Dreadfully Ever After
Page 10
Nezu slipped outside again but was back almost instantly, trailing the tall broad-shouldered man who’d just pushed past him.
“No calling card is needed, forrr this is no social call,” the man said in a heavy Scottish brogue. Though he was dressed as a gentleman, he had wild, graying hair, even wilder gray eyes, a thick mustache, and chin whiskers.
“Out,” he said to MacFarquhar.
“But—”
“Out.”
“But—”
The man didn’t bother with another “Out.” He simply took a step closer.
MacFarquhar jumped up and started for the door.
“Pleasure meeting you terribly sorry must dash thank you goodbye!”
“Don’t forget your rrrrrrrrabbit,” the man growled.
“Again, pleasure meeting you et cetera et cetera!”
MacFarquhar spun around, snatched up Brummell by the scruff of the neck, and scurried from the box.
“Who are you? What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Bennet blustered.
The man just stared at him a moment and then turned and stalked out.
“I can tell you what it means,” Elizabeth sighed.
Her father slumped in his seat. “You needn’t bother.”
“Well, I wish someone would,” Kitty started to say. To her surprise, however, she found that she could work it out all by herself. All it required was something both Lydia and her mother had often counseled her against: thought.
“So,” she said, “we have been snubbed by Sir Angus himself.”
“So it would seem,” Nezu said.
Kitty pretended to interest herself in the race, which was just then concluding with the Irishman hanging from the rope by the finish line while the winner hung from him. There were both cheers and boos as track attendants leaned out to poke away the dreadful with pikes before it could get a bite.
Despite all the excitement, Kitty noticed that part of the crowd wasn’t paying any attention. Most of the people in the boxes near theirs were looking—and snickering—at the Bennets. The uppity nobodies had been put in their place.
They stayed for only one more race.
It was a very long, very quiet ride back to Section One North. They’d taken a bold step to attract the MacFarquhars’ interest, and they’d been just as boldly and baldly slapped down. It was hard to imagine how the day could have gone any worse.
They pulled up in front of their house just as one of the servant/ninjas came flying out the front door. He rolled to a stop on the walkway and lay there in a bloodied, groaning heap.
A woman stepped out of the house after him but stopped when she saw the carriage.
“Oh, God,” Mr. Bennet groaned.
“I doubt that He had anything to do with this,” Elizabeth said.
They both looked over at Kitty.
Kitty cringed.
“So there you are. I was concerned,” Mary Bennet said to them. “Now, would you be so good as to tell me what is going on?”
CHAPTER 16
Elizabeth had always been glad to have Mary with her in battle. Her sister was bold, fearless, the epitome of rectitude and unwavering self-assurance.
Which was exactly why Elizabeth was not glad to see her now, when boldness and rectitude might well ruin everything.
Take the bruised, moaning ninja-butler sprawled in front of the house, for instance. Here was Mary’s handiwork, and already passersby were beginning to stop and stare.
“Oh, my! Poor Arnold’s tripped down the front steps again!” Mr. Bennet cried as he hopped from the barouche. “Come, Nezu. Help me get him inside.”
“It is good to see you again, Miss Millstone,” Elizabeth called to Mary. “I apologize for the confusion about the timing of our outing. Our trip to Ascot was today, you see, and it is tomorrow that we will be accompanying you and Colonel Plimmswood to Almack’s.”
Her steady stream of chatter worked. As she scrambled from the carriage and hurried toward the house, her sister never had the chance to say what she was obviously thinking: Have you all gone mad? When Elizabeth reached her, she hooked her by the arm and jerked her through the door.
There were two more battered ninjas lying in the foyer, and another hung over a nearby banister.
“Really,” Elizabeth said, “did you have to thrash the whole household?”
“They wouldn’t tell me where you were.”
“Mary, I don’t think any of them speak English.”
“Ah. That would explain why the conversation was going so poorly.”
“The drawing room!” Mr. Bennet barked. He let his half of “Arnold”—the top half—plop unceremoniously to the floor. “Now!”
When everyone was gathered in the drawing room a moment later, it wasn’t Mary on whom Mr. Bennet fixed his glare. It was Kitty.
“All right, yes! I sent her a letter!” she blubbered. “I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself. I just had to tell someone. I was discreet, though, really! All I said was that our plans had changed and we were in London and awful and exciting things were happening.”
Elizabeth turned to Mary and braced herself for an answer she didn’t want to hear.
“Did Mother see the letter?”
“No.”
Elizabeth and her father heaved identical sighs of relief. If Mrs. Bennet knew they were secretly in London, the “secretly” would only apply for roughly five more minutes.
“So far as Mama knows,” Mary continued, “I have been summoned to Berkshire to root out an infestation of dreadfuls in Windsor Castle.”
“And she let you go?” Kitty asked, incredulous.
“ ‘Let’ is not quite the right word.” Mary thought a moment and then shrugged. “She couldn’t stop me.”
Mr. Bennet nodded gravely and then walked to the divan upon which Kitty sat and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“I am very fond of you, my child,” he said, “but if you answer my next question incorrectly, I shall be forced to beat you unmercifully with bamboo rods. It will sadden me, without doubt, yet our revered Master Liu would assuredly counsel me to do far worse. Now, tell me: Did you also write a letter to your sister Lydia?”
