Chapter 13
Fitzwilliam peered through the open door, waiting. He had returned from Pemberley a fortnight ago; Hurst had yet to make an appearance.
He had questions. Hurst had answers.
Fitzwilliam had no doubt he would get them.
Hurst exited the earl’s study, his attention on the folio in his hands. Fitzwilliam waved; Hurst looked up. Fitzwilliam stepped back and pressed up behind the door. Hurst entered.
“With whom do—?”
Fitzwilliam pushed the door closed. The latch clicked.
“Me.”
He motioned towards a pair of wingback chairs. Hurst crossed to the far chair, sat, crossed one leg over the other, and folded his hands.
Silence followed—neither uneasy nor accidental. It lengthened.
“How may I assist you, Captain?”
Hurst’s mouth shifted. “Yes, I listen.”
“You do, sir.”
Hurst’s expression held. “What would you like to discuss?”
“I spend my summers at Pemberley.”
“I am aware.”
“I ride the shire.”
“You must encounter many new sights—and make great discoveries.”
Fitzwilliam allowed a small smile; one he did not feel. “I have.”
“Pray tell, what is the greatest discovery of this past summer?”
Fitzwilliam set his jaw.
“The Lambton bookshop.”
Hurst paused. “What else have you discovered?”
“Wrong question, Mr Hurst.”
Hurst inclined his head. “What have you learned, Captain?”
“That is the correct rank, Mr Hurst.”
“Hurst. No titles between soldiers.”
Fitzwilliam remained still. “What do you know of Captain Bennet?”
Hurst’s breath altered. “You have spoken with her?”
“I have.”
“She identified him?”
“She did.”
“In what manner, may I ask?”
“As her saviour.”
Hurst folded his hands. “Thank you for the confirmation. He does not deserve harm.”
“He must give testimony.”
“Yes, Captain. When the opportunity presents itself.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head.
* * *
Matlock House, August 1796
Fitzwilliam kept to the hours—rising, riding, sustenance, an hour with his sisters, studies, tea, and dinner with the earl and countess when invited.
He toweled himself dry; Villiers set him to rights. Phoebe and Ellie awaited him in the nursery. Books lay open on the shelf; a tiny tea set lay set upon the table, awaiting attendance.
He read. They caught his chin and turned his face to either side and asked questions. He answered and continued reading.
When the clock struck, they embraced him. He shrugged his shoulders, closed the volume and stood. They did as well and curtseyed.
Dinner came at the same hour each night. The earl spoke; the countess listened. Questions were asked and answered. Plates were cleared. Fitzwilliam observed and ate. Markov corrected him in the morning. Perry set him tasks in the afternoon. He completed them. He returned to the girls.
He had just left them when boots sounded on boards. Familiar voices carried—the earl and Hurst—down the passage. The front door lay ahead.
Fitzwilliam turned. Villiers halted where he stood.
They moved together. The study door yielded at a touch. Fitzwilliam entered. Villiers took the frame and held it.
Letters lay on the desk, weighted. Fitzwilliam crossed to the desk and lifted the Nollekens bust. The signature arrested him.
My Lady,
The banns have been read for the final time in Lambton and St. Mary’s in Watford, just outside of town. With my uncle’s passing at the end of this last winter, once I wed, I will leave here forever.
I have sold the shop to an enterprising young man who comes well-recommended.
I owe you my gratitude for having kept my secret and for your promise to be available if needed. That responsibility will now pass to my soon-to-be husband, Mr Edward Gardiner.
Madeleine Wells
He read to the end, reset Marcus Aurelius, and looked up. Villiers’ hand had not moved. Fitzwilliam left the room.
“Fetch your coat,” he said.
Villiers took one step after him. “How long?”
Fitzwilliam did not answer. They crossed the passage. A maid passed them with a basket of linen and lowered her eyes. Fitzwilliam took the stairs two at a time. Villiers followed, his boots keeping time a pace behind.
In Fitzwilliam’s room, the window stood open. Late light lay across the bedspread. Fitzwilliam went to the chest and lifted the lid. He took out a clean shirt and set it aside. Then another. He folded neither.
Villiers closed the door.
“Single saddle?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Villiers nodded and crossed to the wardrobe. He took down the travelling coat and laid it over the chair. He hesitated, then reached for the heavier one and added it.
Fitzwilliam opened the drawer and removed the pistol. He checked the pan, the frizzen, the flint. He set it down and reached for the powder horn. His movements did not vary.
“Are we expected?” Villiers asked.
“No.”
Villiers took that in. He moved to the boots and knelt. He ran a hand along the leather, then the soles. He stood and fetched the smaller valise.
Fitzwilliam crossed to the desk and opened the writing slope. He did not take out paper. He closed it again.
“How long are we away?” Villiers asked.
“As long as required.”
Villiers tightened the straps on the valise. He did not look up. “Will we return before—”
“No.”
The word fell cleanly. Villiers finished the knot and rose.
Fitzwilliam took up the pistol and held it out. Villiers accepted it without comment.
“Aim and pull the trigger,” Fitzwilliam said. “It is an extension of your arm. Simple.”
Villiers stared at the pistol. “Authority?”
