Mister Darcy's Dogs

by Barbara Silkstone

  Jane fussed with her pale green dress, smoothing the skirt. It was a nervous habit. His eyes embraced her. She caught his gaze and they smiled in concert.

  Caroline leaned on the bonnet of the Maybach. Her stiletto heels sunk in the muddy ground, her arms folded across her chest. She was a fish out of water or, perhaps, a mink out of the closet. Either way she was furious. And the class had only just begun.

  It was time to train Mister Darcy. “Please call your dogs,” I said to him.

  “Squire! Derby!” he called.

  The dogs did not respond.

  Darcy whistled. He clapped.

  The bassets continued to wiggle and bark through the fenced runs enjoying their chat with my penned greyhounds. The house whippets danced around the bassets doing what dogs do best, smelling each other’s bums.

  Squire and Derby came to my side without a second call. They heeled on command. Who’s the expert? I buffed my nails against my bodice. “Now we lead them into the field.”

  Lydia stepped to the center of our group. “We’re going to take Georgiana into the cottage for tea.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. Run along.”

  Darcy’s dark eyes flashed. Once the cottage door closed behind them, he snapped. “You did it again! I want Georgiana by my side at all times.”

  “Surely, a quiet tea with my sisters should be no threat to Georgiana’s health.”

  Caroline’s whining cut through Darcy’s next words, “What am I to do?” she wailed. “It’s hot. I’m uncomfortable.”

  The society damsel removed her scarf and draped it over the open car door. “Where are the cameras? Where are the horses? Are we mounting?”

  “You can mount whatever you chose. However, there are no horses,” I said.

  “I find this cottage to be quite common,” Caroline said. Her look was so condescending I agreed with myself she deserved what was coming.

  A soft growl escaped my lips. “Why thank you,” I said. “I am sure you are very knowledgeable regarding common things.”

  She pulled her lips back over her teeth. I expected her to snarl but Darcy interrupted.

  “Caroline, perhaps you’d best join the girls for tea,” Darcy said prying her from her Maybach slouch. Her mouth melted into a faux smile aimed at Mister Darcy. She shot me a daggered glare and marched toward the cottage, nose up. I prayed for a sudden downpour.

  Once the front door was secured behind Caroline, I grabbed her scarf from the car. We had our scent.

  “Bingley if you would be so kind as to drag this scarf and lay a trail?”

  Darcy and Bingley exchanged a look. In that instant they were twelve-year- old boys enjoying a jolly prank.

  Bingley headed out on foot across our grounds and down onto the neighbors estate. He looked every bit an exotic dancer waving the scarf in the air and then dragging it along the ground, resembling a character out of Midsummer’s Night Dream.

  Mister Darcy and I shared a little smile.

  “I have a phone call that must be made. Pardon me,” he said and stepped into the Maybach. The chauffeur closed the door after him.

  I joined Jane on the porch. We stood in silence, looking back at the road that led to London. “Don’t dwell, Jane. Everything works out for the best.”

  I caught the glint of what appeared to be the bonnet of a car parked behind a clump of oaks where the road met our drive. A man’s face framed with dark wavy hair appeared between the shrubberies.

  I rubbed my eyes again. He disappeared.

  Was I imagining him? “Stay here,” I said to Jane, not telling her what I’d seen. I might be wrong. No need to worry her.

  Marching up the road both confident and frightened, I hoped I wasn’t about to encounter Jack the Ripper.

  A man stood on the far side of a dark sedan. He grinned. “Miss Bennet, fancy meeting you here.”

  It was George Wickham.

  Chapter 7

  Wickham grinned a Cheshire Cat grin. I suddenly felt like a tasty canary. He had to be following me. There was no other explanation or was there?

  I looked back at the cottage to see if we were in Jane’s line of sight. She’d left the porch. I was on my own. When I turned again, Wickham was about to place his hands on my shoulders. I think it was my shoulders he was aiming for. I stumbled backward, losing my balance. He reached out, catching me before I fell. I was in the hands of a stalker.

