She pulled away, refusing to speak another word. She avoided Darcy for the next hour, proving she was as good as he in slipping through a crowd unseen. Elizabeth had no intention of waiting on him. Her aunt’s party was the perfect cover for nefarious nighttime activities and if the prince was too missish to seize the chance when it arose—well, she was not.
Aunt Phillips’ ‘little gatherings’ were always boisterous, and tonight was no different. Elizabeth waited for her opening and then slipped out of the apartment, taking care to look as if she was simply exiting for some air were someone to notice and track her movements.
On her way out she pilfered a gentleman’s overcoat and hat. The weather was just beginning to turn and the dark garment would obscure her shape, the hat her hair and face. Nothing to be done about her height, but there were plenty of men of middling stature. She took care to stride, swaggering her shoulders the way she had seen a gentleman do.
Footsteps quick and light, Elizabeth made her way to the inn where Wickham was quartered. Half the regiment was at her aunt’s party, and many others were also gone for the evening seeking their own entertainment.
Hopefully those left behind in the inn’s common room would be too drunk to notice her. The coat enveloped her enough to conceal the shape of her bosom, but nothing could otherwise disguise how ill fitting it was, proving to Elizabeth that she was either heroically bold or tragically insane.
Perhaps shortsighted was a more suitable term. But surely Mr Williams would be ecstatic if she succeeded in retrieving his family heirloom tonight, and she would be happy to reap the reward of his gratitude. A well-married Jane and several well-married younger sisters.
Elizabeth entered the inn. She had had occasion several times to go inside and drag one of her younger sisters out, so she could bring up in her mind a picture of the foyer and the stairs leading straight up to the let rooms. A dining room off to the side and an innkeeper posted at a check-in table. The innkeeper, fortunately, did not sit at the check-in table all day and night, spending a disproportionate amount of time ensuring the comfort of his guests in the dining/taproom.
It was not the sort of place a gentlewoman would be seen in alone at night, and as it catered more to single gentlemen and now the militia, if she was recognised her presence would be all the more remarkable. What would she do if caught? Invent some handy tale about returning a coat and hat to her cousin?
There was no one posted at the door. When she slipped inside, the din of clinking dinnerware and general revelry made clear why. As she strode past the dining room entrance, she turned her head just enough to take a quick peek in. A stout man in an apron stood over a table, his back to Elizabeth. She hurried up the stairs and when at the top slowed, mentally counting the doors on the left.
One, two, three. The third door on the left belonged, according to Darcy’s means of discovery, Wickham, who was at her aunt’s party, dancing with Lydia and taunting his enemy with his presence.
Elizabeth cast a glance over her shoulder to ensure no one was coming up the stairs. They would creak abominably if some drunk soldier stumbled up them. She turned the knob to Wickham’s room, a little astonished to find it unlocked. Was the man a fool or just careless? She knew which character defect she believed most likely. . .well, both. Both character defects were most likely.
Elizabeth slipped inside, shut it behind her and locked it. The shutters were open, letting in a stream of dim moonlight, enough for her to see something by. She stumbled about the room until her eyes adjusted.
“Light a candle or no?” she asked herself.
She made out the outline of a bed and next to it a nightstand with a candle stub on top. It would not do to fall over and make a crashing racket so she opted for lighting the candle. Once lit, she cupped one hand around the modest flame and proceeded to ransack the room.
Not ransack. Perhaps if this was a more swashbuckling adventure, she might ransack. Instead she picked through his things, searched places where a man of ill character and questionable intellect might hide a small, valuable item.
Door hinges squeaked.
Chapter Twenty
She whirled, holding her arm out in front of her as if it was a weapon, looking around frantically for a place to hide. This was no gothic novel, however, and the room too simple to offer concealment. The door clicked shut.
“Elizabeth,” a steely voice said, displeasure in each step that came forward.
Darcy came into the modest circle of candlelight. “I thought as much.”
“Well—you almost ruined everything!” When guilty, attack first. “I had to take action, or our plans would have been for naught.”
He stared at her a long, tense moment. “If you were one of my people—”
“Which I am most definitely not.”
“I would have you thrown in a cell for insubordination.”
She sniffed. “Since you are here, you might as well help me look for it.”
“What makes you think you would even have recognised the ring, Elizabeth?”
Turning away from him, cloaking herself with the dignity necessary not to respond to the exasperation in his tone, she said, “A big, blue sapphire set in an ornate silver band. What is there to recognise? Start searching.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“None of your sarcasm, if you please.”
They went through the room with quick steps, Elizabeth’s growing frustration adding clumsiness to her movements. “Where can it be if it isn’t here?”
“He might have sold it, or he may be keeping it somewhere in London.”
“You said it was too valuable for him to let out of his sight.”
“That is how I think, not necessarily how he thinks.”
“Well, think how he thinks then. Where would he keep it?” There was a plain chair in the corner of the room with stuffed cushion seat. She crossed and sat down, shoulders slumping, and set her candle stub down on the small table next to it. She would not give up, but even she could see they may have to leave and recoup.
Elizabeth shifted on the seat. “What horrible furniture. The lumps are—” she stopped talking and slid off the chair. “Do you have a knife?”
