by Jennifer Joy
Elizabeth patted his chest and sighed. “The advantages of this hiding spot continue. We shall not lose track of the hour with a clockmaker on the corner.” The hour chimed as she spoke.
She squirmed beside him, doing things to Darcy’s nerves that did not belong to him to feel for a woman not yet his wife.
Arching her neck to look up at him, Elizabeth asked, “When this is done, what do you want to do?”
Nibble and nudge the tender skin between your ear and shoulder, he thought.
Darcy cleared his throat and forced his mind to behave. Her question was a weighty one, deserving of a thoughtful reply. Their lives depended on the success of the plan they would effect shortly.
He knew she expected a serious answer, but he wanted her smile. Darcy wanted to brand his memory with all the things he loved most about Elizabeth. He sighed, peeking down at her through his eyelashes, and saying in his gravest tone, “When this is done, I should like a long, hot bath and a shave.”
She rewarded him with a wide grin that crinkled her eyes up in the corners and lit her brown eyes with gold flecks. “You are not the only one. It is my aim not to get out of the bath until the water goes cold.”
Darcy continued, “When this is done, I should like to sleep for days in my own bed at Pemberley.” He should not have mentioned his bed.
“I have almost forgotten what it feels like to wake up feeling rested in a bedchamber where the maid has already kindled the fire. Oh, how glorious to be warm again,” Elizabeth said, stretching beside him.
Darcy was burning like Mr. Gardiner’s Castrol oven. He tightened his arm around Elizabeth, pulling her closer to share his warmth. Darcy was determined to be a gentleman. Elizabeth deserved nothing less than his utmost respect.
Therefore, a slight change in topic was necessary. He said, “When this is done, I want to introduce you properly to my sister. I want to embrace her until she is convinced of how precious she is to me.”
Elizabeth leaned her head against his shoulder. “I fear you shall not approve, but I would dearly like to embrace my mother. And my sisters. And my father.”
Darcy could not allow her to think what he no longer felt. “I do not disapprove of them. Not now. How can I possibly think ill of them when they are responsible for bringing you into the world and, to some degree, shaping your character? I am forever indebted to them. I love you.”
He looked down at her. Elizabeth’s eyes were half closed, and her lips were parted. Gently, like the whisper of a breath, Darcy brushed his lips over hers.
Pressing his forehead against Elizabeth’s, Darcy said what he had wanted to say from the start. “When this is over, I should very much like to marry you. Would you like to be my wife, Elizabeth Bennet?”
She closed the distance between them, answering with a kiss as ardent as a thousand yeses.
Elizabeth had thought true love would be just like it was described in the novels — words of endearment beautifully expressed and declarations of undying devotion reading like poetry. No poem she had ever read described the depth of feeling she felt for William at that moment.
With him, Elizabeth had found a piece of herself she had not known she lacked. She was complete and happier than any one person had a right to be.
They were about to face a moment which would define the rest of their lives — not to mention its duration — and Elizabeth was unafraid. She had never been so certain of anything as she was in her conviction that she and William would be happy together for all of their days. Elizabeth believed it with her whole soul, though reason told her there was every possibility they would fail.
Before her heart burst with contentment, Elizabeth pulled away. When she caught her breath, she touched William’s cheek to make sure he looked at her when she said the words she had saved for the man of her dreams. “I love you, William. There is nothing I want more than to marry you.”
Even in the dim light of the street lanterns, he was beautiful when he smiled. She wished his whiskers gone so she could see him better.
The clocks chimed the hour. Had they huddled in the alcove for an hour already? Elizabeth almost wished they could stay there forever — until she reminded herself why they were there. In one more hour, they would face Wickham. The time could not go by quickly enough.
William was impatient too. To pass the time, he told her stories of how he had sneaked into his sister’s nursery where they held secret tea parties with her favorite dolls. He had read stories aloud for them, and Miss Darcy applauded for the entire audience. He slipped her coins for her to buy sweets whenever they went into nearby Lambton. He determined to invite the Gardiners to Pemberley as soon as he and Elizabeth had settled into their home.