  “Miss Bennet, I would appreciate it if you did not tell Mister Darcy about seeing me. What I am about to tell you is for your safety and that of your sisters.”

  His sincerity left only a teeny bit of doubt in my mind that he had my best interests at heart. Mercy, was I turning into Jane? Was I beginning to see good in everyone…. except Mister Darcy?

  Wickham released his grip on my arms. I stepped back ready to run and yet overcome with curiosity. He touched his thumb and index finger to the top and bottom of his lips as if thinking how to form his next words. I waited, my knees flexed to dash or at the least deliver a Charlie’s Angels’ kick like Cameron Diaz. Which foot did you stand on and which one did you use to kick? I wished I’d paid closer attention to that movie.

  “I have been retained by Interpol to investigate William Darcy. This is highest priority and top secret. Can you keep a secret?”

  I glanced back at the cottage. No sign of Mister Darcy. He must still be in the Maybach on his private call. Confusion crept to my stomach, bringing with it a cold chill. Mister Darcy’s life style and his unexplained wealth gave me pause. Had I brought a viper to my home? Poo! Just when I was coming to like him.

  “May I see some credentials?” I asked.

  Wickham looked as if he were speaking to a child. “Surely you don’t think Interpol would send agents into dangerous situations like this with identification that could mark them for death?” He lowered his voice on the last word.

  I thought of the dog handler at the Royal Albert. He said I would be safe with Bingley. An odd statement at the time.

  “I fail to understand how my family is in any danger, Mr. Wickham.”

  “Exactly! That’s the brilliance of the man we are up against.”

  “But he brought his sister with him to my home.” I felt like scratching my head to waken some brain cells. He made no sense or perhaps he made entirely too much sense.

  “His sister is here?” Wickham asked.

  “A proper investigator would know that. You tell a good tale, but I question your honesty, sir.”

  “When this is a fait accompli, I will treat you to the largest dish of strawberry ice cream in London to celebrate my trustworthiness. It’s your favorite dessert isn’t it?”

  The man was charming, but I’m not easily swayed by a handsome face and offers of sweets. Did he think me as some giddy young girl? He’d best do his homework.

  “This is clearly nonsense.” I said, but a part of me felt the sense of his claim.

  He favored me with a crisp military salute. “Run back before you are missed, and say nothing as your country is relying on your discretion. I’m leaving now.”

  I nodded my head and stepped away, afraid to turn my back on him. Of course, the first thing I did was run home to tell Jane.

  Darcy’s silhouette, visible through the tinted windows of the Maybach, showed him deep in conversation on the cell phone. Passing the car I looked out onto the grounds. Bingley continued his May Dance, dragging Caroline’s scarf over the terrain, laying a scent trail for the bassets.

  The cottage, cool and comfortable after my heated dash from Wickham, embraced me with a feeling of safety. Miss BBC Society Reporter was nodding off on the wicker loveseat in our tiny solarium.

  Georgiana, Lydia, and Kitty chattered over tea like magpies on caffeine. It was impossible to break the code of their speed-talk. They burst into giggles every few minutes. I can’t remember ever being that silly.

  I was about to tell Jane of the dodgy actions of Wickham when there came a tempered knock on the door. Jane opened and invite
d Mister Darcy into our parlor. He filled the room with his presence, both by height and aura. His eyes found mine. I blinked like a nervous nelly trying to re-establish control. If a dog or a man sees fear in your eyes, he will immediately assume he is your superior. I was not about to grant Mister Will Darcy control over me.

  I nibbled on my bottom lip, fretting I might give away Wickham’s secret. But then I wasn’t so sure I wanted to keep it. Having never met a man from Interpol before, he could very well be a liar. Conversely, Mister Darcy had many points against him in the believability column. Who installs climbing walls in their super-flat? Who actually owns a super-flat? A Russian oligarch?

  Derby and Squire lay near the door, enjoying the company of my house whippets. They looked at Darcy with melting black-button eyes but didn’t budge from their posts.

