Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Darcy! Is she . . .?” Fitz’s question faded away.
Elizabeth. His heart was ash; his eyes watered. Elizabeth was never still. She was never quiet, even when she did not speak. He reached out a hand to touch her sleeve.
Someone had done this to Elizabeth. To cause him grief? They could have had no idea how deep that grief would go. He would run mad with it.
But not yet.
First, he would see to her—he would do what he could to restore her dignity.
“Hold Miss Bennet’s legs, Fitz,” Darcy said numbly, sliding his hands under her arms and pulling her up so that her head rested against his chest. “We shall have to lift her out.”
Fitz eyed him and moved into position, but then hesitated. “You know her?”
He nodded once.
“Are you sure we ought to remove her?” Fitz asked tentatively. His next words were disconcertingly frank. “If she is dead, you cannot keep her here.”
Darcy’s eyes were on Elizabeth’s face. He felt nauseous. He had left Elizabeth at Netherfield. He had made his own escape and left her unprotected.
He would not cast her off now.
Despite being dressed for the weather with a sensibly warm coat and half boots, Elizabeth was pale and cold, the lips that he had admired only the night before were tinged with blue.
“I will not leave her in this damned box, Fitz,” he responded hoarsely.
He choked on the thought that the trunk was very much like a coffin, and he felt hot and cold all at once.
Good God, had she been in the boot the entire way to London?
Would Bingley have gone to such lengths to hurt him and keep Elizabeth quiet?
“Help me,” he growled, “or get out.”
His cousin offered no more protests. He stepped to Miss Elizabeth’s feet and knelt, reaching under her legs but keeping her skirt between his hands and her stockings, a sign of respect for which Darcy silently thanked him.
“Ready,” Fitz said. Anders held down the trunk so it would not turn over and make noise. Slipworth nervously placed his palms under the small of Elizabeth’s back, doing not much good at all.
Anders grabbed the blanket and spread it out on the floor before they set her down. Darcy noted that her pelisse was dirty and torn, but it was still buttoned up tight. He hoped it meant she had not been accosted in that way.
He tugged lightly at a bit of rope still attached to one slender wrist, and Slipworth gasped. Darcy pulled his hand away as though he had been burnt.
“She moved, sir!” the valet said urgently.
Fitz shifted from his position at Elizabeth’s feet to hold two fingers against her throat. Darcy waited anxiously, but Elizabeth did not stir.
“She is alive,” Fitz said at last. He looked up and met Darcy’s gaze, held it. “She is alive.” He lifted his hand and ran it through his hair. “Now what do we do?”
Darcy inhaled a deep, broken breath. Alive. “Thank God,” he whispered, laying a hand on the floor to keep himself from collapsing with the relief of it. Suddenly, his mind cleared. There were things to do—there were things he could do.
He ran his gaze up and down Elizabeth’s prone form.
“Where is she injured?” he demanded. There was a red mark on one cheekbone, whether from a hand or the cold he could not say.
Darcy cupped Elizabeth’s chin and carefully turned her face so he could examine the other side.
There he saw a more prominent mark, red, mottled and darkening to blue, that extended from just below her cheekbone up past her temple.
He brushed her curls aside to see that much of the mark was hidden beneath her hair .
After having ridden so far on nothing more than a horse blanket tossed over a number of metal carriage tools, she must be bruised all over, but this—he could see that she had been struck, likely more than once.
His stomach churned with acid, and he fought not to allow the rage he felt rising to overtake him.
Elizabeth needed him. There would be time for anger later.
“She moved when you touched her hand,” Fitz reminded him.
Darcy lifted that hand, and Elizabeth grimaced.
The movement was slight, nearly imperceptible, but it was there.
He tried to push back the sleeve of her pelisse, but it was fitted too tightly.
Given the tattered state of the rest of it, he did not hesitate to ask Anders for a knife.
The coachman held his out, but before Darcy could take it, Fitz had it and was carefully cutting the sleeve at the seam.
“You are not steady enough,” he murmured.
When Fitz was done, he shifted his attention to the rope while Darcy separated the wool and gently rolled up the sleeve of Elizabeth’s walking dress.
The glove was pushed down to her wrist and her forearm was swollen and discolored.
