Darcy shuffled toward the door but paused beside Mrs. Bennet’s chair. “My condolences on your loss, madam.”
She inclined her head but averted her eyes, obviously finding his manners wanting. But Darcy’s heart had lodged in his throat, and he could say no more.
Without having made a conscious decision to leave, Darcy found himself sweeping over the threshold and into the corridor, where his feet carried him to the door. He could not escape Longbourn quickly enough.
***
She is dead. She is dead. She is dead. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves seemed to pound out the words again and again until he could hear nothing else. When he closed his eyes, he saw Elizabeth’s face: the pert smile and fine eyes that he would only ever glimpse in memory. How long until the details of her features faded in his mind?
He had no likeness of Elizabeth, no miniature or silhouette. No lock of hair. No letters. With time, would he forget the curve of her cheek? The sparkle in her eyes as she teased him?
He had remained only one night at Netherfield, visiting Elizabeth’s grave in the morning before boarding the carriage for London. The sight of the gravestone had compounded the weight upon his chest. Its very existence was akin to a death knell.
Darcy’s father often had spoken to his mother at her gravesite in Kympton churchyard, and Darcy had been tempted to address Elizabeth at hers. But Anne Darcy’s body rested quietly in the bucolic country churchyard while Elizabeth’s was in some unknown watery grave. He would be casting his words into an empty hole in the ground.
Bingley had remained behind at Netherfield, gladdening Darcy’s heart. Now might not be the time for Bingley to resume his courtship of Miss Jane Bennet, but she—and her family—had obviously welcomed his presence. Before his departure, Darcy had begged his friend for any word should the Bennet family want for anything. He should have been a better friend to them before Elizabeth’s death, but he would do what he could for them now.
Bingley had agreed, although Darcy suspected that his friend intended to address any of the family’s needs himself. Darcy had no doubt that one day he would attend Bingley’s wedding to the eldest Bennet daughter.
Perhaps sufficient quantities of brandy might help Darcy survive the ceremony.
Bingley’s besotted stares at Jane were one of many reasons Hertfordshire could not be endured. Every sight in Meryton, every room in Netherfield, every word spoken at Longbourn recalled Darcy’s loss.
He drew in a ragged breath and released it slowly, willing himself to calm. Outside the carriage window, heavy clouds hung over endless fields of wheat. For hours rain had seemed imminent, but the day remained gray and arid.
Darcy tried to slow his thoughts, achieve a state of numbness. But he was unable to prevent himself from cataloging the missteps that had led to this melancholy place. If I had been less proud and difficult when making my proposal, perhaps Elizabeth would now be my wife, safely ensconced at Pemberley. If I had visited Longbourn earlier, she might have been persuaded to change her mind. If I had not allowed my damned sense of superiority to interfere with Jane and Bingley’s romance…
He had assumed he had all the time in the world to make Elizabeth love him. Even after his disastrous proposal, he had expected to have a second opportunity.
If she had accepted him—if he had made it possible for her to accept him—she never would have been on a ship bound for Jersey.
Darcy’s hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He was so damnably useless. During her life, he had caused Elizabeth only anger and grief. And now she was beyond the reach of any benevolence.
Furthermore, he had encouraged the Bingley sisters to disparage the Bennets—a family now sunk low into grief. And Darcy could do nothing to rectify the situation or assist the family. Perhaps someday he might be of a small service to them, but otherwise he was useless. Even Bingley did not need Darcy; he could easily conduct a courtship on his own.
Now Darcy would return to London—to balls and card parties and dinners. Every activity more empty and useless than the next. Each place populated by people who did not know his devastation. He had not been engaged to her nor had he formally courted her. His grief would be invisible to everyone, compounding the pain.
Women would talk and flirt with him. Men would joke and converse about horse racing and the latest legislation in Parliament. Nobody would realize that they were speaking with a hollow man; he would appear normal, but inside he would be empty.