  A slight rap on the back door caused me to jump. “Excuse me,” I said to Mister Darcy and elbowed Jane out of my path. I needed time to think and took the knock as a temporary escape.

  Bingley was at the back door. He stepped into the kitchen and handed me Caroline’s scarf, a remnant of the Crimean War. I bagged it and binned it. I was sure Caroline would want me to.

  “May I use your bath to de-scent?”

  “But of course. It’s just there.” I pointed to the small room off the kitchen.

  I returned to the parlor where Jane and Darcy had taken seats. Seeing his tall muscular body now folded into a small chintz armchair reminded me of an illustrated Kipling book. A tiger having tea. Oh dear, perhaps it wasn’t Kipling.

  I felt the need to unburden myself with the entire Wickham tale, but if he were truly an Interpol investigator on the trail of Mister Darcy, would I put my foot squarely in the pudding?

  I caught Darcy looking at me from under his long eyelashes. I blushed and looked away. He was either an attractive man enjoying my little world or an international villain about to perform some dastardly deed on my family. I shook myself to rattle some common sense into place.

  Will Darcy stood up. “Well, shall we have at it?”

  “Let’s gather the dogs and head out to the field,” I said.

  Caroline was snoring in the solarium. By mutual consent delivered with a nod of the head, we left her to her dreams.

  I cautioned Jane to keep the girls inside, casting her my sternest look. There wasn’t time to explain the spy in the shrubbery not with Mister Darcy at my side. If he overheard me telling Jane he would know Interpol was watching him, and I might be aiding an international criminal. I felt smack in the middle of a James Bond movie. The only missing character was Dame Judi Dench. You can’t make up stuff like this.

  Out the door we went, with the dogs in stubby pursuit of Caroline’s perfumed scarf. Repeatedly I looked over my shoulder but saw no more of George Wickham.

  Chapter 8

  Bingley and Jane followed us into the garden.

  “Please, Jane, it will be such fun!” Bingley said. My sister was not the outdoor type. I doubted he could convince her to join our training session.

  I glanced back to see her face lit with a huge smile. She dashed into the cottage. After a quick transformation into slacks and boots, she would be joining us.

  My sister might just be falling in love. Now if I had any concept of how to educate hunting dogs, we’d be tip-top.

  The containment of the giggling girls in the parlor would now rest in the hands of fate. Strange how they had instantly connected, but they were three teens on short leashes, so any new friend would be a delight. I crossed my fingers that Lydia would exercise some self-control and not invite the entire RAF squad in for tea.

  I considered telling Jane about the man in the bushes, but knowing her, I just knew she would insist on politely confronting him. Darcy would then find out about Interpol. The risk of bumbling an international investigation weighted the scale to my buttoning my lip.

  On the flip-side, I had no reason to believe Mister Darcy wasn’t the wealthiest man in England, with incredibly tacky taste in home décor. He seemed burdened with a desperate need to impress, but Darcy’s haughty behavior had the opposite effect on me. Although an irritating bore, he might be a good reference to help me build my dog counseling practice.

  I hoisted my trousers and clumped over logs as Derby and Squire dragged their bellies over the grass and fallen timbers. They howled with joy at being on the scent of their enemy.

  Jane made a quick job of changing clothes. With an ear-to-ear smile, she joined Bingley. I could hear his cheery voice rambling about the birds and the bees. Looking over my shoulder I caught him holding Jane’s arm and guiding her over a tumbled tree.

  Darcy’s face lit with the excitement of the chase. The bassets circled a spot, sniffy and drooling. Then like a matched set of short soldiers, they lifted their legs and peed on the target. Darcy dropped on the ground a short distance way and laughingly called them. Squire and Derby loped to his lap. He hugged the dogs, tousling the tops of their heads and scratching under their ears.

  The man and his bassets repeated the routine a dozen times in our field hike, the dogs occasionally breaking into deep howls when sniffing Caroline’s scent. Either he wasn’t taking this hunt seriously or he wasn’t a very competitive man, which seemed odd for someone in his financial position. But then what did I know about the quirks of the super-rich?