Very carefully, he ran his hand along the bone—it appeared to be sound.
He gently laid her arm down again. As he did so, he noted that the palm of her glove was bloody, and he peeled it off, then examined and removed the second one.
Her hands were abraded, but not badly. Fitz finished his work and lifted the rope away before checking Elizabeth’s other arm.
“None of this would account for her remaining insensible,” Darcy said, addressing his cousin. “Even with the blow to her face. Is there another injury to her head?”
“I do not think so,” his cousin said. He lifted one of Elizabeth’s eyelids. Darcy was nearly undone to see that brown eye dull and unfocused.
Fitz scowled. “She has been drugged. Probably laudanum. It would account for the shallow breathing and her inability to wake.” He leaned over and sniffed, just as Darcy himself had with Anders. “In wine, I would guess. How long a ride is it from Hertfordshire?”
Darcy forced himself to look away from Elizabeth. “Three to four hours on horseback, depending on the roads. I was home in a little more than three.”
His cousin nodded. “We cannot be certain of the dose, but typically she would wake after four or five hours. She is rather slight, so we may have some time to wait.” He met Darcy’s gaze, and Darcy knew he was asking how they were to proceed. “Shall we call the magistrate?”
Darcy shook his head. “And say what? That Anders found her in the boot of my carriage? Fitz, she and I had a disagreement at the ball, but it would not take long to prove that I arrived here and was seen in public long before my coach arrived. It would barely touch me. Miss Elizabeth’s reputation, however, would be destroyed, along with those of her sisters.
And Anders would surely be accused in the matter, whether people believed he was working on orders from me or not.
” He motioned to his coachman. “Between the color of his skin and his father being an American, you know he would not fare well in court.” He glanced at the coachman. “I do not mean to offend, Anders.”
“There is no offense in the truth, sir,” Anders replied stoically.
Fitz nodded. “So she remains?”
“Until we can find a way to resolve this, yes.” Darcy wondered how precisely they would be able to do that.
His mind began to churn with other questions, too.
Had Bingley done this? Had her attackers meant to kill her?
Was the threat of the sheep farm not enough to keep Miss Bingley from telling her lies?
“Sir,” Slipworth said in a hushed tone, breaking into his thoughts. “If you are to keep her here, we must remove her somewhere more private.”
Darcy was surprised that his fastidious valet would even consider hiding an injured woman in Darcy House, let alone participate, but he let that pass.
Slipworth’s loyalty would override any qualms he might have.
And Slipworth was right. They should move her, and quickly.
Less chance of detection and less painful for Elizabeth to be moved while she was still insensate.
Anders stood. “Sirs.” They all gave the coachman their attention.
“It is best if I do not hear any more. The fewer who know the young lady’s location, the better off she shall be, I think.
” Darcy nodded once. Anders continued, “I am not generally in the house and therefore cannot assist more than I have without raising suspicion. I shall keep my wits about me outside. Perhaps whoever has done this will be paying you a visit?”
“No doubt with a magistrate,” Fitz mumbled uncomfortably.
Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. “Or some sort of extortion scheme.” He looked at Anders.
“I would be willing to contact my family, sir, should you have need of them,” Anders said, steadier now.
Darcy sighed. Anders had a large family, most of whom lived in and around Lambeth—tradesmen, mostly.
Military, both active and retired. A musician.
An artist. Anders was the only one in service, and only because he had a love for fine horses and carriages but not the money to acquire or maintain them himself.
His family had, on occasion, offered various services to Darcy House when Anders requested it.
“I hate to impose, Anders,” he said, “but I thank you. We may have need of help before this is through.” He gave Anders a nod.
“Right,” he said seriously, “off you go.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” Anders said, the words heavy with meaning. He bent his head in an abbreviated bow and was gone.
“Where do you plan to hide her?” Fitz asked when Anders had closed the door. “This is not Pemberley. You do not have dozens of rooms in which to secret an invalid, and we dare not involve your housekeeper or a maid in such a scheme.”
Notwithstanding his position as master, Darcy knew Mrs. Spencer would have his head on a pike for bringing trouble to the house. He did not fear the housekeeper, but neither could he be sure she would willingly assist them—and he would not have caring for Elizabeth made any more complicated.