How could he endure one day—let alone months, years—of balls and dinners?
Darcy’s walking stick rested across his legs. It trembled violently under his hands. Was the shaking a manifestation of his fear—or anxiety?
No. He was shaking with…anger. Elizabeth had been torn from his life. Torn away from her family. It was grossly unfair…
Perhaps anger made no sense in the situation, but with every beat of his heart, it pulsed through Darcy’s veins, demanding action. Foolish heart. What action could he possibly take?
He could not save Elizabeth. Her family did not require saving. What was left? Vengeance?
Elizabeth had drowned; he could hardly take revenge upon the sea. But something had caused the ship to explode. The Bennets had possessed few details about the accident, and the newspaper accounts had been vague about a cause. He had assumed it was an accident caused by large stores of gunpowder and a careless match. But Britain was at war. Was it possibly a deliberate act? Had a specific person robbed him of his beloved?
Darcy’s breath quickened. If someone had taken Elizabeth from the world—and from him—Darcy wanted him punished. But how could he possibly learn what had happened to the ship?
Fortunately, Darcy knew just the person to answer that question.
***
Darcy found the object of his quest the moment he stepped into White’s. In the first room he entered, Darcy’s cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, was lazily perusing the day’s paper, a glass of port at his elbow. Unsurprisingly, given the time of year, they were the room’s only occupants.
“William!” Richard stood and shook his cousin’s hand heartily. “I thought you were gone to Netherfield with Bingley. What brought you back to town?”
An unobtrusive servant arrived with a glass of brandy for Darcy; they knew his tastes at White’s. Darcy dismissed the man with the assurance that he would need nothing else. “Nothing good.” He sank into the upholstered chair opposite Richard’s.
Eager to delay his story, Darcy took a sip of the brandy, relishing the burn as the liquid slid down his throat. He would need every drop to endure the conversation.
Alerted to his mood, Richard leaned forward in his chair. “Good God, man, what is it?”
Darcy stared at his brandy. “Do you recall my confession the night of the Fairchild ball?”
“Of course. We were in our cups, but I was not too foxed.” Richard shook his head. “I still cannot believe Miss Bennet refused your offer, although it did explain your foul temper.”
Darcy took another sip, holding his glass in trembling hands.
“Did you visit Hertfordshire with the purpose of calling upon Miss Bennet?” Richard arched a brow at him.
“I hoped to apologize and win a chance to court her properly.”
“Your countenance tells me your effort was not successful. Did she refuse to see you?”
Darcy opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. He swallowed and tried again. “She is gone… Elizabeth is dead.” The words emerged as a harsh whisper.
Starting, Richard nearly dropped his glass. “Good God, Darcy! Hell and damnation!” After taking a moment to collect himself, his hand reached out to touch Darcy’s forearm. “I am so sorry.” He gave a slight shake of the head. “I do not have the words…”
Darcy inclined his head. There were no words for such an occasion.
Richard sighed. “She was such a…lovely lady. Beautiful, lively…clever…”
Both of Darcy’s hands squeezed the bra
ndy glass. “Yes.”
“How did it come to pass? Was it an illness?”
“She was a passenger on the cutter that exploded near Jersey.”
Richard’s mouth dropped open. “Elizabeth Bennet was aboard that ship?”
“She was visiting a friend who lives on the island.”
Richard’s abstracted look and the way he rubbed his chin suggested his cousin was considering what to say. Employed by the War Office for nearly a year, Richard had dropped enough hints that Darcy had no doubt his cousin was involved in espionage of some kind.
“What can you tell me?” Darcy fixed his cousin with a stare. “The War Office must have investigated the disaster. They could not ignore it.”
“I should not tell you anything,” Richard said slowly.
Should not was not the same as would not. “So they are investigating it.”
Richard sighed. “Of course. But with the ship itself at the bottom of the Channel, they can discover very little. Nonetheless, the incident is very suspicious. Captain Briggs was not a careless man and would not have stored his gunpowder recklessly.”
