Mrs. Smith’s voice cracked, and one of the hands that had been strong enough to carry Alfred now shook as Anne Wentworth took it into her own.
“I asked about her younger son, and whether he had grown to bear the image of his father. She replied that he little resembled Mr. Clay. ‘That is not what I asked,’ I said. She at last had the decency to look ashamed. She took a step back, and said she did not understand my meaning. She was close to the wall’s edge, but not right upon it. ‘That surprises me,’ I said, ‘for I understand you perfectly.’ I moved another step toward her. ‘But if you truly do not comprehend, I will state my query more plainly. Is he my husband’s child?’
“She stared at me for what must have been half a minute at least, the wind whipping her hair and cloak, the gloom deepening. I could see in her calculating visage an internal deliberation over whether any purpose would be served by attempting to maintain the lie any longer. At last she answered. ‘Yes, he is.’
“At that moment, a thunderbolt pierced the sky. Arriving as it did, so swiftly upon her confession, it seemed a divine condemnation of her sin. She started, and took another step backward, coming precariously close to the edge of the seawall. I realized her peril and moved toward her to pull her back to safety. But Mrs. Clay interpreted my advance as threatening, and put up her hands to ward me away.”
Mrs. Smith’s voice had become thick. She swallowed, blinking watery eyes. “I called out to warn her that she was close to the edge, but people were shouting about a ship on fire and my voice was drowned by their cries and the wind. Then the ship exploded. The blast so startled her that she lost her balance. I reached for her, but she was already too far into her fall for my fingers to more than brush her sleeve.”
Mrs. Smith looked beseechingly at Anne.
“It was an accident. An unfortunate, regrettable accident.”
* * *
“Yet you did not summon anybody to help her,” Darcy said.
“My own thinking was not clear immediately following,” Mrs. Smith replied. “I was shocked by the explosion and from the horror of witnessing such a dreadful fall. I assumed Mrs. Clay was dead, having tumbled so far, especially in her condition. Also, I was frightened that someone might have seen the accident and misconstrued what occurred—as Mr. Elliot did. I started walking along the upper wall toward shore, faster than I had realized myself capable of, spurred by fear and the pandemonium around me. I had covered half the distance before my mind settled enough for me to consider that perhaps she had not died. I looked back, and by then you were attending her. So I continued to the main steps, where I met the sedan chair when it and my nurse arrived a few minutes later. She was surprised to find me waiting there, but I told her that after the explosion someone had helped me that far.”
She turned back to Anne Wentworth. “My dear friend, you believe me, do you not? You, who have known me even longer than did Mrs. Clay. As much as I resented her, I did not push her. I could never do such a thing.”
Anne pressed Mrs. Smith’s hand. “Of course you could not.”
Darcy was less certain.
However, it was Mr. Elliot who, though not meaning to, now commanded Darcy’s attention. The gaze that had periodically shifted toward the Black Cormorant throughout Mrs. Smith’s confession now looked past Darcy, toward shore. The casual stance in which he had so confidently goaded Mrs. Smith now adopted a more defensive air.
Darcy turned. A detachment of Royal Marines had arrived on the Cobb. They marched in formation along the lower wall, their red coats a striking display of color in the gloom. Admiral Croft and Captain St. Clair accompanied them.
“Well, this has been a fascinating explanation,” Mr. Elliot said. “However, further reminiscing will have to wait, for you have delayed my errand too long as it is.” He moved past the ladies on the bench and headed toward the quay. Captain Wentworth, however, interposed himself.
“I am afraid, Mr. Elliot, that I must detain you a little longer,” he said. “I believe Admiral Croft has business with you.”
“What business could the admiral possibly have with me?”
Admiral Croft reached their party and came to a stop. “A warrant for your arrest.” Captain St. Clair and two marines remained with him while the rest continued to the quay. “And another authorizing the search of your property in Sidmouth.”
“Whatever for?”