“No.”
Mr. Bennet tightened his grip. “Truly?”
“Well, did I write it? Yes. But I never got the chance to sneak out and mail it. It’s still hidden in the dresser in my room.”
Mr. Bennet leaned in and kissed his daughter on the forehead.
“You are saved,” he said. “As is Mr. Darcy. If Lydia were to show up, too, our little ruse wouldn’t last the afternoon.”
“Mr. Darcy?” Mary said. “Is he in some kind of danger?”
Elizabeth sighed again and repeated her story for the benefit of her other sister. As she listened, Mary asked no questions and offered no commentary, save for a single “I’m so sorry” upon hearing that Darcy had been tainted by the plague. Once Elizabeth was done, Mary took a moment to coolly appraise each person in the room—her sisters, her father, Nezu (who didn’t seem to feel the slightest discomfort about crashing a family conference)—before speaking again.
“And none of you considered other avenues by which the cure might be obtained?”
It was the reaction Elizabeth had expected: pious disapproval. She felt her face flush with shame—and not a little resentment.
“We would not even know the cure existed, nor would my husband still be alive to benefit from it, if not for Lady Catherine,” Elizabeth said. “Our efforts here in London are made possible only through her. I see no choice but to proceed as she directs.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Mary replied with all the smugness that implies that a “yet” or “however” or “but” is coming. “Yet still I find it curious that Lady Catherine would see no better use for you and Kitty than as temptresses. The lady herself knows that women are capable of far more than mere allurement. Why would she not call upon the mastery of the deadly arts that has thwarted her so often in the past? Why resort to romanti
c entanglements and elaborate intrigues?”
“Because that is all Lady Catherine thinks we’re good for,” Elizabeth was about to say.
Nezu spoke first.
“If you are suggesting a more direct approach—such as, say, an assault on Sir Angus’s laboratory—I can answer your question. My mistress has already made the attempt more than once. I would say that those she sent to Bethlem Hospital met the same fate as the many she once dispatched to Pemberley.” There was the slightest pause as Nezu’s frosty gaze slid over to Elizabeth. “But I don’t know that for a fact. I only know that they were never heard from again.”
“I see,” Mary said, and again her tone told Elizabeth that a “however” or an “all the same” was on its way. Standing firmly on principle was one of her sister’s few joys in life; once she took a position, she was as likely to change it as a marble statue was to change its own.
“All the same,” Mary said, “I would point out that we are no one’s minions. We are Shaolin warriors. Or were, in some cases.”
She nodded at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth resisted the urge to show her just how sharp her Shaolin skills still were.
“What’s more,” Mary went on obliviously, “this reliance on roundabout—”
Nezu silenced her with a raised hand.
“Goodness!” Kitty giggled. “If only I’d known it was so easy. I’d have been doing that for years now!”
Mr. Bennet shushed her.
“You hear something?” he said to Nezu.
“Footsteps,” Elizabeth answered for him. “Just outside. A man, long-legged, firm of purpose. He is about to—”
Someone knocked on the front door.
Nezu slipped quickly to the windows. The portico wasn’t visible from there, yet one could look out on the road before the house.
“There is a carriage waiting,” Nezu reported. “A landau. Very large. Very fine.”
A moment later, a servant—one with a prodigious black eye—came in bearing a card on a silver platter.
He took it to Nezu.
“My mistress might be in Kent, but she has a long reach,” he said upon reading it. “Gossip that she has planted about the presumptuous Shevington family and their lavish One North residence has reached the right ears.”
“Sir Angus MacFarquhar’s?” Mr. Bennet said.
Nezu nodded.
“Sir Angus is here? Now?” Elizabeth said. It was the sort of pointless regurgitation of news she usually disdained—like exclaiming, “His head? Bitten off?” when informed that an acquaintance has just had his head bitten off. She couldn’t help it, though.
She wasn’t prepared for this. Wasn’t ready to play the part of seductress.
Really … would she ever be?
Her father seemed to know just what she was thinking.
“ ‘Opportunities multiply as they are seized,’ ” he said, quoting Sun Tzu. “He is here. We must act. Steel yourself as you can. It might help if you were to reflect upon what we saw of the man earlier today. I don’t think you’ll have to play the coquette, my dear.” He turned to Kitty and Mary. “Avis, Miss Millstone, wait here.”
Elizabeth was still puzzling over his advice as she followed him out to the foyer. She began to understand when she heard the angry snap in his voice once he saw Sir Angus.
“You again? Have you come to make off with another of our guests? There would be no audience this time, though I can gather the staff if you’d like.”
Sir Angus narrowed his eyes, yet he didn’t look affronted.
“Do you know who I am?” he growled.
He was asking Mr. Bennet, but it was Elizabeth who answered.
“We know your name, for it was presented to us on your card. We can infer that you are in some way related to our acquaintance Bunny MacFarquhar. Beyond that, we have only your conduct to judge by.”