“Mine.”
Fitzwilliam pulled a blade from its sheath, tested the edge with his thumb, and shoved it into his boot. “If a weapon is displayed,” Fitzwilliam said. “Use it. Not before.”
Villiers inclined his head. Paused. “Yes, sir.”
“Give no warning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Fitzwilliam took his gloves from the chair and drew them on. He crossed to the door and paused only long enough to check the passage beyond. Then he went out.
The yard lay quiet. Villiers stepped past him and disappeared into the shadows. Argus turned towards him and lowered his head. Villiers appeared leading Maréchal.
Fitzwilliam mounted, glanced at Villiers. He nodded.
Hand up. Two fingers. Downward. Villiers swung up onto Maréchal and fell in on the flank.
They rode.
* * *
Watford, September 1796
They rose before the light. Bread and cheese. Water. A few words only.
Fitzwilliam left the posting inn while the street still slept. Villiers took the long way round and vanished where the church wall folded back into shadow. Fitzwilliam kept him in view until the angle closed.
He crossed once. Villiers signalled—set.
The first carriage arrived without haste.
A gentleman descended and turned at once to offer his hand. A woman followed. She took his arm as though it had always been hers.
Fitzwilliam watched her face before she reached the steps.
Violet eyes. Cousin Maddy. Madeleine Lambert.
She entered the church on Gardiner’s arm, smiling. Fitzwilliam did not follow. He remained where he stood and waited for the lane to speak again.
Another carriage came. Hurst claimed the steps and entered the church.
Villiers signalled. A third carriage arrived. Plain work. No crest.
An elderly gentleman descended first and assisted a lady. They moved together. Fitzwilliam waited.
Another man stepped down, hat in hand, and stood alone.
Fitzwilliam looked to his hair, his eyes, his posture—steady. The set of the shoulders.
Captain Bennet.
Villiers signalled—lane clear.
The bells began.
Fitzwilliam entered last and stopped where the nave narrowed. Candlelight lay thin across the stone; the altar stood clear beyond it. Gardiner occupied the first pew. His knee moved without cease. Bennet approached. Gardiner smiled. Bennet glanced down and stilled the leg with a touch.
Names passed between them—my bride, Maddy Wells, Lambton. Gardiner spoke of books and kindness. He smiled as men do when fortune has settled. Bennet listened. His mouth moved once. It did not form a smile.
Footsteps sounded in the aisle. Hurst stood three pews forward, close enough to hear, far enough not to intrude. He did not look back. His attention held the altar.
Gardiner rose and moved forward. Bennet took a place midway down. Hat beside him. Hands folded.
Hurst sat beside Bennet, who startled. Hurst spoke low. Bennet answered once. The exchange ended. Hurst moved forward and joined the grouping at the altar. Bennet remained seated.
Words passed. Rings changed hands. Fitzwilliam counted none of it. Gardiner turned with his wife. Bennet rose. Fitzwilliam inched forward; Bennet’s hands were empty.
“I have waited a lifetime to see you again, sir.” Her voice carried.
“I lost you,” Bennet answered. His words broke once.
“Maddy?” queried her new husband. She silenced him with a hand.
“I realized that and forgave you for your tardiness. You have been in my prayers every night.” She rose onto her toes and kissed his cheek, cupping the other side of his face with her hand. “Thank you so very, very much.”
She took Gardiner’s arm and walked away.
Fitzwilliam moved outdoors and signalled Villiers—man there. Remove him.
Villiers ran up to Bennet’s carriage. “There’s been an accident. Help me.”
The driver hurried off with him. Fitzwilliam slid into the carriage and hunkered down.
The door opened and closed. Bennet took a walking stick from the sideboard and jerked it up.
Fitzwilliam parried it, pushed it back, and pulled his knife.
Bennet lifted his hands. “Are you going to kill me?”
Fitzwilliam did not answer.
Bennet sighed. “If I may—my final wish would be for Lambert to see his daughter’s happiness.”
Fitzwilliam relaxed back and sheathed the blade. The carriage settled.
Bennet lowered his hands. Why are you here?”
“Cousin Maddy.”
Bennet inclined his head. “You are Richard Fitzwilliam.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. Once.
“Allow me to share with you a sorrowful tragedy.”
Fitzwilliam nodded.
“Entrusting my friend’s daughter to a priest to keep her safe, uncertain of your family’s intentions, is my greatest regret.
I placed caution—not for myself, but for your cousin—over care.
Having realized my faulty judgment, I immediately returned, only to find my friend’s fresh grave and no sign of Maddy.
I had lost her. Know that I have, to this day, rued my most miserable actions. ”
Bennet recounted names, locations, and details of the duel, the villainy, and his years long search for information. “A Matlock Fitzwilliam figures in this horrible affair. I have never known which one, although your connection with Hurst suggests it is not your branch.”
“Send Hurst the letters you recovered from the murderers.”
Bennet nodded.
Fitzwilliam slipped from the coach, paused at the door. “I shall remember your service.”
He spotted Villiers and signalled—rally point.
The carriage driver climbed up, snapped the reins, and Bennet lurched forward.
Fitzwilliam turned to Villiers. “Matlock House.”