Chapter Twelve
In the next room, Elizabeth heard Emma cry out, and there was a pounding sound. She went to the far wall and called out to her friend. “Emma?”
Emma’s voice was muffled on the other side of the wall. “We are locked in!”
“So are we!”
On the other side of the wall, Emma called out again.
The only word discernible was window, so Elizabeth went to the small window at the back of the room.
She unlatched it, and after a moment of panic at the sight of the moat below, Elizabeth clutched at the wall as she tentatively poked her head out.
Where her hand clung to the stone wall of the room, another hand connected with hers, and she held fast to it, smiling without looking back at Mr. Darcy. Emma peeked out of the window in the next room. “It has finally stopped raining!”
Elizabeth knew this must be a fine thing, if they had any hope of the roads being passable for the royals to reach them. “But did you see who locked us in?”
“No, the door just slammed shut while our backs were turned. But surely it must be Sir Walter!”
“How could he have gotten the keys from Mrs. Rushworth?”
Beside her, still holding her hand, Mr. Darcy said, “He attempted to embrace Mrs. Rushworth last night at dinner, after….”
Elizabeth repeated this to Emma, who laughed. “Yes, he does try to do that to all of us, I think. Oh, sorry, Mr. Willoughby.”
Elizabeth laughed, grateful she had mostly been spared the man’s leering attentions.
She began to think it unwise to speak of him while so exposed, and she looked down to see if any of the windows on the lower floor were open.
Happily, they were not, but she looked at the moat for a moment too long, and became terribly dizzy.
Mr. Darcy acted quickly as she lost her footing, and braced her body against his until she stilled and calmed herself. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, clinging to his arms around her even though she knew she was perfectly safe.
He slowly released her. “We ought to keep trying to call for help. If Miss Morland still has her keys, she will be able to let us out.”
“I can think of only one reason Sir Walter would lock us all away. These rooms are next to the servants’ passage.”
His countenance turned grim. “Mrs. Clay.”
Elizabeth brought her hands to her face. “We were supposed to warn her.”
“Good God.” Mr. Darcy sank down onto a leather chaise at the side of the room, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.
Elizabeth’s chest ached at the sight of him, and at the horrible truth left unspoken. She sat down at Mr. Darcy’s side, uncertain of what to do with her hands in her wish to comfort him.
“He is claiming another victim even now, and he may decide to come back for us, since he has us trapped here, helpless.”
Elizabeth felt a wave of terror at his words, and then she remembered something.
When Mr. Darcy had doubted Mr. Willoughby’s good intentions in the parlor, he reached into his coat for something.
She slowly brought up her hand and placed it on his chest, or rather, on the distinct shape of a pistol. She abruptly withdrew her hand.
Mr. Darcy glanced down at his coat. “Yes, I suppose that is an option, but not one I should like to take. If I am obliged to shoot Sir Walter, it will hardly help us make the case that he is the murderer.”
“Could you use it on the lock?”
Mr. Darcy sat up straighter and smiled indulgently at her but shook his head. “I admire your temerity, Miss Bennet, but I do not think it wise. The bullet might ricochet and cause us some harm, or it may destroy the lock entirely, and then it shall never be opened.”
Elizabeth felt her face burn with embarrassment at her suggestion. “It is comforting, at least, to know you have it. And what a relief, for Miss Bingley would be very cross if she were to hear that I had the audacity to perish alone in a room with you.”
He laughed, narrowing his eyes a little. “Why does she nettle you so?”
Her eyes went wide and she gaped at him as if he had just asked her the color of the sky. “Because….” She gestured broadly. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. Elizabeth huffed. “If we may soon be at the mercy of a killer, I should rather not speak of Miss Bingley!”
He winked at her. “Nor I.”
Elizabeth felt herself leaning closer to him, and shot up off the chaise. She pounded her fists on the locked door and called out for Cathy several times. Eventually Mr. Darcy came to her side and gently tugged at her wrist.
“That is enough, for now. You will do yourself harm.”
The sides of her hands were pink, and they rather stung; she cupped her hands awkwardly in front of herself. In want of some distraction, her eyes landed on the billiard table. Her lips twisted into a mischievous smile. “Would you like to play?”
Mr. Darcy looked bemused. “If it will take our minds off of this whole horrid ordeal, I should be honored to instruct you, Miss Bennet.”
