Raising the Stakes (First Impressions)

27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Darcy stepped off the carriage before it had fully stopped, his boots striking the cobbled street outside Gardiner’s Cheapside office with impatience. The street smelled of damp wool and horse, the air thick with the mingling sounds of market traders and the distant clang of the docks. He barely noticed. His mind was singular in its focus.

There was no escaping the conclusion that Elizabeth had been taken.

His gut twisted with the thought. Was she harmed? Afraid? Beaten, perhaps, or even… Heaven forbid worse!

He shoved the fears aside. This was not a moment for panic, nor for wild speculation. None of those would help her now. He needed information. He needed action.

Gardiner’s office was modest but well-ordered, positioned near the heart of London’s trade district. As Darcy strode through the entrance, he noted the clerks glancing up from their ledgers, their quills hesitating over the pages. They knew something was amiss.

Richard was a step behind him, sweeping his gaze over every corner of the room, and probably noticing things Darcy would have missed. Gardiner was already inside, bent over his desk, rifling through stacks of paperwork with increasing frustration.

“Nothing!” Gardiner muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Not a single notation that should not be here.”

Darcy did not answer immediately. His gaze swept over the office, the shelves lined with neat ledgers, the blotter on Gardiner’s desk pristine except for the scattering of pages now in disarray.

Richard looked around. “It is unlikely you would find something so blatant, Gardiner. If someone in your employ has been moving prisoners under your name, they are not fool enough to leave an invoice for it.”

Gardiner’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “I run an honest business, Colonel. I have never—” He stopped, exhaling through his nose before looking back at the ledger. “I have never so much as miscounted a barrel. I only purchased the Eleanor about two years ago, and the Mercy about three months later, but I hired honest men. I would know if my ships were being used for such things.”

Richard held up his hands in a placating gesture. “No one is accusing you, sir. But someone is using your name, and we must find out who.”

Darcy, meanwhile, had crossed to the desk. He tapped one of the ledgers on top, flipping it open. His gaze moved swiftly down the page, scanning columns of figures.

“These shipments,” he said at last. “Here. These wool consignments—what do you know of them?”

Gardiner leaned forward. “I just examined those—they are routine. Large orders for mills in the north. I have been shipping textiles for over a decade.”

“Then why,” Darcy asked, tapping another section of the page, “does this shipment mark an irregular departure? Look—your records show a wool consignment sent from your warehouse in Southwark on the twenty-sixth. The shipment on the twenty-ninth, however, bears no corresponding invoice for goods received.”

Gardiner’s brow furrowed. “That is impossible. Every shipment has an invoice.”

Richard took the ledger from Darcy’s hand, examining the entries. “Then where is it?”

Gardiner’s jaw tensed. He turned sharply toward one of his clerks. “Summon Turner at once.”

The young clerk scurried out, and for a moment, silence settled over the room. Then, footsteps returned, and a tall, balding man with ink-stained fingers stepped into the office.

“Mr. Gardiner,” Turner greeted, eyes flicking warily between the assembled men. “You requested me?”

Gardiner wasted no time. “What do you know of the shipment on the twenty-ninth? The wool consignment?”

Turner hesitated, adjusting his spectacles. “It left as scheduled, sir. The records should reflect—”

“There is no invoice.”

Turner paled slightly. “That... that cannot be.”

Richard closed the ledger with a sharp snap. “Tell me, Turner. Who oversaw the shipment?”

Turner swallowed. “Miss Fletcher recorded the documentation, sir. Mrs. Gardiner's assistant.”

Gardiner paled. “Anne Fletcher? ”

Turner nodded. “Yes, sir. Since Mrs. Gardiner often manages some of your ledgers, she had Miss Fletcher take on small clerical duties to lighten her burden. She handled invoices, correspondences... logging shipments.”

Richard glanced at Darcy, then back at Gardiner. “So, she had access to all records?”

Turner nodded. “Yes, Colonel. And more than that—she was the one who received all the cloth invoices—linen, satin, wool, all of it—from the warehouse before passing them on to Mrs. Gardiner.”

Richard exchanged a glance with Darcy. “Where is she now?”

Gardiner turned toward the door. “She left this morning. I understand Mrs. Gardiner granted her a se’nnight’s leave to visit her family in Lincolnshire.” His face had gone ashen. “I expect she left… shortly after Elizabeth.”

A heavy silence filled the room.

Darcy felt a slow, simmering rage coil in his chest. It had not been Elizabeth. It had never been Elizabeth. They had mistaken her for another woman entirely.

And now they had her.

“We need to move,” he said coldly.

Richard nodded. “The warehouses first. If they have used Gardiner’s company to move prisoners, there may still be evidence there.”