“The War Office suspects sabotage?”
Richard tossed back some more port. “We believe someone aboard the ship ignited the gunpowder.”
“Do you know who?”
“There is a French spy who has sabotaged other ships and ruined cargo, but he has never killed before.” Richard was holding his glass so tightly Darcy was surprised it did not shatter. “Major Bellows fears Napoleon is considering an invasion of the Channel Islands.”
Darcy nodded. It made sense to deplete the islands’ supplies of gunpowder and kill replacement troops before an invasion. “Do they know the spy’s name?”
“He goes by the code name Black Cobra.”
“What is a cobra?”
Richard waved one hand. “A kind of snake found in India—very poisonous. I do not know how the man acquired the name. One suspects he bestowed it upon himself.”
Darcy leaned forward in his seat, eying Richard intently. “How does the War Office plan to apprehend him?”
“We cannot.” Richard’s shoulders slumped. “We do not know his true name or the first thing about his appearance. One cannot capture a ghost.”
Darcy set his glass on the table with a thump. “But he is not a ghost. He is a man—who must have left some trace of his presence.”
“He would be in France now.” Richard grimaced. “Chances are he set a fuse and escaped the ship in a rowing boat. They were not far from the French shore.”
“Does the crown have any agents in that part of France?” Darcy asked.
Richard blew out a breath. “We have a few, but the Black Cobra covers his tracks well. We know nothing about him, save his code name. The bastard is likely to escape any punishment.”
Darcy launched himself from his chair and stalked to the window, where he stared without interest at the London street below. “Elizabeth deserves better than that.” Darcy slammed his palm against the wall. “Her death should not be unavenged.”
“I do not disagree. But the War Office is overextended as it is. We do not have enough men to track the movements of Napoleon’s troops or sufficient funds to attract more agents. And vengeance is not a high priority.”
“Surely there is something to be done…” Darcy said slowly, an idea forming in his head. “You could send me to France. I will find him and bring him to London for justice.”
Richard’s shock would have been comical under other circumstances. “What are you about, Darcy?”
“I can visit the area in disguise and make contact with your agents. They can help me find the man.” The more he spoke, the more he warmed to the idea.
“No, it is too risky. The moment you open your mouth—”
“I speak fluent French, as you well know. Adele served as my governess until I was ten and Georgiana’s after that; she and I spoke nothing but French.”
Richard waved his hand in acknowledgement of this fact. “Still, it is too dangerous. You have responsibilities—”
“I had a responsibility to Elizabeth!” Darcy roared, startling his cousin. He took a deep breath, trying to regulate his tumultuous feelings; Richard did not deserve his ire. “If I had courted her properly, this would not have happened,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“You are not a gypsy fortune teller. You could not have foreseen what would happen.”
Darcy scowled. “If I had not proposed in such an offensive manner, she might have accepted my offer and would now be living safely at Pemberley.”
Richard snorted. “You can find a reason to take responsibility for anything. Tell me, how is the Peninsular War your fault?”
“Richard, I must do something.” Darcy paced the length of the room. “I need employment—a purpose. I am not fit for civilized company as I am. I must do something before I run mad.” He stopped and stared at his cousin. “I may do nothing for Elizabeth now, but if I can bring her murderer to justice, it would mean something to her family.” Darcy ran both hands through his hair. “And perhaps I might gain some measure of peace.”
His arms crossed over his chest, Richard regarded Darcy skeptically.
“Send me to France,” Darcy pleaded. “I may help the crown—at no cost.”
“No, merely at the risk of my dearest friend’s life.” Richard’s tone was scathing.
His cousin’s skepticism would not deter him. From the moment Richard had mentioned the Black Cobra, Darcy’s course had been clear.
“You hope to find her body.” Richard’s words were a statement, not a question.
