Georgiana leaned out of the car, a worried look on her face as she bit her knuckle.
Caroline sidled along the seat till she was smack on top of Georgiana. I could see the touché look on her pale face, a slash of red lipstick defining what she had hoped to inspire in my sisters and thereby reflect poorly on my character.
I could see the disappointment in Jane’s face. We had done a pitiable job of controlling our sisters and were shamed in front of both Bingley and Mister Darcy.
We were clearly middle class.
“You look cheap,” Darcy said to Lydia and Kitty.
A bolt of anger shot through me. How dare he? They were my sisters, not his. If they needed correction, it was my responsibility. I stewed, I brewed, and I determined to get even with the egotistical jerk. If anyone was going to call my sisters cheap, it was I.
“Inside!” I said pointing to the door and shooting Lydia a parental eye.
“There’s no time!” She snapped. “Our limo is waiting.”
“You two circus clowns have five minutes to return as Bennet sisters. Caroline and Georgiana will not mind waiting.”
Lydia and Kitty stomped off into the cottage, sounding like baby elephants.
Darcy pulled Bingley aside. “I have a bad feeling about this,” he said in a stage whisper. “Georgiana is not to be out of your sight for a minute. If you must, grip her hand the entire time. I am holding you personally responsible for her safety. You know what is at stake.”
Bingley’s eyes were set on Jane. Darcy tugged his arm. “Listen to me.”
The baby elephants returned with shinny faces and smug expressions. I was not mother, and not so easy to fool. “May I see your handbags?”
The steam poured from Lydia’s ears as she handed over her bag. Jane leaned in and we both sighed. The handbag held enough makeup to stage a full-cast performance of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I lugged the purse to the porch and dumped what amounted to a cosmetic display rack in Boots into an empty flowerpot.
I gave my errant baby sister a smug smile. “Have a wonderful time.”
Lydia squinted her eyes into two pencil thin lines. Kitty followed suit.
“Squint all you like. Just behave or you will find yourselves back in Meryton before you can say Jack Russell terrier.”
“Jane, keep a close watch on Lydia.” I hugged Jane. She glimmered in the reflected light of Bingley’s eyes. I knew I would never have a man so in love with me. They were two halves of a whole.
I caught the haughty look on Lydia’s face as the car pulled away. I made a mental note to price convent schools in France or, better yet, Siberia.
Darcy sighed. “Shall we begin? The sooner the dogs are ready for tomorrow, the sooner I can insert myself in that dodgy shopping trip. Something’s not right.”
I wanted to tell him I agreed, but why make confirm his worries? My sisters were acting like a pair of saucy minx, and their behavior reflected directly on me.
There were a hundred things I wanted not to say to him. If I bit my tongue one more time, I would yelp.
We headed out to the field as the Maybach disappeared down the road.
Chapter 12
Derby and Squire gallivanted after a fox pelt Darcy held over their heads as we hiked through the tall grass in the field.
He had to sense my ire at his cheap comment to my sisters. My silence roared.
Breaking the quietude with his blunt social skills he said, “You can ride? I assume.”
Did he order his pretentiousness from an online toff store?
“Yes. I am an experienced horsewoman.” Terse and tense, I puffed along like a little steam engine until I could contain myself no longer.
“I did not appreciate you’re calling my sisters cheap. I am sure you received the best of educations but evidently had a coarse course on manners.”
He snorted… perhaps to get the dust of Mount Olympus from his nostrils?
We ambled along, the dogs running ahead, soon bored by the scent of the fox pelt.
Darcy cleared his throat. “I apologize for my crass remark. It was a protective reaction. Georgiana should only associate with good examples, not painted hussies.”
I turned abruptly and kicked him in the shins. “Your mouth, sir, will be your undoing.”
He rubbed his leg, shooting me a stunned look. I imagine it was the first time a woman had truly booted him.