Gardiner grabbed his coat, his face set. “I am coming with you.”

The first thing Elizabeth became aware of was the sharp, pulsing ache at the side of her head. The pain throbbed in time with her heartbeat, radiating outward in waves. The second was the sting of cold air against her skin, its damp bite seeping through her clothes.

How long had she been unconscious?

She forced herself to remain still, swallowing the instinctive urge to move. The last thing she remembered was struggling again—another attempt at escape, her fingers scraping against the wooden window ledge, hands grabbing her from behind, the sharp twist of her arm, and then—pain. Slowly, she eased her fingers up to the base of her skull, and felt the cold, sticky mass stuck in her hair. Blood . She had been bleeding .

Had they struck her? It seemed likely. The memory was hazy at the edges, but her head told the story well enough.

Slowly, she tested her surroundings without opening her eyes. The surface beneath her was wooden, rough and uneven. Not stone. Not a fine-walled townhouse. She was no longer in the room where she had been kept before.

They had moved her.

The air was thick with salt and damp wood, mingling with something acrid—tar, perhaps, or oil. Nearby, water lapped steadily against something hollow. A dock. A warehouse. A ship.

The faint creak of timber above her confirmed it—not the rolling sway of a vessel at sea, but the settling groan of a structure built too close to the water.

She slowed her breathing, listening.

Somewhere close by—it sounded like behind a wall or a door—voices murmured in low, angry tones. They were arguing about something.

She had not been meant to overhear this.

So, she listened.

She remained still, forcing her breathing to stay even. Somewhere beyond her, voices murmured—low, urgent, but not panicked. She listened carefully, piecing together fragments of their conversation.

“…not what we agreed to.” A man’s voice—gruff, impatient.

“She was not meant to be taken,” another muttered. “The girl is useless to us.”

Useless.

Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting. Could that be… good? If they had no use for her, then perhaps they would release her. But that was a fool’s hope. Nothing about this had been that simple from the moment she had mistakenly been drawn into it.

A third voice—calm, thoughtful—cut through the murmuring. “She is not useless.”

A French accent ... The man she had met earlier. Elizabeth made her breathing even more shallow so she could listen more intently.

One of the others scoffed. “What, because she blinked at you with wide, innocent eyes and feigned ignorance? You think that means she is not our mademoiselle ?”

“She is not ,“ the Frenchman said coolly. “And I do not say that because she ‘feigned’ ignorance. The right woman would have no need to feign.”

A low murmur rippled through the gathered men .

“She gave the signal at the ball,” someone else protested. “Or do you think that was a coincidence? Who else would it have been?”

The Frenchman exhaled, slow and patient, as though explaining something to a child. “The woman we were expecting was promised money. She would have demanded it, not played the frightened innocent. She would have known what to do with the key.”

“Then she knows too much,” said another.

Elizabeth’s heart pounded, her breath shallow.

“Dispose of her before she exposes us.”

A silence.

Elizabeth could hear the faint creak of wood, the distant lap of water against the docks, but she was too focused on their voices to absorb anything else.

“We cannot,” someone muttered.

A scoff. “Why not? She is nothing.”

“No,” the Frenchman replied. A pause. “She is something. Do you not know who she is?”

Elizabeth’s pulse hammered.

“She is tied to the gentleman. Milord bedonnant, ” the man snarled.

“So? A singe en redingote with too much money and too little sense. A political sod, like all the rest of them.”

“And the gras anglais ,” continued the Frenchman, “is tied to his puppet master, the earl.”

A curse. Someone shifted, the scrape of boots against wood.

“Matlock,” one muttered darkly.

“And Fitzwilliam Darcy,” another added, spitting the name. “He has been sniffing around too much already.”

A hand slammed against a wooden surface. “Then we use her.”

Elizabeth forced herself not to flinch.

“How? Ransom her?”

“Trade her,” another suggested.

“For what? No, no, far too conspicuous. We make her talk.” This was the Frenchman’s pronouncement… the one that would prevail.

Elizabeth almost laughed, a sharp, bitter thing that she barely swallowed down. Talk? About what? She knew nothing useful to them. If they thought she could reveal some great secret about Darcy or his uncle, they would be sorely disappointed .

But they did not know that.

And worse… if they thought she was withholding information, would they try to force it from her? Her stomach clenched.

“What if she refuses? Do we…” Whatever the French phrase was that followed this, Elizabeth did not understand it. Nor was she certain she wanted to.

The Frenchman spoke again, voice thoughtful. “Then we show Monsieur Darcy what we have. He will surely have something to say. Enough, perhaps, to keep Matlock leashed.”

A chill ran through her, but she tried to force herself to think rationally. For now, they seemed to believe she was more valuable alive than dead. It meant she had time.

