She had not known he was capable of such a broad smile. “After such a kiss, perhaps you might call me William, my dear?”
“William.” The syllables were awkward in her mouth, but continuing to address him as Mr. Darcy felt wrong as well.
This won her another smile. After a long pause, Mr. Dar—William peered at the darkening sky. “Perhaps we should return to the colonel’s house.”
“I am eager to hear how they fared with Wickham.”
“Yes.”
They returned the way they had come, although it was growing more difficult to see the beach clearly. The sun was hovering at the edge of the horizon but had not yet set. Elizabeth pointed to something she had noticed earlier, a wooden structure jutting out into the ocean. “What is that?”
“It is an old pier,” William responded. “I believe people occasionally bring boats here during high tide or use it for fishing.”
As the light diminished, a fog rolled in off the sea, and the end of the pier was cloaked in mist. Elizabeth squinted to see more clearly. “I believe there is a boat moored there now. At the very end.”
“It appears so. I wonder who would venture out in a fog like this.” He shrugged and steered them toward the cross street that would return them to St. James Street.
They had nearly reached the street when three figures rounded the corner ahead of them. Mr. Wickham, Mr. Harrison…and Lydia!
Elizabeth recoiled instinctively, taking several steps away from two men she knew to be very dangerous. What are they about here? They should be at the cave! “Lydia, why are you here?” she asked when she had regained the use of her voice.
Her sister gave Elizabeth a smug smile. “La! The house was so boring, so I went to St. James Street, where I found Wicky and his friend. They invited me for a boat ride.”
Elizabeth’s stomach churned. That is their boat at the pier—waiting to take them across the Channel. They never intended to leave from the cave. Colonel Forster and his men wait in the wrong place.
And these miscreants want to take Lydia with them?
“You cannot!” Elizabeth immediately blurted out. All three regarded her warily. I must conceal my agitation or risk rousing their suspicions. If they discover that their secrets are known and that capture is imminent, they will be far more dangerous. She could see that both men were armed with pistols. “Er, it is far too foggy to go out on a boat tonight,” she continued in a calmer tone.
Lydia clapped her hands together. “That is part of the fun! Darkness and fog and lantern light… It will be like a pirate ship!” More than you know, Elizabeth thought. “You’re just jealous that Wicky didn’t ask you!” Lydia sneered.
“Darcy, why are you out here?” Mr. Wickham regarded the other man suspiciously.
William must have reached the same conclusion as Elizabeth, for he answered in a mild voice. “Miss Elizabeth and I were taking a stroll on the beach.” The calm was belied by the coiled tension she could sense beneath her hand.
They could take Lydia to France with them—or drop her in the Channel. I must separate her from them. But how?
Instinctively she knew that the appearance of loyalty to Mr. Wickham would convey an advantage. She dropped her hand from William’s arm and took a step away. “He wishes me to give you up,” she told Mr. Wickham with a sneer. “It is forever his aim. He is so jealous of you.”
William’s head whipped around to stare at her, but she kept her gaze fixed on Mr. Wickham. I pray that William guesses I am playacting.
Mr. Wickham smirked. “It was ever so—even from childhood. Poor Darcy! Nobody likes you!”
If she had plunged a knife between his ribs, William could not have appeared more wounded. “Elizabeth…” The desperation in his voice nearly caused her to abandon the charade.
“We must go before the tide turns!” Mr. Harrison said fretfully to Mr. Wickham.
“Yes,” his friend agreed. “A good evening to you, Darcy, Miss Elizabeth.” He nodded pleasantly as if they had encountered each other at the market square. I must prevent them from taking Lydia. Elizabeth would never forgive herself if her sister came to harm.
Could she simply grab her sister and run? No, the men had pistols, and Lydia would not come willingly. “Take me with you!” she blurted out.
“No!” William’s voice was a horrified croak.
“I would dearly love a boat ride.” Elizabeth gave Mr. Wickham a coy smile, pleased to see his eyes lingering on her face.
Lydia hurried to take the officer’s arm. “No! This is my treat!”