The more they shared stories of their past, the more they realized they had in common and the more they included each other in their future.
The door to the tavern swung wide open, and William’s expression hardened. Wickham sat at a table with his friends, drinking, laughing, and gambling.
Elizabeth sensed his betrayal all the more after realizing what a wonderful childhood Wickham must have had with his close association with the Darcys. They had given him every advantage, and instead of being grateful, Wickham had believed himself entitled to more.
A quarter hour passed. And then another. And then another.
Both she and William watched the streets for Mrs. Holton. The housekeeper could not walk past them without being noticed, nor could she enter the tavern without them seeing her.
The clock chimed the hour, and still, Mrs. Holton had not appeared. It was eight o’clock.
Where was she?
The door swung open again, and the cackles of bawdy laughter reached them, drawing them out from their alcove.
“Mrs. Holton could not have slipped past us, could she?” Elizabeth asked. Perhaps her eyes had played tricks on her. Perhaps she had not watched closely enough.
She and William stood facing the tavern. They looked up and down the street, but still they saw no Mrs. Holton.
What they did see froze the blood in Elizabeth’s veins. Mr. Wickham and his companions cleaned off the table, put the coins on the table in their pockets, and donned the coats hanging on the backs of their chairs.
Wickham was leaving.
If they lost him, how would they find him again? William’s risk of discovery increased with each passing day, and Elizabeth could not bear for Jane to spend another night in prison.
She looked down the street again. If only Mrs. Holton would appear!
Elizabeth’s pulse raced, and her head spun. To rest all of her hope in their plan only to have it fail… It was a disaster.
William grabbed her hand. “We have come too far to watch Wickham slip through our fingers again. This ends tonight.”
Before Elizabeth knew what was happening, William had pulled her across the street and inside the tavern.
Chapter 36
Darcy cleared a path to Wickham, shifting his weight and leaning forward as his fist ground into the blackguard’s face. He wound back again, prepared to pummel Wickham to the ground for all the suffering he had caused others.
But the finest lady Darcy was privileged to know reminded him he was a gentleman. Elizabeth did not let go of his other hand. She squeezed, and he stopped.
Darcy stepped back, slowing his breath and rubbing his stinging knuckles against his breeches.
Wickham clapped his hands over his nose, expelling a string of profanities as disgusting as the stream of bloody mucus seeping through his fingers.
Darcy tossed him a handkerchief.
Wickham glared daggers at him as he pressed the fine linen to his nose.
The tavern was silent, everyone watching the entertaining spectacle in the center of the room.
Wickham’s shoulders rose to his ears and his chest puffed out. He had always reminded Darcy of a puffed-up rooster, especially when he wore his red regimental coat (which was suspiciously absent along with the rest of his uniform)
.
With one hand still clutched over his face, Wickham raised his other finger and pointed at Darcy. “Do you not know who this man is? He is a traitor to the Crown!” To a man standing nearby, he said, “Fetch the constable, get a magistrate, call the Royal Guard! He is all mine. You are all my witnesses! I have captured Fitzwilliam Darcy, the traitor. The reward is mine!”
Gasps echoed throughout the tavern, and people moved away from Darcy to stand on Wickham’s side of the floor.
Even when lives were at stake — lives Wickham knew to be innocent — he was only interested in his own advantage. In how much money he could make.
Darcy looked at the door. Mrs. Holton would walk through it any second. Now would be ideal.
Elizabeth openly glared at Wickham.
Darcy did not cower before Wickham’s taunts. “Let them come, so they may arrest you.”
Elizabeth released his hand. With a quick wink at Darcy, she took a step backward to the entrance.
Darcy knew what she was about, and he engaged Wickham to draw the attention of the room away from her. “I did not murder Marquess Malbrooke. We both know who is responsible for his death.”
Wickham dabbed at his nose, saw that whatever damage had been inflicted had only been brief, and folded the handkerchief to put in his pocket. Of course, he would snatch it. It was a fine handkerchief (probably Darcy’s since it was Richard who had given it to him.)
