The Deception At Lyme m&mdm-6

by Carrie Bebris

  “I am looking for the other pieces of a torn note,” she explained. “Have you any fragments in your stack?”

  Darcy set down the letter he had been perusing and started to riffle through the other papers in front of him. He had not gotten far, however, when Anne Wentworth returned to the study.

  “Frederick.” Anne’s face was pale, her voice unsteady. “Alfred is missing.”

  Thirty-Four

  “We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is valuable.”

  —Captain Wentworth, Persuasion

  Mrs. Logan was in tears.

  “I fed him and put him down to sleep. Then I went out—I needed to go to the market, and I thought to perform the errand while he napped. You were all in the study—it seemed like such an important meeting; I did not want to disturb you—I told Mrs. Smith I was going. I expected to return before her chair arrived, but I was delayed—so many people about on market day. When I got back, I went upstairs immediately to check on Alfred—he was not in his cradle—”

  The servants were summoned, but unable to provide any further intelligence. The housekeeper had returned from the market just after Mrs. Logan, and the others, going about their own duties elsewhere in the house, with no reason to enter the nursery, had not observed anything unusual.

  Alfred was too small to have wandered off on his own, and a baby was not something one was likely to misplace. Yet they searched the house and garden anyway. He was nowhere on the premises.

  They reconvened in the sitting room. Captain Wentworth, his own worry evident, reassured his wife that they would find Alfred. “Do not panic yet. Sir Walter has not seen his son since the christening—perhaps he or your sister retrieved the boy for a visit. It would be very like them not to think to inform us.” Wentworth himself did not sound convinced of this possibility.

  “My father would have sent a servant to collect him. And even if he had come himself, he would not have entered our house, gone upstairs to the nursery, taken Alfred from his cradle, and departed without a word to anybody.”

  No, Darcy thought, but another Elliot might. He met Captain Wentworth’s eyes. “Do you think perhaps Mr. Elliot—”

  “I can name no one else more probable,” he replied.

  Mrs. Wentworth glanced toward the entry hall. “He must have come after Mrs. Smith departed for the Cobb, or surely she would have alerted us.”

  “Unless he used the rear door and stairs,” Captain Wentworth said. “Someone planning to steal a child would hardly want to make an obvious entrance.”

  “I am reluctant to voice this thought,” St. Clair said, “but if Mr. Elliot did encounter Mrs. Smith, she would not have presented a very imposing obstacle. He could easily overpower a crippled woman, particularly if he had someone else with him. Lyme is full of his fellow conspirators—the crew of the Black Cormorant alone must number at least two hundred. Any one of them could have accompanied him.”

  “Mrs. Smith is the only one of his past associates still alive to incriminate him,” Elizabeth added, “and he knows she bears him ill will.”

  “Good heavens, Frederick—he might have taken Mrs. Smith, too.” Mrs. Wentworth sank into a chair. “If only Nurse Rooke had been here with her and not in Bath.”

  Captain Wentworth took her hand. “Let us not allow our conjecture to run wild,” he said. “Mrs. Smith could very well be sitting on her bench at the harbor, perfectly safe and utterly oblivious to our alarm. In fact, someone ought to see whether she is indeed there, for if so, she may be able to tell us something that could lead us to Alfred. I would do so myself, but I am going to the Lion this moment to determine whether Mr. Elliot is there with the child.”

  “I will accompany you,” Darcy said. “If Mr. Elliot does have Alfred, there is no predicting what he might do.” Or what he might have already done.

  Darcy left that last thought unspoken—Mrs. Wentworth was worried enough—but he could see in her husband’s countenance that Captain Wentworth realized the truth. If Mr. Elliot, or someone acting on his behalf, had taken Alfred with the intention of harming him, the deed had likely already been accomplished—or was taking place now—and in a place more remote than his rooms at the Lion.

  Wentworth nodded. “Let us go at once.”

  “I will come, as well.” St. Clair’s manner indicated that he, too, recognized the reality of Alfred’s plight.