Mr. Wickham smiled lazily, enjoying the spectacle of two women fighting over him, but Mr. Harrison yanked on his sleeve. “We have no time for your affaires de coeur! We must push off now!”
“We cannot leave yet.” Mr. Wickham frowned. “You know that. We must wait for—”
Mr. Harrison made a quelling motion before the other man said the name. Ah, Colonel Forster was right; at least one other person is involved in their schemes. Blast! Elizabeth was not eager to face yet another thug.
William chose that moment to lunge forward, grabbing Lydia’s hand and trying to pull her toward him. But she clung to Mr. Wickham, who quickly pulled the pistol from his belt and brandished it at William. “Release her now.”
The master of Pemberley hesitated. Elizabeth imagined what she would say if she were truly under Mr. Wickham’s spell. “George, don’t hurt him. You’ll hang for sure! Think of your career.”
With an evil grin, the officer instead pointed the pistol at Lydia’s head. “Release her.” William let go of her hand instantly and stepped away.
Lydia glanced sidelong at the pistol, laughing nervously. “Wicky, what are you about? Now isn’t the time for your silly jokes!”
Mr. Wickham ignored her.
“I will not interfere with your departure, Wickham. Just give me Lydia,” Mr. Darcy said in a level tone. Elizabeth’s heart swelled, knowing he cared about Lydia for her sake.
The other man barked a laugh. “Interfere?” Mr. Harrison had produced a pistol in each hand and pointed one at Darcy. “And how, pray tell, would you manage to interfere?”
Elizabeth surveyed the surrounding beach, seeking help, but it was deserted. Soon the rolling fog would conceal them from the rest of the world.
With a hand clamped on Lydia’s upper arm, Mr. Wickham dragged her backward across the sand and stone toward the pier. “Wicky,” Lydia whined, “you’re hurting me!”
He shook Lydia so hard that her head wobbled. “Quiet!” She was momentarily too stunned to speak.
I must find a way to free Lydia. But while Elizabeth’s heart beat double time, her mind seemed to have shut down completely, unable to focus on anything except dread.
“Colonel Forster and his men are searching for you,” William warned. “You will never reach France.”
“France!” Lydia shrieked. “We’re not going to France!” She glared at Mr. Wickham, who said nothing. “Are we going to France? Will you buy me a silk shawl? I’ve always wanted a silk shawl.”
Mr. Wickham laughed at Darcy. “I don’t see any militia.”
“They are on their way,” the other man promised.
The officer smirked. “Then I suppose we should leave immediately.”
Mr. Harrison frowned. “What about—”
“If our colleague doesn’t arrive in France with us, then we only need to split the reward two ways.” Mr. Wickham’s grin was oily.
“Ah,” said Mr. Harrison. “Perhaps we should hasten our departure.”
They had reached the pier. Mr. Wickham dragged Lydia onto the weather-beaten boards, walking backward so he could keep an eye on William. He and Elizabeth followed at a safe distance. “La! What fun!” Lydia trilled. “But my visit to France must be short, or Papa will be very angry with me.”
The slow, awkward procession continued until they reached the end of the pier. Fog enveloped the area, cutting off the pier from the rest of the world and even muffling sound.
The only noises were the creaking of the wood in the small rowing boat and the slap of water against the pier’s pilings.
Elizabeth could not imagine trying to cross the Channel in such a small boat, but perhaps they planned to rendezvous with a larger French vessel.
Still threatening Lydia, Mr. Wickham waited warily as his friend hauled on the boat’s moorings, pulling it up to the pier so he could clamber aboard. Elizabeth waited until Mr. Wickham had gestured for Lydia to climb aboard before she shouted. “Wait! Take me instead!”
“Elizabeth!” Darcy’s voice was a horrified rasp.
She ignored him, slowly closing in on the end of the pier—step by step—holding her hands away from her body to show that she was not a threat. All her attention was focused on Mr. Wickham; success depended on convincing him of her sincere attraction to him. “Take me with you. I have no desire to remain here without you!”
He hesitated, considering, but Mr. Harrison, standing in the boat, rolled his eyes. “Damnation, Wickham, we can’t take two women with us!”