She stifled down a snort of laughter and arched an eyebrow at him. “How gallant.” She moved to the billiard table and slid her hands into each of the pockets. “What if we were to find the other key?”
He nodded, but neither of them had much heart for their search at present. “He might have thrown the blasted thing into the moat,” Mr. Darcy muttered.
He retrieved two cues, and handed one to her, and then demonstrated its use. When Elizabeth assured him she comprehended the mechanics involved, he placed two cue balls and one red ball on the table, positioning them carefully.
“If you can strike the other two balls with your cue ball, that is a cannon. If you can get the other balls into one of the pockets with your cue ball, that is a hazard.”
“And the point values?”
“Whatever we choose. Shall we agree that a cannon is two, and for hazards, a cue ball is three points and a red ball is four? We shall play to twenty.”
Elizabeth nodded, and he made a few demonstrations, calling attention to his techniques and explaining fouls; all the while she smiled brightly and nodded her head.
When he was done, he made way for her to take her first shot.
He looked as if we would advise her on her posture, but hesitated, and Elizabeth knew herself to be correct.
She took her shot. The red ball spun into one of the far pockets, and the cue ball into another.
Mr. Darcy stood up a little straighter and eyed her with something between awe and alarm.
He proved a competitive man, despite his determination to be agreeable, and was running his hands through his hair in frustration when she attained twenty points before he had scored half so many. He set aside his billiard cue and stepped toward her. “You have played before.”
She grinned brightly at him. “Every time I visit Sir Edward in London. He taught me years ago.”
He shook his head, looking very well pleased with her mischief despite the chagrin of his thorough defeat. “Why did you not tell me you are an experienced player?”
“For my own amusement, of course. I have not run mad or fainted for fear of murder, so I regret nothing.”
Mr. Darcy laughed at Elizabeth’s saucy banter and took another step closer to her. He reached up to brush away a stray wisp of her hair that had fallen out of place, and his fingertips moved slowly across her face, and then briefly stroked her lips before he withdrew. “I cannot regret…”
“Letting me win?”
“You jest with me, but I am sure I might have been more ferocious if I had known of your talent.”
“But you were made aware of my gifts fairly quickly,” she said with a saucy smile. “You might have exerted yourself at once, and stood some chance.”
His mouth fell open, but the corners of Mr. Darcy’s lips quirked upward. His eyes sparkled as he stared with wonder at her insolence. “I will not be defeated – best of three!”
He thrust her billiard cue at her with a vicious grin, and when she wrapped her hand around it, her fingers brushed his. “You are rather flustered, sir; have you your wits about you?”
He let out a throaty growl as he retrieved his own cue and began arranging the balls on the table. He pointed at her with flourish. “I will play first; it is your forfeit for such wicked taunting. Very unsportsmanlike, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed, then gestured for him to proceed. “Go on, then, sir – do your best! I can trounce you again, for I have nowhere else to be at present.” She winked at him, and swiftly fulfilled her threat.
In their second game, she was merciful enough to allow him to lose by a single point, and the prolonging of his heated endeavor to best her was excessively diverting. The man had never been more animated than in the throes of his imminent defeat.
After a perfectly reasonable amount of gloating on Elizabeth’s part, Mr. Darcy bowed to her with gracious exaggeration. “Well done, Miss Bennet, though I cannot imagine what has come over me. I play far oftener than I suppose you do.”
“And are you generally drinking brandy when you play? Aha! It is the same for my uncle. He says it helps him from overthinking, and affords him a degree of bravado that makes it all the more enjoyable. So you see, Mr. Darcy, now I am the one to have you all figured out.”
He pursed his lips with merry vexation, and his eyes darted to the decanters on the sideboard at the back of the room. He took a step toward her. She laughed and wagged a finger at him. “I think it is too late for that.”
He narrowed his eyes and grinned, taking another step toward her. “Next time we play, Miss Bennet, we shall have to even the odds in my favor.”
“Oh, really? And when….”
Her voice trailed off as the sound of music emanated from the next room; Emma was playing a jolly tune on the pianoforte. Mr. Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand and raised her arm upward in an arc, into which she instinctively gave a playful twirl.
“I am glad you have broken your habit of refusing me,” he said, moving into another figure of steps, and Elizabeth found herself begin to dance with him in earnest.