Chapter Eight #4
Delilah shook her head, and answered, but not without a cautious glance at the duke. “He is too charming, if you know what I mean, Mr. Darcy. My mum warned me about men like that.”
Mrs. Eustace gestured for the maid to continue.
“Well, sir, Mr. Fitzwilliam asked about the post, and I remembered something strange. A few weeks ago, I saw Harry take Mrs. Russell’s letters.”
Mrs. Eustace prompted the girl. “He put them back later . . .”
“Yes,” Delilah said with a nod. “But after Mr. Fitzwilliam asked his questions, then I was thinking… Why did he not just take them to Mrs. Russell? Why remove the letters only to bring them back?” She shifted from one foot to another. “It was curious. And then . . .”
Bedford leaned forward, his expression intent. “And then?”
Delilah’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Well, I was thinking about Harry and the letters, and then I remembered that his friend, Mr. Williams, was hanging about after Mrs. Russell was taken ill. He asked what the fuss was about, and I—” She lifted her head and straightened her shoulders.
“I told him Mrs. Russell was ill and we were leaving to fetch Miss Russell home.”
The duke’s eyes shut briefly, his lips drawn together so tightly that the skin around them turned white. “I did not think much about it, Your Grace,” the girl said in a shaky voice. “I did not know where we were to go, and I had forgotten about the letters…”
“Thank you, Delilah,” Bedford said with a sigh. “You may go.”
Delilah curtsied, casting an anxious look at her employer before Mrs. Eustace escorted her out.
The man stood in silence for a time until Richard broke through the quiet.
“Clearly, there is more to this than just a maid stealing things at Darcy House,” he said. “Shall we share our resources rather than remain at each other’s throats?”
“I only care about Miss Russell and her aunt,” Darcy said. “Being at odds only helps Wickham.”
“The man’s name is Williams,” Bedford replied, resigned. “Are you sure he and Wickham are one and the same?”
“The maid at Darcy House called him Wilson, but the description of the man was the same. So yes, I am as sure as I can be without seeing him,” Darcy responded.
“His methods of seduction and persuasion are a match for the man I knew.” He withdrew the letter he had been carrying and tossed it on the desk.
“Wickham left his employer in Devonshire last spring when the man died. His son quickly discovered that Wickham had been stealing money for years and turned him out of the house.”
Bedford rubbed the back of his neck. “I do not retract my statement about the Darcys bringing this man into our lives. But as Olivia has rather forcefully pointed out, you are not the Darcy at fault.”
As I told you a week ago, Darcy thought irritably.
The duke stood. “I apologize.” He held out his hand. It was hardly enough, but the man was a duke. Darcy knew was lucky to get an apology at all. He took the man’s hand. Then Bedford sat to write out the directions. “When you see Lizzy, will you attempt to get her to return?”
Darcy nodded. “I cannot promise success, Bedford, but I will try.”
Bedford sanded the note, and as soon as it was dry, handed it over.
As Richard took the paper, Darcy cleared his throat. “I would suggest, Bedford, that you have your staff conduct an inventory. You may find that you, too, have things missing.”
Bedford frowned, but Darcy remained impassive.
“I shall,” the duke replied.
Richard inclined his head towards the door. They made their farewells and called for their carriage.
Elizabeth left her aunt resting and returned to the ground floor in response to a summons from her butler, Mr. Perry.
He was an imposing man—tall, strong, in his forties but with the appearance of a much younger man.
Elizabeth had liked the idea of hiring a butler who might also take part in protecting the house.
She was an independent woman, but her uncle and aunt had raised her to be prudent as well.
“I am sorry to disturb you so soon after your arrival, Miss Russell,” he said with a bow. “But Mr. Yeager has asked to see you down at the greenhouses.”
“Is he here?” she asked. “Or waiting for me there?”
“He is waiting,” Mr. Perry said. “Shall I call for Taylor and Clark?”
Elizabeth hesitated. She nearly declined the escort out of habit.
She had spent months in Hertfordshire and been perfectly fine.
It took only a few minutes to ride to the greenhouses, and Mr. Yeager would be expecting her.
It would be quicker to go alone. But she soon thought better of it.
Aunt Olivia would scold her, and Mr. Darcy would give her that disapproving glare of his, only it truly would be disapproving this time.
Even Kensington, as safe as it felt, was not Hertfordshire.
Given the events of the past few days, being alone for even a short ride like this was unwise.