“Elizabeth, no!” The agony in Darcy’s voice seared itself into Elizabeth’s heart, but she did not dare to glance in his direction.
“If I stay here, my parents will force me to marry Darcy,” Elizabeth said. I pray to God that William understands this is a ploy.
“Darcy wouldn’t marry you!” Wickham scoffed.
“Oh? He has already offered once, and I refused. I know he will propose again.”
Mr. Wickham turned a dumbfounded expression on William. “You offered marriage to her?”
“She tells the truth,” he said in a miserable voice.
“Lizzy, you sly thing!” Lydia said. “You never breathed a word.”
Ignoring everyone else, Elizabeth concentrated on convincing Mr. Wickham. “Lydia will be a far more troublesome creature than I would. You know that, George.”
Lydia stamped her foot. “That’s not true!”
“We have no time for this! We must depart,” Mr. Harrison yelled from the rocking boat.
The officer shrugged at his compatriot rather apologetically. “Elizabeth makes a good point.”
“Et tu, Wicky?” Lydia protested.
Elizabeth leaned forward, giving him an enticing peek at her cleavage. “And…I speak French,” she said as seductively as she could manage. “I have always longed to visit France.”
“She’s right,” Mr. Wickham tossed over his shoulder at his friend. “She would be less trouble than this one.”
“Fine. Pick one of them. I don’t care which. I want to be gone before your ‘friend’ arrives!” the other man urged.
“Not my friend,” Wickham grumbled.
“Lydia has a tendency toward seasickness,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Do you want her casting up her accounts in the middle of the Channel?”
“Oh, Good Lord.” Mr. Wickham rolled his eyes, and even Mr. Harrison paled at this news.
“I do not!” Lydia protested. “Well, not most of the time.”
“Very well,” Wickham growled at Elizabeth. “Come here.” He gestured her toward him with the gun.
Just as Elizabeth was nearing the rowing boat, William made his move. Launching himself forward, he tried to tackle Wickham around the knees, but the officer was prepared for such a maneuver and swung Lydia bodily toward her would-be rescuer.
She smacked into William’s chest, and his arms flew around her in a parody of a lovers’ embrace as they fell together onto the rough wood of the pier. Meanwhile, Wickham grabbed Elizabeth and pulled her onto the swaying boat.
Lydia squawked and cried, “Mr. Darcy, I cannot breathe!” as William muttered, “I beg your pardon, Miss Lydia.”
Ignoring the distress of two people she loved was difficult, but Elizabeth resolutely seated herself in the prow of the boat. By the time she peeked up again, Lydia and William had disentangled themselves, and the rowing boat had pushed away from the pier. As Mr. Wickham and Mr. Harrison were rowing in earnest, it was falling behind them at a rapid pace.
“No! Elizabethhhh!”
Elizabeth winced. She had never heard such desolation in William’s voice; in fact, she would not have believed him capable of making such a sound.
William continued to shout as the pier receded from sight, but the sound of his words grew fainter and fainter as they were absorbed by the swirling fog—until she could no longer hear him.
Chapter Fourteen
Darcy thought he knew despair when Elizabeth had refused him at Hunsford, but that could not compare to the agony of watching a boat bearing his beloved disappear into the fog. He had believed he could thwart Wickham’s plan at the last minute, but the other man had been too clever. Throwing Lydia at Darcy had delayed him just long enough to allow their escape. By the time Darcy had disentangled himself, the boat was yards from the pier.
Already the vessel was scarcely visible in the thick fog. For a wild moment he considered diving into the water, but his swimming abilities were no more than adequate—certainly not fast enough to race a boat. Instead, he was reduced to shouting threats and imprecations after Wickham.
If only he could find help! But if there were any other people on the beach, the fog concealed them thoroughly. Blast and damnation! The men most capable of rendering assistance now huddled uselessly outside a cave to the east. I should go and find them. But his feet refused to move. Irrationally, he could not abandon the last place he had seen Elizabeth—although there was no reason to believe the boat would return.
