Some Particular Evil

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

D arcy was rudely awakened from the most incredible dream by a deafening knocking on his chamber door. Opening his eyes, he threw the heavy duvet off of him and leapt from his bed, feeling all the disorientation of interrupted slumber. Looking about, he realised that he was not in his bed. This was not his chambers. And, to his horror and disconcertion, it was not a counterpane he had thrown off of him, but rather a mortified and very nonplussed Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who now sat inelegantly splayed upon the rug in front of the chair in which he had nodded off. For several moments, he just blinked down at her, too shocked to move.

Elizabeth was here, in the dark study, alone with him, and sitting so near? No, she must have been sitting upon him for her to have been flung off in such a way! What had she been doing nestled upon his lap? And how long had she been there?

And, good Lord, why was I not awake for it?

A chill washed over him from his left shoulder, down his belly, and over the front of his thighs, and he assumed it was his body lamenting the loss of her warmth. His fingers tingled and his lips were moist, as if the delirious kiss he had shared with her in his dreams, with his hands tangled in her silken locks, had actually taken place.

It could not be, could it?

His first instinct upon regaining his senses was to apologise for dashing her to the carpet and offer his assistance to lift her up, but at the sound of a second knock, the full import of the scene in which they found themselves—whether he understood the circumstance of its coming about or not—dawned upon him. If they were caught here together, alone in a dimly lit room and him in his shirtsleeves, there would be consequences. And neither of them, he was sure, wished to suffer the ire of Lady Catherine de Bourgh over such a matter.

Rather than reaching for her hand to help her stand, Darcy motioned for her to stay down, darting his eyes towards the door and putting a finger over his mouth in a plea for silence on her part. She seemed to understand immediately, even drawing her knees up to her chin, gathering her skirts under her, and wrapping her arms around her legs to make herself as small as possible behind the overstuffed armchair.

Darcy strode towards the door, lifted his coat from its hook, and shrugged it on before clearing his throat and calling out, “Enter.”

Standing in the corridor, haloed by candles too bright for Darcy’s sleepy eyes, Fitzwilliam shifted on his feet and hesitantly looked up to meet his gaze. Something was terribly wrong. Fitzwilliam was always the picture of composure, much as Darcy strove to be, but now appeared anxious, unwilling to voice the words he had presumably come to speak. Darcy waited.

“There is a man here, a constable.”

“What has happened?” Darcy asked, now fully awake and immediately cataloguing what kind of disaster or villainy could have occurred while he was secreted in the study.

“He wishes to see you, Darcy,” the colonel croaked. “He says he has a warrant for your arrest.”

Still disoriented from his sudden awakening, Darcy wondered if he had heard his cousin correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“There is a constable here. He says he has come from London with a warrant for your arrest,” Fitzwilliam repeated with marginally more ease than the first time.

“If this is a joke, it is not amusing,” Darcy said. He was hesitant to believe his cousin, whose sense of humour was so far removed from Darcy’s own that it sometimes bordered on the morbid, but the colonel’s countenance was grave. He did not need to answer; this was no joke.

“Where is he?” Darcy asked, tugging on the hem of his coat and readying himself to meet whatever ridiculous accusations this man would lay at his feet. He had never done anything that even bordered upon illegal. He paid his taxes to the last farthing. He treated all around him with respect, never exploiting or defrauding others. He had never even gone into the seedy establishments where men’s vices, legal and otherwise, were catered to. Fitzwilliam Darcy was an upstanding citizen, loyal to King and Country. This was clearly a misunderstanding.

“He is in the drawing room, and he has got a rather brawny fellow with him.”

Darcy motioned for Fitzwilliam to lead the way, darting a glance towards a still-hidden Elizabeth before exiting the room. He walked with determined steps, intrigued but not deeply concerned about the matter which would be brought forth. Then Fitzwilliam halted, turned about, and gazed at Darcy’s face with eyes that bore into him, causing Darcy the first twinges of worry.

“This is serious, Darcy. He is talking about treason,” he confided in almost inaudible tones.

“Treason!” Darcy hissed back at him. “I would never!” The walls began closing in around him, and the only thing keeping him upright was his indignation at such an accusation.