  “You cannot, Captain,” Wentworth said. “You are under the admiral’s orders to stay here.”

  “If Mr. Elliot is guilty of the child’s disappearance, I can aid you. I have been watching the gentleman closely—”

  “So have I.” Captain Wentworth looked at his wife. “For some time. I know what he is.” He paused, then looked back at St. Clair. “Besides, what possible pretext could you give for showing up at Mr. Elliot’s door? He has surely been in communication with Sir Laurence and knows about your arrest. He thinks you are in a brig. What explanation could you offer that would not raise his guard about all three of us?”

  The gentlemen moved out of the room and into the hall.

  “You are right,” St. Clair conceded. “My appearance would sabotage not only the smuggling investigation, but also the very rescue I was trying to assist.” He released a frustrated sigh. “And yet I feel I must do something.”

  Darcy looked past him, through the doorway, to where the ladies yet clustered in the sitting room. Elizabeth had moved closer to Mrs. Wentworth and was offering words of comfort. Georgiana stood a little apart, appearing, to Darcy’s eye, more vulnerable than she had an hour ago. Alfred’s kidnapping made him all the more apprehensive about Mr. Elliot’s fellow conspirator. He did not think Sir Laurence would try to harm Georgiana, but he did not want her former suitor to even attempt to speak to her again. Until Sir Laurence was arrested, Darcy could not be easy about letting Georgiana out of his sight.

  He turned to the man who mere days ago he had been determined to keep at a distance from his sister. “Captain St. Clair, only the urgency of Alfred’s disappearance impels me to leave Miss Darcy anywhere but under my direct watch while Sir Laurence remains at liberty, lest he try to contact her. If you would undertake her protection in my absence, I would consider it a great service.”

  “Of course.” In those two simple words, an understanding passed between them. Darcy knew he need not have even voiced the request, and St. Clair recognized the trust it represented.

  St. Clair walked them to the front entry, offering whatever random points of information he could quickly call to mind about Mr. Elliot and his habits. As they reached the door, where they were entirely safe from the ladies’ hearing, he detained them a moment longer.

  “If Mr. Elliot is not at the Lion with Alfred and Mrs. Smith, he may have gone to his property near Sidmouth. There are old quarry caves on the grounds, perfect for hiding smuggled goods.” He paused. “Or…”

  The two captains’ eyes met.

  “I understand,” Wentworth said.

  * * *

  Captain St. Clair returned to the sitting room to find Georgiana alone. She stood near the window, watching Mr. Darcy and Captain Wentworth recede down the street. The housekeeper had set out tea. No one had touched it.

  “Where have Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Wentworth gone?” he asked.

  “Up to the nursery. Mrs. Wentworth is terribly distressed, as one might expect, and wanted to wait in there until Captain Wentworth comes back. She wishes she could have gone with him.”

  “So do I. It is harder to wait than to act. Why did you not go upstairs with them?”

  She took a seat, but perched on the edge of the chair. Except for the briefest of glances, she had not looked at him—not directly—since he reentered the room. “I do not know Mrs. Wentworth as well as Mrs. Darcy does. I felt my presence would be an intrusion at a time when Mrs. Wentworth needs whatever peace she can find.”

  She studied her hands, dropped them back in her lap, smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt. At las
t she rose from the chair but yet maintained her distance, going to the table and bringing a teacup to the pot. She poured, but stopped when the cup was but half full. She set down the pot and simply stared at it.

  He took a few steps toward her, but halted when the sound of his approach appeared to distress her. “Are you all right, Miss Darcy?”

  “Everybody keeps asking me that.”

  “It must be difficult to have had Sir Laurence’s true character revealed to you so suddenly—perhaps the more so for having heard it from me.”

  She looked at him then. Her eyes were troubled, but it was not resentment that filled them. “You have been rescuing me since the moment we met. By now you must regret ever catching me on the Walk.”

  His answering gaze was earnest and unwavering. “Quite the opposite. You did, after all, save my investigation today.”

  “If I have not cost you it.”