His face was knotted in an expression of faux pain. “Georgiana’s personal life is not for public consumption, but I will tell you this in strictest confidence. She has taken chances that have put our family name and fortune at risk and even worse, her life. My sister still has much growing up to do.”
He held his shin as he studied my face. “Why did you kick me?”
“It was the only way to get your attention.”
He was arrogant, complicated, and troubled. And I was a soft touch for troubled men. As a client, Mister Darcy bode ill for Elizabeth Bennet’s School of Canine Manners. I pondered over his words that Georgiana had done something that put her life at risk.
The dogs vanished in the high grass. He called for them. They popped their heads up and then playfully disappeared, ignoring him. Darcy mumbled under this breath.
My irritation at his cheap remark darkened like tea left too long to steep. Before I could contain my sharp tongue I retaliated with “Perhaps if you just whistle for them.”
He cut me a haughty look, one eyebrow arched.
“You do know how to whistle. Just put your lips together and blow.”
His mouth fell open.
Reprimand my sisters, indeed. I stomped off.
“Lauren Bacall,” he yelled after me. “To Have and Have Not!”
I turned in time to see him smile that same impish smile he employed when delighting in using Caroline’s scarf to bait the bassets.
Fuming, I marched back and stood directly in front of him.
“May I ask what Caroline’s purpose is in all this? She is so obviously not an outdoor sportswoman unless you count alfresco dining a sport.
In the short time I had known Mister Darcy, I found his facial expressions to be inscrutable. I could not read the man as he locked eyes with me.
“Caroline has friends in high places. They were able to secure her a position as Society Reporter for the BBC. You might have seen her interviewing the likes of Lord Ravenswood or the Duke and Duchess of York.”
“Why is she covering this particular hunt? Surely it holds no interest for—”
“The Barkley Hunt is society at its finest.”
I couldn’t tell if he was trying for sarcasm, so I thought I’d help him along.
“Ah, society is possessed of a fine side. I’m relieved to know it does exist.”
His dark eyes flared. Irritation or humor? “Caroline will be covering the hunt with a camera crew to show the tradition and pageantry of the hunt. I requested her presence, knowing with her contacts she would gain easy access to the Barkley Hunt.”
I placed my hand over my eyes to create a shade as we were in the brightest sun.
Darcy continued. “There have been accusations that the Barkley family are scofflaws and flout the Hunting Act. Lord Barkley has petitioned to rescind the Act. He feels a gentleman’s agreement to protect the foxes should be sufficient.”
He reached out, holding my arm to help me over a muddy patch. Again the tingle between us stunned me. Perhaps there was some chemistry but nothing I couldn’t conceal.
“Sir, I am an animal lover to the core, but surely the Barkley Hunt does not justify a BBC camera crew and a reporter in stilettos?”
“The hunt is one of England’s great traditions. Now it has become a mere shadow of the original with hounds and horses merely play-acting. Caroline’s documentary will be edited to show the loss high society is suffering under the Act.”
“I can’t imagine ‘high society’ suffering any great loss from not killing foxes.”
“Of course, you wouldn’
t understand. Not only has one of our great sports been relegated to a joke, but the huntsmen are now subject to harassment by monitors.”
“What’s a monitor?”
“Miss Bennet, do you ever watch the news?”
“Please call me Doctor Bennet,” I said, stumbling over Derby. I reached out and caught Darcy’s arm. I could see why I had chosen to train overanxious sofa dogs. It was much safer.
“Doctor, whatever. Monitors follow organized hunts with video cameras looking for hunt masters who allow their packs to catch foxes.”
This wasn’t making sense. What happened to the tally-ho, off to the hunt routine? Now it was all YouTube? And if fox hunting was such a shady event why was he bringing his young bassets into the fray?
I pulled up short. “The object of a fox hunt is to not catch the fox?” I said.
“Exactly.”
Being British is to permanently reside in Wonderland.
“There seems a part of your schooling, Doctor Bennet, that was sorely neglected. Did you learn anything about the training of working class dogs? Do you know how fox hounds are trained to hunt and kill?”