She felt around the edge of the cushion for a poorly done seam or fabric not properly nailed to the wood.
“Ah.”
“You found something.” His blade-sharp tone did not bother her, she was used enough to his moody abruptness.
He handed her a small knife. Her fingers slipped underneath the fabric and headed towards the lump. A small, cloth-wrapped bundle with irregular edges rewarded her efforts. She worked it out of the chair and rose.
“Well, the moment is rather anticlimactic.” Elizabeth held the bundle out to him, but he did not move. Lips pursing, she unwrapped the object and stared. A brilliant blue gem the size of her thumbnail lay nestled in her palm.
Glancing at Darcy, who continued to stare at it without speaking, she lifted it with her free hand, skin touching the ring. A jolt ran up her arm, and she started, fingertips numb for a matter of seconds.
“Take it,” she said, uneasy, taking a step back. Her knees bumped into the chair and she almost stumbled. It felt as if a hundred pair of invisible eyes were on her at once, their gazes drawing closer and closer. “Take it.” She shoved it at him.
“What do you sense?” he asked.
“We should go.” Elizabeth brushed past him, hands trembling. Or at least she made the attempt. He shifted his body, not quite touching her nor conveying any threat, but the demand for attention was clear.
She stopped. The diminishing candle light darkened his eyes to black. But no lack of light could conceal the intensity of his scrutiny.
Elizabeth.
She jumped.
“What is it?” he asked, each word a soft strike. “What do you hear?”
How could he know? Was it part of the ring’s nature? Taking that into consideration allowed her to relax somewhat. If these strange imaginings were
the magical artifact of the ring, that provided enough of an explanation.
“I believe your ring is seeking an introduction,” she said. If a thousand ancient eyes fixed in her direction was an introduction.
“There is only one circumstance in which it makes itself know to someone not of my blood.”
“Oh?”
Darcy shook his head, face inscrutable. “No. I do not think I will tell you. In time you will either discover the reason, which I find suits my plans, or you will not and in that case. . . .” he shrugged. “It will not matter.”
“You are a vexing man.”
“It has been said so, yes. Frequently by my sister.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What plans, you say? I have upheld my end of the bargain, and now you must do all in your power to vanquish Wickham.”
“I will do so, and with pleasure.”
“We should leave before we are missed.”
But he did not move. Elizabeth cast him an exasperated look. “What?”
“Are you not the least bit curious?”
“No,” she snapped. “Curiosity would only reward your incorrigible behaviour. If you desire to keep secrets, then keep them. I will not give you the satisfaction.”
He half smiled, stepped closer. “Do you have any idea how pleasurable I find your vexation? Your eyes burn, and each word turns into a dagger. The call to battle is unmistakable. Alluring, even.”
“Now I know your wealth has driven you mad.”
Darcy lifted a hand, touching her cheek for the second time that night. Her heartbeat increased, body remembering the last time his head had lowered at this angle.
Elizabeth did not move, even knowing his intent, and when his lips touched hers again, this time there was nothing sweet or chaste in the caress. His lips parted hers, arms going round her body to draw her against his taller, stronger frame.
All thoughts of the ring and magic, her irritation with him, vanished. There was only Darcy, the dark room, and this stolen bit of night. The knowledge that no matter how fiercely she fought against it, he was affecting her heart.
“I have never been more clear, more focused on my purpose,” he said, lifting his head, voice a whisper. “Never before has it been made known to me that my desires and my duty are, for once, one and the same.”
“You—you make no sense.”
One more caress along her cheek and he drew away. “Now is not the time for a declaration. You are not ready, and I prefer to choose my time and place. Not the least to mention, we need to be away before we are caught.”
“You don’t seem concerned with discovery.”
He shrugged. “What can anyone do about it? I am of Pemberley. I simply did not want to make this affair a public one.”
“Well, not a word of it will come from me.”
The intense look again. “I know. I trust you.”
They left, Darcy snorting when he got a complete look at her disguise.
They hurried down the stairs, slowing when they reached the entrance to the dining room. Running would only attract attention. The innkeeper came into the entry way just as Darcy’s hand went on the door.
“Eh, can I help you good gentlemen?”
The prince had the good sense to neither turn nor speak, instead opening the door.
Wickham staggered through the threshold, arm slung around an equally inebriated looking man.
He glanced at Darcy, stopped, and straightened. “You! What do you—” His gaze fell on Elizabeth, and his eyes widened in outrage. “Elizabeth Bennet. What goes on here?”
“Eh?” The innkeeper said. “Mischief is afoot?”
Darcy grabbed her hand, shouldering past a startled Wickham, and they stormed down the block.
“Darcy!” Wickham shouted. “I know what you were about. Thief!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Darcy stopped dragging Elizabeth down the street and whirled, jaw clenched, his eyes flaring with anger.
This time it was Elizabeth grabbing Darcy’s arm. “He isn’t worth it.”
“Oh, he is worth it. He is well worth the thrashing he begs for.”