“He says he has witnesses. Rock solid evidence,” Fitzwilliam said, speaking fast and darting his eyes towards the hall they were about to enter. “Do you think, perhaps, you should run?”

“Run? I have done nothing wrong!” Darcy said, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Besides, running would only make me look guilty. I shall do no such thing.” With that, he motioned once again for Fitzwilliam to precede him, and he entered the drawing room hard on his cousin’s hesitant heels.

Before he had greeted his aunt and cousin, or even fully entered the room, the stocky, balding gentleman before him began reading aloud, “Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Berkeley Square London, you are under arrest on the charge of treason. On the eve of November 16, in the year of our Lord 1811, you, Fitzwilliam Darcy, were heard by members of His Majesty’s militia in the county of Hertfordshire making threats against, and offering to compensate persons for the assassination of the Prince Regent. You are to be remanded to Newgate Prison this night, until such time that you might answer for these charges in a court of law.”

“Threats against the Prince Regent? This is ludicrous!” Darcy began in his defence. “I have no reason to wish the Regent ill!”

“I am sure you do not, sir,” the constable said drily, before adding, “You shall have a chance to make your denials before the judge, Mr Darcy.”

“And I am to be taken to Newgate? Tonight?” Darcy asked, breathlessly.

“Do you know who this man is, sir?” Lady Catherine interjected. “This is the nephew of the Earl of Matlock. You cannot simply enter my home and drag him away in chains!”

“No chains, my lady. And I’d rather not drag him away. I’d rather he come willingly,” the man told her, unmoved by Lady Catherine’s outburst.

“May I have a moment to gather my things?” Darcy asked. He understood that prisoners at Newgate were allowed their personal effects, as the Crown was loath to provide anything beyond the barest necessities of food and shelter for its lowest, least deserving citizens.

“Aye, but I must accompany you,” the constable told him.

“I shall accompany him,” Fitzwilliam cut in. “Lady Catherine will not wish to have a stranger wandering through the family wing. I am a colonel in His Majesty’s army; I have proved my loyalty to the Crown. You may trust me to return him to you forthwith.”

The man bowed, then smoothed his greasy hair across his head and over the bare patch in the middle. “We depart in a quarter of an hour.”

Fitzwilliam walked over and exchanged a word with the constable as Darcy made his way towards his chambers. Within a few seconds, Fitzwilliam caught up and followed Darcy to the grand staircase.

“Find Barnes,” Lady Catherine shrieked as they walked away from her. “Send him to the blue room directly.”

“You should have run,” Fitzwilliam whispered.

“This is utter nonsense and you know it. You must come to town tomorrow, speak to my solicitor about visiting me as soon as possible and lining up a barrister to defend my case, and tell your father what has transpired.”

“Perhaps his influence will help bring about a hasty conclusion to this unpleasantness,” Fitzwilliam answered.

The two were silent as they strode up the stairs towards Darcy’s suite of rooms. This was madness! When had he ever spoken to a single member of Colonel Forster’s regiment regarding anything at all to do with the Prince Regent? From whence would such an idea have come?Or from whom?

Wickham .

George Wickham was self-serving and cunning—he had been since boyhood—but could he really be so wicked as to engineer such an accusation against him? One which might lead to Darcy’s demise? Was he so vengeful that he wished to see Darcy hanging from the end of a rope in the town square?

“I shall leave you to get ready,” Fitzwilliam interrupted his thoughts as they came to Darcy’s door. “I shall pack a case as well and accompany you to London; I just asked the constable if that was agreeable. I see no reason why I should wait until the morrow.”

Darcy looked at his friend, grabbed his shoulder in a manly display of gratitude and affection, and thanked him. Fitzwilliam would not sleep, he knew, until he had done all he could to secure Darcy’s freedom and clear his name.

He walked into his chambers and was glad to find Barnes, his faithful valet, already inside. When the servant looked up in surprise, Darcy informed him that he would need to pack a portmanteau, for he was leaving for London.

“I can have us ready to depart at first light, sir.”

“I am afraid my departure must be made rather sooner, Barnes,” Darcy lamented. “We have just under a quarter of an hour.”