But it also meant they would not let her go.

A chair scraped across the floor in the next room, followed by the low murmur of voices. Elizabeth remained still, her body stiff on the hard floor where they had left her. Their conversation had reached her through the thin, splintered partition of the adjoining space, the flickering light of their lanterns casting dim shadows beneath the gap at the bottom of the door.

But now, the door creaked open. Footsteps entered, and the air shifted. A shadow passed over her closed lids. Elizabeth forced herself to stay limp, her breaths shallow and even.

“Do not play games, mademoiselle.” A boot nudged her side—firm, not brutal. Testing. “You are awake. Sit up.”

She did not move.

The boot nudged her again, this time with less patience. A sigh followed, and then the soft click of a pistol being primed. “We can do this another way if you prefer.”

Elizabeth’s lashes fluttered. Her heart pounded, but she let her body react as though she were only just rousing. A small intake of breath. A slow, unsteady shift of her limbs. Then, blinking sluggishly, she lifted her head and took in her present surroundings for the first time.

Indeed, she was no longer in the damp storeroom where they had first thrown her. This was another space—still dark, still reeking of salt and rot—but with a small, scarred table at its center and a single flickering lantern hanging from a low ceiling beam. Wooden crates were stacked against the far wall, some branded with markings she did not recognize. A single lantern burned on a hook, casting flickering shadows.

Three men stood before her.

Elizabeth swallowed hard, pushing herself upright. The room swayed slightly around her, though she did not know whether it was from the residual effects of whatever they had done to her or the simple knowledge that she was in more danger now than she had been before.

“If this is how you treat all unexpected guests,” she sighed, “I cannot imagine you receive many visitors.”

The younger man’s mouth turned into a smirk, but the scarred one scowled. The well-dressed man ignored the remark entirely. “You are Elizabeth Bennet,” he said.

It was not a question.

Elizabeth sat up fully, brushing the dust from her skirts. “And you are?”

A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. “That is not your concern.”

“No, I suppose it is not,” she allowed. “Though I must say, I do not appreciate being kidnapped.”

The scarred man stepped forward, but the leader raised a hand, stopping him without a word. His eyes remained on Elizabeth. “You probably know by now that we did not intend to take you,” he admitted. “But now that we have you, I suggest you listen carefully.”

She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. “I am listening.”

The leader stepped forward, watching her as one might watch a chessboard. “You are under the protection of Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

It was not a question. Elizabeth did not react.

“And Darcy is under the protection of the Earl of Matlock,” he continued. “Which means you are far from useless, Miss Bennet.”

“Protection?” she scoffed lightly. “That is a strong word. We are mere acquaintances.”

The leader’s mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “Let us not insult each other’s intelligence.”

Elizabeth tilted her chin up. “Then I would ask you to extend me the same courtesy and tell me plainly what it is you want.”

The leader was silent for a moment. Then, finally, he said, “We want to know how much Fitzwilliam Darcy knows. ”

She blinked. “About… what? Politics? I think you overestimate the things a gentleman tells the lady decorating his arm. Or if you mean to ask about manners, I daresay he knows hardly anything, a thing I have been attempting to—”

“Stop your foolishness, woman.” He strode closer. “About the shipments. About the strongbox. About the dealings of the earl with our business. We need to know what you told him. I am no fool, Miss Bennet. You gave him the key, did you not?”

Elizabeth’s heart pounded. “Are we back to that silly thing? I think I lost it when I was out walking.”

The leader’s gaze flicked toward the scarred man, then back to her. “Then it would be… unfortunate.”

She lifted her chin, staring the man in the eye. “If you think Mr. Darcy concerns himself with anything beyond his own affairs, then I am afraid you have miscalculated. He is a selfish dolt who has no interest in matters that do not directly involve him.”

The leader studied her for a long moment, his gaze weighing her words. “Is that so? You seem to have a rather pronounced… fondness… for selfish dolts, Miss Bennet. At least that one, in particular, for you spend a rather excessive amount of time in his company.”

She lifted one shoulder carelessly. “He is wealthy. And he buys me things.”

“Ah! The mademoiselle’s true character revealed!” He snorted as he turned to the younger man. “Move her to the other room. Keep her… comfortable .”

Elizabeth clenched her jaw as the younger man nodded and gestured for her to stand. She rose, straightening her gown, smoothing her sleeves. If she was to be moved, that meant they still had a use for her. She glanced at the leader one last time, memorizing his face.

He had made one mistake.

He had let her see him. Hear his voice. She knew who he was, now, and who he was connected to.

And if she ever got out of here, she would make certain Fitzwilliam Darcy knew exactly who had taken her.