With a gleam in his eye, Wickham said, “Prove it.”
Darcy had no physical proof. His only recourse was to stall for time until Mrs. Holton arrived. Elizabeth was watching for her and would alert him to her arrival. Any time now.
A rough voice growled behind him. “You with him? You stay here, miss.”
Darcy turned to see a large man with a scar across his cheek blocking Elizabeth’s path to the door. Several others joined him, forcing her forward until she again stood beside Darcy.
He looked down at Elizabeth as she shook her head at him.
No Mrs. Holton. Blast it all, this was getting serious. Elizabeth would have been safer outside the tavern. Why had he pulled her along with him? Their chance for escape grew slimmer as the crowd pressed around them. They were completely surrounded.
His only recourse was to stall for time … although his confidence in Mrs. Holton’s arrival weakened. What if concern for her family kept her away?
Darcy kept Wickham talking. “I was not in London the night you murdered the marquess.” That should get a reaction.
Wickham scoffed. “You accuse me? Again, what proof do you have? Who can account for your whereabouts?”
Elizabeth spoke boldly. “I can. And there are others who will confirm that you attacked our carriage halfway between Meryton and London before the snowstorm. You left us to perish in the cold, and we were forced to seek refuge in a tenant’s home.”
How clever of her to leave out the significant detail that the tenant home had been abandoned.
Wickham shifted his weight on his feet, his eyes darting about the room.
Darcy enjoyed watching Wickham sweat. It was a small gain.
Crossing his arms, Wickham said, “An unlikely story you no doubt worked out together. You ought to take care to whom you attach your loyalty, Miss Elizabeth. I was told Mr. Darcy’s pocket watch was found beside the murdered victim. How is that possible unless he was there?”
Without batting an eyelash, Elizabeth commented, “How convenient you should be privy to that detail. Mr. Darcy’s watch was stolen and placed there to make him look guilty. You ought to know that. You did it.”
Darcy glanced at the door again. The man with the scar scowled at him. Still, no Mrs. Holton. Where was she? Had her word meant nothing?
Wickham shifted his weight again, his shoulders inching up toward his ears. “So you say, but again,” he waved his hand nonchalantly before him and pressed his shoulders down, “I must insist you provide proof.”
Darcy had prayed Mrs. Holton and the others would burst into the tavern then, but they did not. He and Elizabeth were on their own. He examined the room for doors and windows … anything he could help Elizabeth sneak out through.
Elizabeth retorted, “Do you really believe any man would be so careless as to leave his pocket watch beside the marquess, thus connecting himself to the crime of his murder?”
Wickham laughed. “The papers are calling it a crime of passion. Men become careless when their emotions are embroiled. And Darcy is a mere mortal like the rest of us after all.”
The ice in Wickham’s tone chilled Darcy. Wickham wanted him dead.
Elizabeth’s reply was quick and cutting. “Do not dare compare yourself to Mr. Darcy. He would never betray his peers, his friends, and his country as you have done. You, sir, are a self-interested coward.”
Wickham cackled. “He is a saint and I am a viper? That is rich when he is the one wanted for treason!”
“I would never call you a viper. It would insult the serpent,” she snapped.
Darcy looked about frantically, but still there was no help. No escape.
“Said the woman who has attached herself to a traitor,” Wickham sneered, sweeping his arm in front of him to address the people in the tavern. “What is wrong with you? Here stands a traitor to the Crown! Is there no one with a length of rope to bind him and his accomplice?”
Several men jumped at Wickham’s bidding.
Darcy stepped in front of Elizabeth, shielding her with his body. “Leave the lady alone. She has done nothing.”
Wickham exclaimed, “Taking sides with a traitor is a crime deserving of death.”
How low Wickham had fallen to sentence an innocent lady to death by the worst means possible. There was no sympathy in him, no humanity. He would not let them leave that room alive if he could help it.