His mind tried to seize on slivers of hope, but he knew in his heart that they were false. Even if Wickham remained convinced that Elizabeth’s passion for him was authentic, he was unlikely to return the loyalty. More likely she would outlive her usefulness once they left the pier, and Harrison would toss her overboard—while Wickham offered no objections. Simply imagining the scene made Darcy’s entire body shake with impotent rage.
The best he could hope for was that Elizabeth would survive the journey across the Channel to become a prisoner in France—where she would be friendless and vulnerable. Perhaps a quick death in the sea would be preferable. The pain in Darcy’s chest grew so fierce that he seriously considered the question of whether he was dying.
I will never see her again. I must accept the truth.
Damn Wickham for being a treacherous scoundrel!
Darcy wanted to blame Elizabeth as well, but he could not; she had sacrificed herself for her sister. Although Darcy hated the choice she had made, he was not surprised; it was entirely in keeping with her character. Why could I not love a more selfish woman?
Staring into the gray expanse of fog hovering over the sea, Darcy made a vow. He would devote the rest of his life to hunting down Wickham and forcing him to pay for his crimes.
After several minutes of futilely seeking any sign of the rowing boat, he turned his attention back to the pier. Despite Lydia’s unworthiness, Elizabeth had ensured her sister would live, and he had an obligation to protect her.
The girl huddled on the pier’s rough wooden planks, alternately bemoaning a tear in her best muslin dress and complaining about bruises on her arm. From the volume of her laments, an observer might believe she was the one whose life was currently threatened. This is who Elizabeth sacrificed her life for! What a pathetic exchange. Darcy was quite tempted to leave the girl to find her own way home.
Swallowing his bitterness, Darcy offered Lydia a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Miss Lydia, we should seek some help.”
She examined her torn dress. “Yes, a good seamstress might repair it.”
Darcy ground his teeth. “I meant we should locate someone with a boat who can pursue your sister and Wickham.”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Why? She’ll return in a few days. And she’ll be the one who gets a silk shawl!”
Does she even understand that we are at war with France? Darcy opened his mouth to reply but closed it again when he heard unexpected sounds: feet pounding on the other end of the pier.
Someone was running in their direction. Was this Wickham’s mysterious “friend”? Not for the first time Darcy wished he had brought his pistols. Placing Lydia behind him, he readied himself to fight in her defense.
However, the shape that emerged from the fog was…Mrs. Forster. Red-faced, with wisps of hair lashing her skin, the woman raced toward the end of the pier, her skirts hitched up around her knees. Ignoring the others, she stopped at the end of the pier, searching the water with wild eyes.
At the sight of her friend, Lydia grinned and clapped her hands. “Mary! You cannot imagine what has occurred! Wickham was here with another man and—”
Mrs. Forster made a visible effort to calm herself, smoothing her hair and turning to Lydia with a wan attempt at a smile. “What is this? Wickham, you say, and another man? Where are they at this minute?”
Lydia babbled a garbled account of all that had transpired, but Darcy did not attend to it. Instead, he observed Mrs. Forster warily. Her appearance at this moment was entirely too coincidental, and she was far too concerned with Wickham’s whereabouts. When Lydia finished her tale, Mrs. Forster gave a rather forced laugh, placing a hand delicately over her mouth. “Such goings on! I cannot imagine what Mr. Wickham was about.”
Various puzzle pieces fell into place. “You are Wickham’s friend!” Darcy cried. “The one he and Harrison left behind.” Blast it all! Forster’s own wife had been spying on him. No wonder the French had learned so many secret plans.
Mrs. Forster regarded him with wide and wounded eyes. “I do not know what you mean.”
Darcy shook his head in disgust. “Of course, Forster never discovered who was ferreting out his regiment’s secret plans.” As Richard said, nobody ever suspected women of espionage.
The woman gave a little laugh. “I believe you are confused…”
He stepped forward until his tall form loomed over her smaller frame. “They may have escaped justice, but I will see that you are turned over to the magistrate.”
Instantly, the innocent young woman disappeared as a cold and calculated expression swept over her face. In a deft move, she produced a pistol from her reticule and pointed it at Darcy with a steadiness that suggested she knew how to use it. He froze. How often can I be threatened with pistols in one day?
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