Sir Angus shifted his gaze to her and held it there. Elizabeth stared back in the way she hoped he’d most appreciate—openly, boldly, un-cowed.
He was a proud, stern, hot-tempered man, her father had been reminding her. And such men often respect only those who are themselves proud, stern, and hot tempered.
Of course, sometimes they hate anyone who’s as proud and stern and hot tempered as they.…
After a moment, the tiniest sliver of a smile appeared beneath Sir Angus’s salt-and-pepper mustache, and he nodded in a way that suggested, “Touché.”
“It is that conduct I have come here to discuss,” he said. “Afterrr speaking to my son—forrr that is what young Bunny is to me—I rrrealized that some explanation was due to you. It was not my intention to insult you today, though I can see now that’s exactly what I did. The plain truth is this: I do not approve of the dreadful races, would neverrr attend them were it left to my own scruples to decide, and have strenuously conveyed my feelings about them to my son. I was not expecting to see him at Ascot today, as obviously he was not expecting to see me. My angerrr was directed at him alone—though there was enough of it to spill overrr onto those who would keep him company while he flouted his father’s wishes. And forrr that I should, and do, apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Your plain speaking does you credit, Sir.”
Sir Angus acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow, but his eyes were on Elizabeth again.
“I’m sure my father is sympathetic, for he knows the frustrations of willful offspring,” she said. “As for myself, I share your objections to the races, if not your zeal for displaying them. My own late husband fell to the plague, and the thought of him chasing after Irishmen for the amusement of the masses is sickening, indeed. Why I let myself be coaxed into going I do not know, but I owe you my thanks for giving us reason to leave all the sooner.”
Elizabeth did her best to sound civil, though not entirely appeased.
“Your plain speaking does you credit, Madam,” Sir Angus said. “I bid you both good day.”
He bowed again and then turned to go. Nezu had slipped into the hall to eavesdrop while pretending to wait for orders, and now he darted around the Bennets, trying to reach the front door to spare the gentleman the indignity of opening it himself.
“I know how to turn a doorrrknob, man,” Sir Angus snarled, and he let himself out and stomped off toward the street.
“And so our second MacFarquhar of the day slips through the net,” Nezu said.
Mr. Bennet and Elizabeth stepped up beside him.
“You are an extremely intelligent and observant young man, Nezu,” Mr. Bennet said. “When it comes to amour, however, you are an utter blockhead.”
“Excuse me?”
Out in the street, Sir Angus was hauling his tall, broad frame up into his landau. Once he was seated, he glanced back at the house—and, seeing that he was being watched, looked long and hard at one of the three figures in the doorway. Eventually, he pursed his lips, and though she was too far away to hear it, Elizabeth knew he was saying a single word.
“Go.”
The coachman cracked his whip, and the carriage rolled off.
“No, he didn’t slip away as cleanly as all that,” Mr. Bennet said. “In fact, I daresay he’s still ours to catch, so long as we don’t draw in the net too quickly.”
A burning queasiness churned in the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach, and her hands began to itch as if chafing at nothing but their own skin. She didn’t know if it was because she suspected her father was right or because, in spite of everything, part of her hoped he might be wrong.
CHAPTER 17
With more rest and ample servings of roe and sashimi and regular doses of his aunt’s elixir, Darcy began to regain his strength. Yet the world around him remained a gray place draped in a dingy haze. Only occasionally did flashes of light and splashes of color cut through the gloom and warm him somewhere deep inside: in his dreams of tangy-fresh liverwurst and near-raw rashers and the red juice of undercooked beef running over his chin. Or anywhere there was life.
Which was why he ended up taking so many long walks with his cousin. Lady Catherine he saw only twice a day, when she administered his medicine and coolly inquired about his dreams and appetite and bodily functions. The rest of the time she was off “on patrol” or “attending to affairs.” Her Ladyship’s servants, meanwhile, were skittish, her ninjas standoffish. Besides, it would hardly be fitting for a gentleman to keep company with the help.
So Anne became his near-constant companion, and each day they rambled around the grounds together. They spoke of their childhoods and family members long dead or, for long stretches, merely strolled side by side in silence. Thus the conversation was kept to either the past or nothing. What neither ever brought up, by unspoken mutual agreement, was how the present was once supposed to look and what the future might hold for them.
Until, that is, one of their walks took them both farther and further than ever before. It was late afternoon, approaching evening, and they’d strolled so long Darcy no longer recognized where they were. The ground swept up and down in bramble-covered hills that felt like the cresting waves of a choppy sea, and the slant of the setting sun sent beams of radiance slicing through the trees while leaving the gulleys in shadows as dark—to Darcy, anyway—as any ocean depths.
“Perhaps we should turn back,” Darcy said. “We have strayed far from the house, and the spring dreadfuls lack the sense to give Rosings a wide berth.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Anne replied blithely.
She was dressed, as always, in black, and with Darcy’s vision muddled as it was, all he could see clearly of her was a pale face that floated along beside him, smiling serenely. She paused to admire something above them—a starling trying to stuff a fluttering moth into the upturned mouth of a cheeping chick, Darcy saw when he looked up—and then moved on.