Darcy had to convince the assembled mass. He had to keep them away from Elizabeth.
He growled in his most authoritative tone, “She is a lady. Let her return to her family.”
Wickham raised his arms as if he were announcing the next act at the theater. “Can you believe this man? Ordering us about as if he had the right?”
The crowd reacted to Wickham’s taunts, tossing beer and throwing bits of food and whatever else that was within their reach at Darcy and Elizabeth.
A tankard hurdled past Darcy, brushing over his shoulder. The hisses and boos deafened the mob to reason.
Wickham gloated.
Darcy turned away from him, looking at the door again. Where were they? First, Mrs. Holton neglected to appear, and now Richard and his uncle were late. Darcy had been clear when he had requested they meet him at The Black Boar at eight o’clock.
Facing the door as he was, Darcy saw a group of men enter the tavern, blocking the entrance completely with their bulky forms. There must have been two dozen of them. One held irons in his hands, clapping them back and forth as if he anticipated locking them around Darcy’s hands. They were not the men Darcy had hoped would arrive.
The people in the tavern fell quiet. They knew who the authority was in the room.
Wickham took advantage of their silence. “This is the murderous traitor. This is Fitzwilliam Darcy. And this woman, Elizabeth Bennet, has been helping him.”
Darcy looked down at Elizabeth. He wanted to record every detail of her in his mind. The fine, curly hair that escaped her pins at the nape of her neck, the way her eyebrows arched to a point, the curve of her lips, the way her nostrils flared when she was angry (as they did then). Even now, when all seemed lost, there was no fear in her eyes — only trust. Trust in him.
Darcy would not betray her.
The men moved forward. There were too many of them. Blast it, where was Richard?
Stepping around Elizabeth, Darcy held his hands in front of him. “Take me, but I insist you leave the lady.”
“No!” Elizabeth shouted, trying to get around him.
The constable holding the irons said, “We do not take orders from the likes of you
.”
Wickham raised his arms in triumph. “Drinks on me! Pour my friends a round of your best ale.” He sat at his table, grabbing the nearest barmaid and pulling her onto his lap to celebrate his success.
A shimmer at the barmaid’s exposed neck caught Darcy’s eye. “Wait! Where did you get that necklace?” he asked.
Darcy sensed the moment Elizabeth saw her pearl necklace.
She lunged forward, prevented from reaching the barmaid by the men closing in around them. “That is mine! You stole it!” she shouted.
The barmaid grabbed the pearl possessively and turned away from Elizabeth. “It is not! George gave it to me as a special token of his affection,” she said proudly, looping her arm over Wickham’s shoulders from her perch on his lap.
Wickham was quick to rid himself of the girl.
Elizabeth raised her chin and her eyes narrowed to slits, saying, “There is nothing special about that necklace to anyone other than me. As a token, it is worthless. I am sorry for you, miss, but I do not think a man who appreciated your worth would give you something with no value at all.”
The barmaid looked at Wickham. “Tell her, George. Tell her she is wrong. ‘A genuine pearl for my pearl,’ you said.”
Elizabeth continued, “He only gave it to you when the pawn shops would not take it. Why would they pay money for something they would not be able to sell? I do hope you did not exchange anything of value for the necklace.”
Darcy nearly swallowed his tongue at Elizabeth’s reference, but she had made her point.
The barmaid’s face turned bright red.
Another barmaid came with a large tray laden with the mugs of beer Wickham had offered the occupants of the tavern.
Quicker than a blink, the offended barmaid grabbed a tankard and tossed its contents down Wickham’s front. Yanking the necklace off, she threw it across the room where it was promptly crushed under a boot.
A cacophony ensued. Beer splattered and mugs clunked.
Darcy pulled Elizabeth to his side, seeking refuge beside the counter where a magistrate ducked as well. Leaning over to him, and pointing at the glass on the floor, Darcy shouted into his ear, “A real pearl would not have shattered like that. How could the lady have known it was glass? It was stolen from her the morning of the marquess’ murder just as she said.”