The thought had occurred to Darcy. If he could bring her remains home to Hertfordshire, it would salvage a little solace from the tragedy. But Richard would never see it that way, and Darcy had no desire to argue the point.
Instead he leaned across the table, holding Richard’s eyes. “I can travel to France with the blessings of the War Office, or I can go on my own. You cannot stop me.”
Richard glared. “Damnation, Darcy!”
Finally, Richard looked away with a heavy sigh. “Very well, I will discuss your offer with my superiors, but they may not agree to send you.”
Darcy shrugged. Their disapprobation would present only a small obstacle. One way or another, he would go to France.
Chapter Three
Two days later, a small boat rowed into the surf near a beach on the French coast. With a nod to the sailor manning the oars, Darcy jumped over the side and waded to shore, thankful it was summer. He could let his feet dry on the beach before donning his stockings and boots. The journey would have been far more unpleasant in January. Soft splashes behind Darcy warned him that the rowing boat was returning to the fishing vessel that had brought him across the Channel. With its departure went any opportunity for Darcy to change his mind. He was quite alone in enemy territory. This was what I wanted. I have a mission to complete, he reminded himself. Still, he could not completely suppress a shiver of unease.
After the War Office approved his plan, Darcy had consulted the navy’s best sailors, as well as a few fishermen who regularly navigated the Channel. Considering the weather, the time of day, and the currents, the experts had agreed that a small boat escaping from a Jersey-bound cutter in the late afternoon most likely would land in Brittany, particularly the Saint-Malo area.
The office had several agents in Brittany; one lived near Saint-Malo, and Darcy’s first task would be to contact him. “If the Black Cobra is in Brittany, Pierre Dreyfus will know about it,” Richard had said confidently. Darcy had strict instructions not to apprehend any suspected spies himself; any attempts to capture and punish the man should be left to the War Office. But Richard had relayed the instructions with an air of weary resignation; he knew it was unlikely that Darcy could prevent himself from meting out justice.
Darcy waded on to the beach, sand crunching under his feet. Although a wispy cloud concealed the moon, there was sufficient illumination to prove the be
ach was fortuitously empty. A midnight stroll in the surf would be suspicious.
Glancing up, Darcy saw the ancient citadel of Saint-Malo—with its lone church steeple—silhouetted against the sky. That was his destination; Dreyfus’s house lay just outside the walls at the city’s southern edge.
Trudging across the beach, he found a path snaking up the cliffs and into the town. He sat on a boulder as he brushed sand from his feet and donned his hose and boots, wincing as he pulled the latter on. The leather was far stiffer than what Darcy was accustomed to; likewise, his clothing was coarser than anything ever worn by the master of Pemberley. Greeves, Darcy’s valet, would be appalled. But he was to pass himself off as a wandering laborer, and the master of Pemberley’s clothing would not suffice.
Darcy rolled down his trousers and tucked them into his boots. They were still damp at the edges where they had touched the water, but the warm night air was drying them quickly. All his clothing in place, Darcy swung his satchel over his shoulder and started up the side of the cliff. Hopefully he would reach Dreyfus’s house by the time the sun arose.
***
The sun was just peeking over the horizon as Darcy laid eyes on the house he sought. It was set back from the road, screened from view by trees and undergrowth and accessed by a short drive that branched off from the main road.
The house was constructed of the same wood and warm yellow stone as the other houses in the area. Not terribly large but well maintained, it was the sort of abode a prosperous merchant or solicitor would own in England.
A short, round-faced housekeeper answered the door when Darcy knocked.
“Bonjour,” Darcy addressed the woman in French. “I am calling for Monsieur Dreyfus. I am a friend of his uncle’s.” This lie was the code he had been given by the Home Office. Richard had assured Darcy that Dreyfus had been notified of his arrival and would be prepared to render all possible assistance.
The housekeeper gave him a sour look. “Mr. Dreyfus is not at home.”
Darcy strove to keep his face impassive. This was a blow to his plans.
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 2
