a mistake.
He’d heard what Lachglass had become.
And he had already done wrong to Mrs. Bennet once.
Fortunately for Mr. Wickham, he was not a man to dwell on those wrongs he committed, and he was quite pleased with himself by the time he reached Derby, where he was in fact forced to choose amongst girls the madam knew to already be suffering from the French, or Spanish, or Italian, or in some places on the continent, English complaint.
Chapter Eighteen
Three days later in Devon
“Lord! I am so scared. Please, please, please, sir. Just let us go. Let us go. Let us go. My son-in-law, Mr. Darcy — Mr. Darcy loves us dearly. He is rich. Heavens! Very rich. He’ll pay any ransom for my daughter… and for me. Just let me and Kitty go.”
Mrs. Bennet had not ceased speech from the moment the gag was taken off.
Mr. Blight comfortably ignored her. Perversely he liked the voice, mainly because he hoped that she would continue to chatter in such a way when she met Lord Lachglass.
Her captor was not disappointed by Mrs. Bennet’s performance upon meeting her true captor.
When Lord Lachglass arrived to observe “the goods” acquired by his man of business, his headache precluded any possibility of him ignoring the chattering of Mrs. Bennet.
“You know my daughter did not mean to hurt you. She is the kindest woman in the world! All a mistake, a misunderstanding. And she married Mr. Darcy. Everyone respects Mr. Darcy — they say at Pemberley there is not a better landlord in the country. And I know that is true, why he’s as good as a Lord. Like you… a Lord. Just please… You have scared me so! Lizzy will apologize to you. I’m sure she will… all a confusion. Just a simple confusion.”
“By jove! The deuce! No more words!” Lachglass spoke in annoyed tones similar to how Mr. Bennet used to speak to her. Then he slapped the side of Mrs. Bennet’s head so hard it jarred her bones.
That was entirely unlike how Mr. Bennet used to treat his wife. “You hear me? Shut your fucking lips, you ugly old hag.”
“Please, sir, please. Please. Please. You must realize it is all a misunderstanding. Why are you hurting us? You are a gentleman, an earl, you must surely realize in such a position that…”
“Shut up!” Lachglass screeched.
As Mr. Blight watched grinning inside, Lord Lachglass grabbed the pistol he had on his belt.
“Lord! Lord save us! Not a gun. Not a gun — oh I am so nervous, on normal occasions. So very nervous. I never complain, of course, but I am—”
“Fuck, fuck. Fucking shut your mouth!”
Lachglass clenched his jaws. His face was red, and Mrs. Bennet was quite sure that he was not a healthy man.
She was finally silent.
With sudden jerky movements Lachglass brandished the gun at her angrily. “Told you! Shut your fucking mouth. Told you. But you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t shut it. Oh, no you wouldn’t.” He gestured towards Kitty whose hands were tied behind her against a chair. “Only need one of you. Your daughter will care more than enough for her, since she is pretty, while you should have been drowned like a cat the day you were no longer worth tupping. You worthless, worthless, useless, useless, fucking woman. And you are full of worms. And this is all your fault. Because she is your daughter.”
The barrel of the gun danced wildly.
Suddenly, pointed right between Mrs. Bennet’s eyes from just two feet away. “Only need one of you. Only need one.”
Mrs. Bennet stared into her fate with big wide eyes.
He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger in a single fast motion.
Bang.
Frances Bennet honestly for a half dozen seconds believed that she was already dead.
But the screaming was not from her, it was from Lord Lachglass.
The expensive and fancy pistol had misfired and exploded in his hand, and he threw the remains of the piece aside, as he held his scorched hand and howled in pain.
He blubbered as he left the room, leaving Mrs. Bennet to what remained of her life, and he shouted for his servants to call a physician for him immediately, in between the howls of pain.
Mrs. Bennet looked at Kitty, and Kitty looked back at her.<
br />
Both of their eyes were very wide, and very scared. They both knew that they were still in grave danger.
Mrs. Bennet shivered violently in the chair, as she whispered praises to God for her, possibly temporary, salvation.
Neither of them knew if the mad earl would return to shoot her through the eyes properly as soon as a physician wrapped up and bandaged his hand.
Chapter Nineteen
It was one of those grey and rainy days in Paris.
Everyone along the crowded Rue de Richelieu held huge umbrellas out. Big black umbrellas, red umbrellas, multicolored umbrellas. The people hurried back and forth in front of Elizabeth’s happy eyes, as she curled up in her armchair right next to the window. Her mind wandered from the view to her husband.
Her Darcy.
Elizabeth sighed ever so happily.
It looked like there was a little pure river, several inches deep, flooding the road below her. The thick drops lashed her mullioned window panes.
She saw him walk up the road, and glance up at her window from under his umbrella. She waved at him. He reached the door, and there was the click of it opening.
Darcy entered the room slightly damp despite his excellent umbrella from the walk back from the fencing club he had entertained himself at for the past hour. He whistled as he opened his arms for an embrace and a kiss.
Before their reunion — after a whole three hours today — went further than a deep kiss, there was a sharp knock on the front door to their apartments. A few minutes later the housekeeper brought in a wiry young man who wore a riding coat and had the lean appearance of an athlete.
He had a leather pouch and said in a clear English voice, “Express sent from England. From England! Express.”
Elizabeth felt an anxiety as she stood next to Darcy. He reached to take the mail pouch from the young man.
“Apologies, sir.” The messenger shook his head. “The instructions were quite precise. To only give into the hands of the lady who is the recipient. You—”
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