  “Miss Darcy—” He took another step toward her.

  “Lieuten— Captain.” She swallowed. “I have not properly thanked you for—I have been trying to find the words—” She turned her head away, struggling to control a countenance that threatened to reveal more than she wanted it to. “The other day, in the water—I owe you such a debt, I cannot express—”

  He closed the distance between them. “Miss Darcy.” He reached toward her, but withdrew his hand before touching her. “You owe me nothing,” he said gently. “Pray, do not let a sense of obligation to me cause you more distress.”

  “I owe you my life.” She looked up at him. “When the boat capsized, and I was under the water—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed again. “I was never so frightened in all my days.”

  “Nor was I.”

  She studied his face, her own disbelieving. “That cannot be true,” she said. “You have been aboard embattled ships, with cannonballs flying and wounded comrades falling all around you.”

  His expression was all seriousness; his voice, little more than a whisper.

  “Yes, I have.”

  She was the first to break their gaze, turning to busy herself with the tea things once more.

  “I—my conduct toward you when we found Captain Tourner—” She picked up the half-full teacup but did not drink, in need not of refreshment, but something to do with her hands. “Forgive me. I did not know what to think.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You were in shock. And even were you not, the evidence was condemning, and I could not at that moment freely speak in my own defense.”

  She added sugar to the tea, but the tea had gone cold, and the wet, brown lump sat undissolved in the cup. “I did not want to believe you capable of murder, but Sir Laurence was so persuasive.” She finally looked at him again. “And when my own brother helped take you away—”

  “In point of fact, I was grateful for Mr. Darcy’s escort. I knew that once I was in the navy’s custody and had an opportunity to send word to the Admiralty, I would be safe, but Sir Laurence easily could have ensured I never reached the base.”

  The teacup clattered in its saucer. “You thought he might make an attempt on your life?”

  “You saw what he is capable of.” St. Clair took the teacup from her before she spilled it. “But Sir Laurence could not act with Mr. Darcy present. Here—” He poured her a fresh cup of tea. “Come sit down, and let us talk about something else.”

  “It is kind of you to try to distract me, but I cannot imagine a subject exists that could divert my thoughts from Sir Laurence and the present crisis.”

  “We shall do our best to find one,” he said, leading her to the sofa. “And should we fail, I believe I still owe you definitions of topsails and yardarms.”

  * * *

  Despite Mrs. Wentworth’s apparent calmness, Elizabeth could feel the anxiety radiating from her, and understood it as only another parent can. Lily-Anne had disappeared once—wandered out of sight one afternoon while they were picnicking beside the stream at Pemberley—and the minutes until she and Darcy found her were the most sickening of Elizabeth’s life. She had held herself together while they searched—then burst into sobs upon her daughter’s discovery.

  Mrs. Wentworth ran her hand along the headboard of the empty cradle. “Frederick will find him,” she said in a voice that sounded more an attempt to convince herself than Elizabeth. “If Alfred can be found.”

  “He has Mr. Darcy to help him,” Elizabeth said. “Darcy has found missing people before—my youngest sister, for one.” Lydia’s disappearance had been a voluntary elopement, but Elizabeth told herself that if Darcy could locate her wayward sister in all of London, he could find Alfred in Lyme.

  “Alfred has become more than a brother to me. Though he has been with us but a short while, I have come to love him as a son. And Mrs. Smith—I fear for her, too. If only we knew whether she is on the Cobb or missing, as well.” She stepped away from the cradle and looked out the window toward the sea. “It is always women’s lot to wait.”

  “Apparently we are all confined to quarters—and we are not the ones who have done anything wrong.”

  “I am not under any orders from the admiral. And it feels unnatural—it feels wrong—to sit idle when one’s child is in danger. If Lily-Anne were missing, what would you do?”