“You have what you came for, Prince. There is no purpose in lingering here, especially if your aim is discretion. And this will not help my family.” If Darcy and Wickham brawled in the middle of the street, having been guests at her aunt’s party. . .and god forbid if the theft of the ring came out and knowledge of Elizabeth’s part in it. Ruin would be too tepid a word. Not just for her, but for all her sisters.
The neighbourhood would never stop talking about the time Elizabeth Bennet broke into a soldier’s rooms, with a foreign prince, and stole an expensive jewel. Alone, at night. She might try to brazen it out until the next scandal broke, but there were limits to how many times her family could be the subject of gossip and escape unscathed.
“I see you have thrown your lot in with him,” Wickham said, giving Elizabeth a glance filled with contempt. “I did not think you would lower yourself to be any man’s—”
“Say the word,” Darcy said in a low, deadly tone. “I need no excuse, but that would give me even more leeway to indulge myself.”
Wickham snarled. “Spoiled princeling. You sneak about behind the skirts of a woman under the cloak of night. You cannot face me like a true man—”
Darcy’s fist connected with Wickham’s jaw.
Elizabeth stumbled backwards, half under her own power and half because the prince simultaneously pushed her away from them.
“Stay back!” Wickham yelled, dabbing blood from his mouth as the innkeeper and his friend ran up. He righted from his half stumble. “I will deal with him on my own.”
“Should I fetch Sir Lucas or the constable?” the innkeeper asked.
“Yes, Wickham,” Darcy purred, “do fetch the constable. I am certain he will find this tale a fascinating one.”
Darcy lifted his hand, the sapphire ring on his pinkie. It flashed, a white inner fire pulsing in time to Elizabeth’s rapid heart.
Traitor. Cousin of our blood. Thief!
Wickham’s face shaded the grey of a corpse.
Elizabeth met his eyes and knew for certain that he had also heard the words. “Shall we retire for the evening, gentlemen?”
Without looking away from Wickham, Darcy offered her an arm.
“Will you tell me what truly happened tonight?” Jane asked as soon as they shut the bedroom door behind them.
“Are you going to tell me how things went with Bingley?”
Jane began to unpin her hair. “I will receive him the next time he calls.”
“Well, that is an improvement over stony silence.”
“Oh, Lizzy.” Her elder sister sighed. “It is too difficult to remain angry with him. I believe he harbours no secret feelings for Lydia. He swears he thinks of her as no more than an amusing younger sister. It must be as you said. I am being too sensitive. Lydia did not pay him the slightest attention, either.”
“In any case, he is much too staid for her taste, even though he is rich. She prefers the dashing sort.”
“So she frequently says. Well?”
Elizabeth sat on the bed. “I cannot yet say. I will reveal all soon enough.”
Jane steady looked turned skeptical.
“Really, it is nothing. Mr Williams and I are assisting each other with a mutual problem which shall soon be resolved, but we swore not to speak of it to others as the problem is somewhat sensitive.”
“Do you have any idea how that sounds, Lizzy?”
“Of course I do. But it is just you.”
Jane sighed. “Very well. You have never behaved foolishly or broken your word, and I suppose you will not begin now.”
Elizabeth could not sleep and waited until the house was quiet to slip out of the house. The half moon provided enough light once her eyes fully adjusted. A heavy shawl covered her shoulders and draped down her arms covering an old, comfortable dressing gown that had belonged to her mother. She and Jane shared it between
them, though the scent of their mother’s perfume had years ago faded away.
She found herself walking further from the house and garden than she had intended, striking out onto the plains where the shadows of trees dotted the land and the moon reigned supreme.
Elizabeth stared up at the sky, looking for dragons or any other hint that fate had something better in store for her than to become a spinster aunt. The prospect of travelling the world—on what funds, she still had not worked out—or hiring herself as a governess to some highly intelligent, adventurous family that existed only in her imagination was not as alluring as once it had been. Not when Darcy dangled the possibility of a future far more fulfilling than she had ever hoped for. A hope she still was reluctant to entertain for she knew as well as most how life could shatter hopes.
Shivering, she rubbed her hands along her arms and sighed. The walk should have tired her, but it didn’t so she might as well return to her bed and pass the sleepless night in relative warmth.
Turning back, Elizabeth stopped.
A woman stood several arm lengths away. A. . .woman? The outline of the figure blurred and Elizabeth blinked, wondering if her vision was clouded. But no. The figure walked forward, moonlight shining through the outlines of an old-fashioned gown.
Elizabeth Bennet.
The voice seemed familiar. Somehow, in the deep of night, standing alone in the presence of a spirit, she felt no fear.
“Are you the Darcy ring?”
I am a part of it. The woman stopped within touching distance, solid now. Dark eyes, but as Elizabeth stared, a subtle glow revealed them to be blue. A familiar blue.
“Who are you?” The styled hair, the skirts and bodice of the gown all spoke to fashions at least twenty years old.
I am Anne Darcy.
The prince had not spoken much of his family but her face, her clothing and her bearing gave away several clues.
“You were Prince Darcy’s mother?”
Was, am. The former princess sounded amused. I still know my son, though he does not know me.
The sensation of ancient eyes on her visited Elizabeth again. “Why have you come to me?”
Prince Darcy Page 13