  Unsure what I could add to their collective training, I followed after them and faked it. I tried to sound involved but it seemed that other than supplying the scent of Caroline’s scarf, I was merely along for the ride. The man and his dogs, freed from their concrete and glass world, played like children. I swallowed a smile. International criminal… bollocks! But then aren’t most conmen charming? How about con dogs?

  Derby and Squire came to Darcy each time he called. They were joyous in his playfulness and saw this as one great party. Bassets require plenty of wholesome outdoor exercise. It was evident they did not get much field play and were having a royal good time. Originally bred for the hunt, most modern day bassets had become couch potatoes or show dogs with low-slung bellies. These two pups were game for the game. The trail hunt, day after tomorrow, could be great fun.

  As I watched the handsome man in his wall climbing gear wrestle with the dogs, I had a hard time seeing him through Wickham’s eyes. Could this man really be a notorious criminal? He caught me studying him and assumed the most peculiar expression. Again, I found myself wondering if he could read my mind.

  I decided to concentrate on the job I was hired for and not international espionage. Mister Darcy should not be playing with hunting dogs. They need to see him as their alpha leader, not their playmate. It was time to train Mister Darcy.

  “The dogs are dreadfully slow. They will have trouble keeping up with the beagles,” I said.

  “Perfect. I’m not looking for speed. I want them with me near Caroline and her camera crew at all times. Your idea of the scarf, although stumbled upon, is a spot-on solution.”

  “You want the dogs to hunt slowly?”

  “I am a fraud,” Mister Darcy said. He dropped his arms to his sides in resignation.

  My heart stopped. Was he about to confess to me? I took two shaky steps back. Where was Wickham?

  Darcy cut me a quizzical look.

  “I’d like the dogs to learn to follow a hunting pack, but not to catch the fox. Trail hunts are supposed to be no-kill hunts since the passage of the Act.”

  “I see.” Clear as mud, but relieved on behalf of the fox.

  I bent over and pulled burrs from the cuffs of my trousers as I sorted my thoughts. What was Mister Darcy planning? My mind ran the gamut from betting against his own dogs to the assassination of someone in the hunting party. I made a note to check the hunt register and see if any MPs were on the list. His behavior was most peculiar.

  “Your job is to train Derby and Squire to follow the pack and Caroline. And it appears you have accomplished that brilliantly with the touch of a scarf.”

  His complimen
t threw me off. I had no snappy comeback, so I merely winked.

  He laughed, a deep masculine laugh that left me quite pleased. Why is it so important to me to make a man laugh? I find it very satisfying. Perhaps it was because father’s sweeter-than-any-candy chuckles had become so rare as he aged.

  Jane and Bingley joined us. I noticed he was no longer supporting her arm. They were holding hands. That was not like my sister at all. Her understanding heart did not extend to romantic fancies, especially with a new acquaintance. Bingley exercised a chemistry that put a twinkle in her eyes.

  On Bingley’s good account, he hung on her every word as if she were a goddess come to earth. His eyes frequently dropped to her lips to watch the words as they tumbled from her mouth. That’s what real love looks like, I thought.

  “Is something wrong?” Jane asked.

  “We’re just resting. The dogs are doing quite well in tracking… Caroline’s scarf,” Darcy said.

  We shared a soft chortle at Caroline’s expense.

  I thought to try for another laugh from Darcy. “Perhaps for the actual hunt, we could strap a fox to Caroline’s chest?” I quipped.

  A deadly silence settled on the group. The joke seemed funnier in my head; once spoken it fell with a splat.

  Bingley dropped Jane’s hand and turned away from us. Oh dear. Now I’d gone and ruined it by acting common and sarcastic with my ungoverned mouth.

  Mister Darcy made a choking sound but then drew up his face in most ominous frown. “Why would Caroline strap a fox to her chest?”

  Why indeed? I felt the fool. But surely he could have been gracious and pretended my little joke was funny. I wished I could disappear.

  Jane and I exchanged looks. A smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. She understood my humor.