“Well I do know they don’t actually kill the fox.” I placed my hands on my hips and confronted him as if I knew more than I was sharing. “The hounds just find the fox and point to it like a bird dog.”
His expression changed to one of dismay. “If only that were the case,” he said, removing his iPhone from this pocket.
“Have a look,” he said, a certain sadness in his voice. He stuck the gadget under my nose and set it to a video. “In the autumn of each year hunt clubs take the young hounds out cubbing. The young dogs are taught to hunt down and kill the baby foxes hiding in their family dens.”
I watched as riders in red jackets and black caps followed hounds into dense thickets and felt the horror register on my face. Vixens were hiding their babies from snarling dogs. Suddenly the glamour of training hunting dogs was sucked down the tubes.
“Hunters invade the dens with puppies and experienced hounds. A young hound is considered entered into the pack once he or she has taken part in a kill. Hounds that do not show an enthusiasm for the kill may be relocated.”
“Relocated?”
He looked away and would not answer.
The meaning of his non-answer came to me in an excruciating flash. Relocated was like the spy-world euphemism for terminated with extreme prejudice. My knees buckled. I dropped to the ground and covered my eyes. Derby and Squire were all over me with slurpy kisses.
I’d spent all my time planning my dog-psychotherapy practice around the pampered dogs of the wealthy and never took into account the fates of working dogs.
With tears flowing, I lifted my head to escape the meaty tongues and said, “I always assumed a bunch of mounted posh-heads rode off on their well-groomed horses letting their hounds happily chase through the fields. The dogs would lift their index paws and point to the fox which was let free once it was found.”
Again, Darcy wore his inscrutable mask. My instincts told me he was deciding whether to trust me, but with what secret?
I gathered myself and scrambled to my feet, my wellies cutting sharp digs in my legs. I strode away from him to sort out this awful business. The bassets followed me, gazing up adoringly. I would not be a party to creating killers from these two lovable pups.
Turning on Darcy, I took my anger out on him. “Where is the sport in this?” I pointed at his iPhone.
Darcy approached and put his hand on my shoulder. “Foxes are smart. Many learn to thwart the hounds by running up or down streams or along the tops of fences to throw off the scent.”
His nostrils flared.
I had the strangest sensation Darcy sniffed my hair. “Are you smelling my hair?”
He went all squiggy around the edges. “Your hair smells of lavender. Did you know it charms the wildest beast?”
I brushed my hair from my face and forced Darcy to look into my eyes. “If you are not interested in catching a fox, why are we strolling the fields with two pokey bassets?” I stooped to pat their heads.
“Just walk slowly. Let them enjoy the day.”
“But then they will bring up the rear in the hunt.”
“Exactly. I don’t want them in the pack. I want them at my side.”
I reevaluated my snap decision about Darcy. I was wrong, at least partially. He might be an obnoxious but he wasn’t a villain, and I had to tell him about Wickham. I scanned the bushes to see if he was about but didn’t see him. I wondered if an Interpol agent could be so mistaken in regard to Darcy being a danger to my family or anything for that matter.
“Do you know George Wickham?”
Darcy stopped dead as if struck through the heart. “Wickham! Wickham? The hounds of hell dare not think his name, and yet you, a humble country girl, knows of George Wickham! That womanizer! That dastardly cad! That scoundrel! That, that, that–”
The first notes of Rule Britannia blared from Darcy’s phone. He snatched it from his pocket and put it to his ear. He turned ghastly white, his breath rasped.
He turned to me and said, “Georgiana’s gone missing!”
Chapter 13
“We must hurry to London!” Darcy grabbed my arm and fairly lifted me from the ground as he ran us toward the cottage. Derby and Squire loped alongside, their demeanor showed they understood something serious had happened.
We dashed to the Range Rover. Darcy held the passenger door for me. I jumped in. The bassets mistook the open door for an invitation. They clambered after me, their lead feet leaving painful muddy indentations in my lap as they used me for a steppingstone to the backseat.
