Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Second carriage,” Fitz murmured. He sighed. “We have to find out who was at that ball, Darcy. All week I have been tracking down those you remembered were in attendance as they returned to London, but I have little to show for it. If we had the guest list, we could simply compare it to yours.”
Darcy nodded. “A simple enough task had I not severed all ties with Bingley before I left.”
“You could ride back and say you have forgiven him,” Fitz suggested.
“Forgiven him for attempting to tie me to his sister? Lie outright to the man?” Darcy asked, aghast.
“Pretend,” Fitz corrected him.
Darcy stopped walking to stare at his cousin, incredulous. He could do many things well, but acting a part was not one of them. “Pretend,” he said flatly. “Me.”
Fitz grimaced. “No, you are correct. Dreadful idea. You could no more convince Bingley you have forgiven him than you could pay a woman a charming compliment.”
Darcy sighed. “Thank you?”
His cousin laughed. “Still, this is something. I suppose Miss Bennet still cannot recall precisely how she came to be in your carriage?”
He shook his head. “But she recalls leaping from one. It likely happened near where her bonnet was found.”
Fitz stopped just inside the door. “She leapt from one and appeared in another. She may have escaped by hiding in the boot herself—this may have nothing to do with you at all.”
Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. “I have thought as much. Crawling into the boot to hide is consistent with what I know of her. But I have been trying to work it out, and I cannot think of any reason Miss Elizabeth would be targeted other than her interference at the ball. We need more information.” He led Fitz to his dressing room.
Slipworth looked up from his work cleaning several combs and a brush. He stood hurriedly. “Sir?”
“Slipworth,” Darcy said as Fitz found a chair and slid into it, “on your journey from Netherfield to London, did you stop anywhere other than Longbourn?”
“I could not say, Mr. Darcy,” Slipworth admitted. “I slept from the moment I returned to the coach at Longbourn until we arrived in London. You decamped rather abruptly, and I had been up much of the night seeing to your packing.”
Fitz frowned, but Darcy knew this was not a complaint. The valet never complained, at least, not to him. It was merely a statement of fact.
“Thank you, Slipworth,” Darcy said calmly. They would need to speak with Anders next. Fitz was already up and through the doorway.
“Mr. Darcy,” Slipworth called, and Darcy waited. His valet’s face was flushed. “Your evening jacket has lost a button. It is not in the trunk. Nothing else is missing—I have looked everywhere and simply do not know where it could be.” He frowned, clearly frustrated.
“It is all right, Slipworth,” Darcy replied. A button was the least of his concerns.
But Slipworth was not placated. “It is quite an ornate one and must be specially made to match the others. I would like to send it out.”
“Order whatever is needed,” Darcy said hurriedly, and strode after his cousin.
“What was the man on about?” Fitz asked.
Darcy shrugged. “Lost button. Slipworth is fastidious, almost to a fault. It bothers him that he did not see it was missing before the jacket was packed.”
Fitz gave him a sidelong glance. “You live in a different world than I, cousin.”
They strode past the few maids who were cleaning the public rooms. It felt odd to see them—he had been in hiding nearly as much as Elizabeth since she arrived.
Fitz, on the other hand, had been occupied with unraveling the mystery that surrounded them all.
The men he had sent to Hertfordshire had brought back their only useful knowledge.
The cold air out of doors roused Darcy a bit, and by the time they found Anders working in the carriage house, he was feeling more alert.
When they posed the question, Anders nodded. “We were forced to stop when another coach blocked the road. I had to come down off the coach to speak with them. Two men. One was very fair with pale blue eyes. He had a mark . . .” His hand hovered near the outside of his left eye.
“A freckle?” Fitz asked.
Anders nodded. “A bit larger and darker than a freckle, but yes, brown like that. The other man was not at all remarkable. Neither tall nor short. Dark blond hair, cut short. Brown eyes.”
Elizabeth had described the same men when she woke from the laudanum. He exchanged a look with Fitz. “Did you recognize the carriage? The horses?” Darcy asked.
Anders shook his head. “No, sir, but I was in the neighborhood for only a few days before you departed.”
Fitz laughed at that and poked Darcy with his elbow. “You were already thinking of making your escape.”