“Smuggled artifacts.”
“This is outrageous.” He glared at Captain St. Clair. “You will find no evidence there.”
“Regardless of what is discovered,” Captain Wentworth said, “we already have enough to free Mr. Smith’s plantation from your control and try you for stealing from his widow.”
“Truly, Captain Wentworth?” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. “I will at last have income from my husband’s estate to support myself?”
“Truly.”
“Oh, Anne! Is this not the most wonderful news?” Mrs. Smith smiled triumphantly at Mr. Elliot as the pair of marines led him away.
Captain St. Clair noted the baby in Anne Wentworth’s arms. “It was Mr. Elliot, then, who stole the child? Is Alfred well?”
“Actually, my friend Mrs. Smith had him,” Mrs. Wentworth replied. “He is fine.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“Have you already arrested Sir Laurence?” Darcy asked.
“He was not at home,” St. Clair replied. “We believe he is on his ship. If so, he will not be aboard much longer.”
A revenue cutter had entered the port, effectively blocking the merchantman’s ability to exit it. Meanwhile, the marines had been joined by a group of customs officials who had emerged from the harbormaster’s office. Together, they swarmed the Black Cormorant.
Just as the admiral, St. Clair, Wentworth, and Darcy walked up the gang-board from the quay to the deck, the marine sergeant emerged from the master’s cabin with Sir Laurence. Another man was with the baronet. Darcy did not recognize him, but Captain St. Clair did.
“Lieutenant Wilton,” St. Clair muttered. “Apparently, Sir Laurence wasted no time in finding another ship’s master. We shall relieve him of command, as well.”
Admiral Croft turned to St. Clair. “You may do the honors, Captain. You have earned the pleasure.”
St. Clair stepped forward. “This ship is hereby seized by the crown,” he announced. “And you, Sir Laurence—along with all her crew—are under arrest for the illegal import and sale of foreign goods, and for conspiring to defraud His Majesty King George of revenues rightfully his.”
“These charges are made on whose word, Lieutenant?” Sir Laurence regarded St. Clair disdainfully. “That of a killer?”
“That of Captain St. Clair,” said the admiral, “senior officer in His Majesty’s navy, who has been investigating you and your fellow conspirators under the orders and authority of the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.”
The admiral’s reply gave Sir Laurence pause, but only for a moment. “You must be very confident to arrest me,” he said. “I have influential friends.”
“We shall see if they remain your friends when they learn you are a thief,” St. Clair replied. “Not to mention a murderer.” He looked to the sergeant. “Take him.”
As the arrests were made, Darcy and Captain Wentworth rejoined their wives back on the Cobb. They watched Sir Laurence being led away.
“What a relief to finally see Sir Laurence exposed as a murderer,” Mrs. Smith muttered.
Captain Wentworth regarded her in puzzlement. “How did you come to know about Captain Tourner?”
“Captain Tourner? I have no idea who you refer to. I was thinking of another man entirely—one whom my husband told me about before he died. On his voyage home from the West Indies, Mr. Smith and his companions were involved in a very frightening battle in which they had to defend themselves. My husband took down a French sailor with his pistol, but he said Sir Laurence’s shot struck a young British lieutenant.”
“Intentionally?” Darcy asked
.
“My husband said it appeared so, but he could not comprehend why Sir Laurence would do such a thing. The incident troubled him greatly. He raved about it repeatedly in the delirium of his final days.”
“Did he name the officer?” Darcy asked.
“Fitz-something. Fitzgerald? No—that is not it. I am sorry—I have long forgotten. At the time, my attention was absorbed by utterances he made of a more personal nature.”
Darcy looked once more at Sir Laurence. The gentleman Darcy would have welcomed into his family had dispassionately stolen the life of one of its members. Even now, the baronet left the Cobb with an outward air of dignity that belied the dark soul within.