I touched Darcy’s arm as he turned the key in the ignition. “What of my sisters?”
His look told me more than I dared to fear. “All three are missing.” He floored the engine and the Rover went flying down the road. The bassets fell from the backseat.
“We are to meet Bingley at the Venus fountain in Sloane Square. The girls were last seen in a dress shop on Kings Road.”
My heart ping-ping-pinged up my chest and lodged in my throat. “But how could this happen? Jane and Bingley were to watch the girls!”
Darcy clamped his jaw and careened down the country road headed for the M4.
“You have enemies, don’t you?” I asked, my voice quavering. Was Wickham correct about Darcy bringing trouble to my family? I mulled the possibilities.
“Strawberry ice cream!” I yelled.
For one dangerous moment Darcy took his eyes off the road to look at me as if I were a delirious lunatic. “You have a craving at a time like this?”
Yesterday I thought it strange Wickham offered me strawberry ice cream. Now I recalled with horror Lydia’s favorite treat was strawberry ice cream. That blighter had been chatting up my man-crazy baby sister. It was a slip of his lying tongue that told me he had taken the girls.
The truth of the situation thundered upon me. Lydia had been smitten with Wickham during our chance encounter with him at the Royal Albert Hall. I recalled her comments on his handsomeness and now that I thought about it, she was not at my side when I first met with Darcy amid the chaos. She must have stayed in contact with that womanizer. Wickham was the romantic hero of Lydia’s so-called novel.
And now my airheaded sister had somehow involved herself, Kitty, and Georgiana with a man who lurked in shrubberies.
“I must tell you something, but please concentrate on the road and do not drive any faster. I fear we will be of no help to our sisters if we are lying in a ditch,” I said.
Darcy clenched his jaws. He did not look at me. His knuckles went white on the steering wheel.
“Wickham told me he was with Interpol. He told me he was investigating you. I was not to say anything for the sake of national security.”
“What!” he yelled so loudly the dogs huddled on the floor.
I smelt the scent of dog pee. A mad Mister Darcy became a scary force of nature.
“I would laugh at the absurdity if my sister’s future were not at stake. That lying blaggard!”
We skidded around a stone wall but managed to stay on the road then jerked to an emergency stop. A herd of black-eared sheep blocked the lane in front of us. Darcy laid on the horn.
The sheep barely budged. Their ancestors had trod these paths for centuries. It was in their DNA not to move over and give way. Darcy honked again. Derby and Squire bayed from the backseat floor.
Darcy edged the Range Rover into the flock. They yawned. It was time to take the sheep by their handlebar ears.
“I’m getting out!” I shouted at Darcy.
Again he gave me that crazy-lady look.
“I’ll clear our path.”
He quit trying to nudge his way through, looking at me with a ferocity that alarmed me.
I leaped from the vehicle with Derby and Squire at my heels. “Move them!” I directed the dogs to the wooly wall.
The hounds did what came naturally and ran at the sheep, driving them to the side of the road into a grassy gully. The sheep seemed pleased to discover the roadside green-grass snacks. The bassets and I jumped back in the Rover.
The dogs took to the floor knowing the car was about to lurch as Darcy stepped on the gas. We whizzed past the flock and made the M4 in the blink of an eye.
Once we were on the motorway, Darcy spoke, his tone now sad more than angry. “George Wickham lured Georgiana from our home when she was barely sixteen. I was in Africa at the time. Her governess, a good woman, was tricked into letting down her guard. Wickham planned on flying them both to Turkey. At the time the legal age for marriage in Turkey was fifteen. I arrived in the nick of time and with Bingley’s assistance, rescued my sister from that, that, that...”
“Marriage? Georgiana’s a lovely girl, but she is just that, a girl.”
“My sister stands to inherit a fortune when she turns twenty-one. That’s what Wickham is after.”
“Surely you’ve explained that to Georgiana?”
Mister Darcy's Dogs Page 6