  Elizabeth knew exactly what she would do. All the Sir Laurences and Mr. Elliots in the world could not prevent her from taking some kind of action to find her daughter. Yet she did not want to lead Mrs. Wentworth astray. “I would go to the Cobb and ascertain whether Mrs. Smith is there. Captain Wentworth said somebody ought, and I agree. However, when he said that, I do not think you were the ‘somebody’ he had in mind, and I do not want to advise you to act against your husband’s wishes.”

  “I was contemplating it before you said it aloud. Do you think I would be endangering myself? I do not want to add to Captain Wentworth’s trouble.”

  “With Mr. Elliot’s whereabouts unknown, you should not go alone, but if we go together I believe we will be safe. If there is any sign of trouble, the Harvilles’ cottage is nearby, and there will be plenty of other people about.”

  “What will Mr. Darcy say? I doubt he would want you to go, with Sir Laurence’s ship in the harbor.”

  Mrs. Wentworth was correct about the likelihood of Darcy’s endorsing this plan. But Elizabeth hoped the intelligence their mission yielded would abate any displeasure at how it had been obtained. “As he is not here to voice an objection, I think Captain St. Clair will prove a greater obstacle.”

  “Not if we use the back stairs.”

  Thirty-Five

  “Let me plead for my—present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr. Elliot.”

  —Mrs. Smith to Anne Elliot, Persuasion

  Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth completed the walk to Cobb Hamlet in as much haste as possible without drawing undue attention to themselves. It seemed every elderly, infirm, fat, idle, or just plain slow person in Lyme had turned out on market day for a leisurely stroll, determined to put themselves in the two ladies’ path and wander oblivious to the fact that anybody might want to pass them. In truth, however, this was only their perception, distorted by the urgency of their errand. Nor was the number of boats that obscured their view across the harbor once they reached the shore any greater than what it ought to have been.

  The fog, however, was a different matter. The sun had declined to show itself this morning, instead allowing the mist to linger in patches that shrouded sections of the seawall, including the one most of interest to them. They could see figures near the bench—a woman seated, a man standing.

  Despite the gloomy atmosphere, Elizabeth observed the woman hopefully. “Is that Mrs. Smith? I cannot tell.”

  “Nor can I,” said Mrs. Wentworth. “We shall have to move closer.”

  They walked along the lower wall, forcing themselves to proceed slowly so as not to cat
ch the figures’ notice. The angle from which they viewed the couple altered as they progressed along the curve. The gentleman, his back to them, now blocked their view of the woman. When Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth were nearly as far as the gin shop, however, he glanced toward the beach, momentarily offering them his profile. Then he put one hand on the wall and leaned against it, shifting just enough to open up their line of sight to the bench.

  The woman was indeed Mrs. Smith.

  Anne gasped and grabbed Elizabeth’s arm. In her lap was Alfred.

  And the gentleman to whom she was speaking, ever so collectedly, was Mr. Elliot.

  “What do we do to help her?” Mrs. Wentworth whispered.

  Elizabeth took in the pair—Mrs. Smith’s cool manner of address, Mr. Elliot’s casual stance. As he tossed back his head and issued a laugh that carried to Elizabeth’s ears, an unsettling thought overtook her.

  Perhaps Mrs. Smith did not want their help.

  She and Mr. Elliot were, after all, old acquaintances whose years of friendship outnumbered their years of estrangement. Mrs. Smith had shared a great many of Mr. Elliot’s secrets—how many of hers did he know? And was the greatest one of all, that they were even now in league with each other?

  Was that the reason Mrs. Smith was the only one of Mr. Elliot’s former set still alive?

  So many questions entered Elizabeth’s thoughts at once that she could not contemplate them all. Was Mrs. Smith as poor as she claimed? Did she know about the smuggling? Did she know more about Mrs. Clay’s death than she had let on? And Alfred—what in heaven’s name was she doing sitting so nonchalantly on the Cobb with the Wentworths’ missing child on her lap? Had she helped Mr. Elliot steal the baby? Had she let him in the house?

  Or was an endangered Mrs. Smith calmly trying to negotiate for her and Alfred’s lives with a devil so cold-blooded that he could laugh as he bargained? If only she could hear what they were saying.