Elizabeth slipped her hand into Darcy’s. “At last, you have your answer—we know for certain it was Sir Laurence who killed your cousin. Why do you look so troubled?”
“I am contemplating how much of Sir Laurence’s beguiling was his doing, and how much was mine. I believe I allowed his title and fortune to blind me to his true character.”
“He is well practiced at deceit.”
“I thought I was well practiced at unmasking it.”
Thirty-Seven
“While we were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared.”
—Mrs. Croft, Persuasion
After their time beside the sea, London felt cramped and noisy to Darcy. Its streets seemed too level, its buildings too numerous, its air too close. Though their town house was, as ever, an oasis of peace amidst the urban din, he was glad their time in the city would be of short duration. Soon they could return home to Pemberley, stopping en route to deliver Gerard’s sea chest to Riveton Hall—the final destination of its long journey.
First, however, Darcy was obliged to testify against Mr. Elliot and Sir Laurence in the Court of Admiralty. Artifacts had been found on both their properties—in the quarry caves at Sidmouth and in Sir Laurence’s art collection at Thornberry. When the evidence was combined with the testimony of Captain St. Clair, Admiral Croft, Darcy, and others, it was expected that the trials would be resolved fairly quickly. The numerous courts-martial for the corrupt naval officers would continue much longer.
Captain St. Clair called upon them nearly every evening. The Darcys had him to dinner more than once; in turn, they had dined at the home of St. Clair’s London sister, with whom he was staying. In his company and under his tutelage, Georgiana’s interest in things nautical had blossomed. She proved an apt and eager pupil, soon conversant in the jargon of man-o’-wars and seventy-fours, and she took particular pleasure in hearing him describe life aboard ship and the lands across the Atlantic where he had spent so much of his career. He, in turn, seemed as taken with her intellect, her conversation, and her gentle manner as he had been with her appearance on the evening he had first seen her. After years of hearing little in the way of music beyond fiddle tunes and sea ballads sung by men’s voices, he took particular pleasure in listening to her perform on the harp and piano, and he was delighted to be able to speak with her in languages he had acquired in his travels.
Now that the naval officer was free to represent himself honestly, Darcy found that he liked the young captain quite well—well enough that when he discovered his sister reading the Navy List in the drawing room one afternoon, he sat down on the sofa and looked at it with her.
They talked—about Mr. Wickham and Sir Laurence, about trust broken and judgment deceived. They forgave each other—and most important, forgave themselves—for their perceived failure to recognize such determined scoundrels until nearly too late. They shuddered at what might have been, and looked forward to what might be.
“Sir Laurence is a criminal, and I am grateful to have escaped the future I thought I wanted,” Georgiana said, “but I did learn something from him. The more I reflect upon my conversations with him, the more I realize how much they were about him—his interests, his tastes, his opinions—and how little about me. I think he had decided to acquire a wife, and I answered his criteria. Had we wed, I would have become simply another object in his collection. Next time, I shall hold out for a man who expresses at least passing curiosity about what I think, and feel, and want.”
“What is it that you want, Georgiana?”
“Purpose, foremost—something more meaningful than endless balls and dinners and theatre parties. Variety—of places and people and activity. And a home of my own.” She paused. “I believe it is time I left Pemberley to you and Elizabeth and your children.”
They were in no hurry for her to go. “Pemberley is your home as long as you want it.”
“I know it is. But I would like to be mistress of my own. It does not have to be a grand home, just mine—and my husband’s, of course.”
Darcy smiled. “I am glad to hear you intend to let him share it, whoever the poor fellow may be.”
“You should indeed feel sorry for him, as my previous failures have increased my requirements. I want a man of integrity and principle, whom I can respect and admire, who respects and appreciates me in turn, and who makes me feel safe, happy, and loved.” She paused. “In short, I want what Elizabeth has.”
He smiled again at her praise, but said very seriously, “That is what I want for you, too.”