Darcy sighed. “Miss Bingley’s ability to speak without cessation left me determined not to be confined in a carriage with her again.” It was not Caroline Bingley he had hoped to escape. “I was glad to have Newton,” he said, referring to his thoroughbred. “Bingley is still building his stables.”
Anders lifted an eyebrow at that but did not speak. Darcy was being rather generous. Bingley had allowed other men to tell him which horses to buy. Some of those men had been honest, but not all.
“Sir,” Anders said slowly, “the coach was black with yellow wheels, no coat of arms and a bit battered. Likely a coach for hire.” He closed his eyes, and Darcy knew he was trying to recall more details.
“And one door was open—when I walked over to speak to the driver, I saw that the handle had hit the side of the coach hard enough to remove a bit of the paint. I think one of the wheels had been cracked, though they refused my help.”
“Good,” Fitz said smugly, “we can seek out where they might have made the repair.”
“They were still rather close to Meryton, Colonel,” Anders informed him. “I would have returned the coach there for repairs.”
“We shall have to send someone else, Fitz,” Darcy cautioned. “We cannot have the same men making repeated inquiries.”
Fitz nodded. “We also need to be seen out. Anders, would you make the carriage ready?”
The coachman turned to Darcy and waited for his orders. Darcy nodded. Anders touched the brim of his hat and set to work.
Fitz watched Anders go, and shook his head. “I will never understand how you inspire such loyalty in your servants yet manage to offend nearly every person in your own circle.”
“I treat each as they deserve,” Darcy said gruffly.
“My staff is not afraid of honest work. Regrettably, I cannot say as much for many in our circles.” Fitz had no idea.
His cousin’s men would follow him through fire.
Darcy did not inspire that kind of devotion.
It was his privilege to treat his staff fairly and with compassion, but they were still servants and he could not also be their friend—some would certainly seek advantage.
Acquaintances he had. He was even friendly with some men at the club.
But a good friend? A confidante? Fitz was the only one he had.
“Now,” Darcy said, facing his cousin. “I know I have been distracted. But how is it you did not think to ask Anders about the trip before now?”
Fitz was incredulous. “I am not a bloody magistrate at Bow Street, Darcy. How would I know to ask? We knew nothing of a stop on the road or Miss Bennet leaping out of a moving carriage. Anders and I assumed Miss Bennet was already in your boot before it left Netherfield. She said herself she was out walking near the estate.” He huffed.
“Point out the enemy, and I will run him through.
That is my profession—and may I remind you I am spending my leave keeping your arse out of the fire?
You owe me at least a case of your best brandy for this—I know you still have some.
“ He crossed his arms over his chest and settled into an offended silence.
“Of course,” Darcy replied with a wave of his hand.
Fitz was right. He had been of no help, caught up as he was with caring for Elizabeth, and she had not recalled leaping from a carriage before today.
Fitz had been working on the information they had—working on his own because Darcy could not bear to be away from Elizabeth.
Darcy’s thoughts wandered back to his earlier conversation with her. She had called him her friend. Was it possible for men and women to be friends? Would it matter when she went away?
There was a snap next to his ear, and he flinched before scowling at Fitz.
“What are you doing?” he asked, drawing himself up.
Fitz lowered his hand. “Your distractions are why we are missing things. Keep your mind on our task, Darcy. I swear, I have never known you to drift away as you have since you returned from Hertfordshire.” He gave Darcy a wicked grin, irritation suddenly abandoned. “Angelo’s again?”
Normally, Darcy would take his cousin up on any challenge, but he was not inclined to exertion just now.
Elizabeth’s fever had never climbed so high that he was truly afraid for her, but after three days with little change, he had been anxious.
Thankfully, the illness had run its course and Elizabeth was much improved.
Although he had slept well the previous night, it had not erased the consequences of three nights spent in a chair.
Between his concern for Elizabeth’s health, the consequences of his behavior on her reputation, and his growing feelings for her, Darcy was wrung out.
He hated to do it, but he had to admit his limits.
“Not today, Fitz,” he said tiredly. “Another time.”
That Fitz was shocked by his reply he had no doubt—his cousin started a little before narrowing his eyes and assessing him silently.
“The club, then?” he asked at last.
Relieved that Fitz had not demanded an explanation, Darcy nodded his head in assent.
Before they could find a place to sit, Darcy was approached by a few men. Dudley, he thought, and . . . he searched his mind for the name of the other. Mann, perhaps?