She picked up the Navy List, still in her lap, and set it aside. “And if he looks handsome in blue, so much the better.”
He laughed and put his arm around her. She rested her head against him, as she had when she was small. She was more than ten years his junior, and they had lost their mother on the day she was born. He had been protecting Georgiana her entire life; it would take just such a man to persuade him to relinquish that role.
“He is in a dangerous profession,” Darcy said. Though they had not spoken directly of St. Clair throughout their discussion, there was no need to identify the “he” by name. “I would not want to see your heart broken like Miss Wright’s.”
“I have given this much consideration,” she replied. “Nobody lives in perfect safety, and we are at peace now, which makes his profession less dangerous than it was. But even should war come again—it is a risk I am willing to take.”
* * *
They had been in town a fortnight when a captain in full dress uniform came to call. He entered their drawing room a striking figure. Gold lace edged the collar, lapels, pockets, and tails of his dark blue coat; an additional two rows of gold distinction lace striped his cuffs. The insignia of his two epaulettes—a crown over a silver anchor with a rope twined round it—marked him as a captain of seniority; the symbol also adorned the gilt buttons of his coat and breeches. Another anchor—sans crown—graced the gold and ivory hilt of his sword. His tall bicorne hat easily added another foot to his height—and to the aura of authority he projected.
This was a commander whose presence instilled courage, an officer whose conduct exemplified honor, a leader whose integrity inspired trust.
A man who, judging from the glow in her eyes, Georgiana would follow anywhere.
“Captain St. Clair.” Her lips pursed as she tried to greet him with an appearance of dignity that matched his, and to restrain the smile that wanted to spread across her countenance. But the image he presented proved too great a force for her to disguise its effect on her, and her eyes betrayed the pride and happiness she took in seeing him at last able to publicly assume the rank to which merit had raised him years ago.
“Good evening, Miss Darcy.” He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.
“The tailor has finally finished your new uniform, I see.”
“Do you approve it?”
The smile would not be checked any longer. “It will do.”
“I have come direct from the Admiralty,” he said. “The board has appointed me captain of the Black Cormorant, now a Royal Navy frigate renamed the Perseverance.”
“There is no one more deserving of that ship.” Her smile spread farther. “Your own command at last! Where will you be stationed?”
“I am under orders
to the West Indies, to retrieve the remaining cache of gold.”
“Oh!—so far away.” Her smile faded, but she quickly recovered it. “But a part of the world you know well. And an important commission.”
“It is, indeed—and a profitable one. I will receive a captain’s share of whatever treasure we bring from there. Meanwhile, the Lords Commissioners have approved and released to me a reward of fifteen thousand pounds from contraband already seized, for my service in bringing the smugglers to justice.”
Though St. Clair addressed Georgiana, his gaze shifted to meet Darcy’s. As their eyes met, Darcy could see that this information was directed equally to him. And he knew why.
Fifteen thousand pounds, combined with Georgiana’s marriage settlement—not to mention whatever prize resulted from St. Clair’s retrieval of the remaining treasure—would provide a more than ample income upon which to wed.
“This is all very good news, Captain,” Darcy said. “In fact, I am sure Mrs. Darcy will want to hear it directly. If you will excuse me, I shall go find her.”
“Of course.”
“I believe she is in the nursery,” he added deliberately. “It may take me a while to disengage her from Lily-Anne.”
* * *
Andrew St. Clair, like any clever captain, knew how to employ an opportunity to advantage. There was one commission that he coveted even more than the post to which the Admiralty had just appointed him, and he now made his application with all the determination and hope for success of an officer initiating the most important engagement of his life.
In little more than a minute, Georgiana’s hand was in his.
In the next, it was his forever.
By the third, she was in his arms, and this time, with no other eyes upon them, he could hold her as tightly and for as long as they both wished. He did, then kissed her.
And laughed.
She pulled away just enough to look up at his face. “What amuses you?”
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