Elizabeth returned her attention to Mr. Perry, who was awaiting an answer. She almost laughed at the curled lip. It is not as though Mr. Perry was asking you a question, you ninny. He was telling you to take them. Ah, well, I shall get used to it again.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Perry,” she said, and Mr. Perry’s lips straightened. “I shall go change and meet them out front. Is Kensington in the stables already?”
“I believe so, Miss Russell.”
She nodded. “Please ask that she be saddled for me and brought around.”
“Yes, Miss Russell.” Mr. Perry stepped away and Elizabeth headed for the stairs.
It took some time to make their way through the clogged city streets out to Hyde Park and then just beyond the city limits to Kensington. The rows of houses gave way to small groves of trees with bare branches, some scattered bushes, the occasional large home in the distance, and acres of farmland.
The rumbling of the wheels over the cold ground lulled each man into a kind of private introspection.
Darcy had not been sleeping well, instead spending hours ruminating over the letter wielded by his Aunt Catherine, and he had at last come to a conclusion.
The writer had meant to get him on the road to Kent.
It was possible, he supposed, that Wickham meant to steal him blind in his absence, but his instinct screamed that the blackguard was not after more items to sell.
Darcy did not travel with a team of outriders, nor in a coach pulled by six horses.
His journeys included at most two outriders and a coach pulled by four—comfortable but not particularly fast. A trip to Kent from London was relatively brief and made over secure roads.
At Easter, he generally traveled with Richard in the carriage and no additional escort at all.
For such a summons as his aunt might have been expected to issue when she received the letter, there was every possibility he would have made the trip alone.
Alone and largely unprotected. Wickham had proven himself adept at getting information.
He had managed to get others to steal for him.
Darcy’s travel plans would not have been difficult to discover.
The more he considered it, the more he had come to the dark conclusion that Wickham was still after the fortune he believed Georgiana could provide—and he was not above either abducting a man—or killing one—to get it.
“What is that dark cloud hovering over your head, Darcy?” Richard asked, his own expression forbidding.
Darcy evaluated his cousin’s features. “I surmise you are considering Lady Catherine’s letter, as am I.”
Richard sighed. “I admit that I am. Have you come to the logical conclusion?”
“But it is not logical,“ Darcy insisted. “Georgiana would remain with the Matlocks were I attacked. She would be more difficult to reach, not less.”
“But if it looked like an accident . . .”
It struck him them—the shot that had hit nothing, the branch in the road. “Do you think he meant to cause an accident with Bedford’s coach?”
“Perhaps. Bedford is a more dangerous target. If he had startled the horses and tipped the coach,” he grimaced, “or run the coach over the branch and sent you all flying… he would not have repined, I think.” His eyes seemed far away as he thought out loud.
Darcy frowned. “So he waits for an ideal situation, causes an accident, and then waits until—when? Georgiana would still be with your parents.”
“Darcy,” Richard said gently, “if something of that nature were to occur, you have to know the entire family would remove to London, and then—”
“All the men would travel to Kent.” Darcy rubbed his forehead. It was an unpleasant thing to consider, even in his imagination. If there had been a clear ambush, the women would be vigorously protected. An accident would not raise the same level of concern. “Leaving only the women in London.”
“A decided risk,” Richard said thoughtfully, “but were he willing to take it . . .” He paused.
“If he were to remove Georgiana in the night, it might be past noon before we would hear of it in Kent. Georgiana is not an early riser and would not be missed until just before breakfast, something he likely knows from her former companion. He could have an entire day on us before we could give chase.”
“Georgiana would not go easily,” Darcy replied, his stomach sinking at the different ways in which his sister might be forced to comply. “But with that kind of time, he could make it to Gretna.”
Neither man spoke their greatest fear—that they would never see Georgiana again, that Wickham would taunt her relations with her well-being for the rest of his life. Or hers.
Darcy could not think long on the bitterness Wickham would take out upon Georgiana; whether he arranged an accident or simply made her remaining life unbearable, his sister would be in misery.
And nothing would then stand between the man and the prize of Pemberley.
He had made changes to his will after Georgiana’s near-miss, but Wickham would not know that.
Darcy wondered whether Wickham had approached anyone in the solicitors’ office.
No women there. He closed his eyes. Wickham had him turning in circles, waiting for his next move.
It was precisely what the miscreant would want.
The carriage turned up a long drive that jogged to the right around a giant oak tree and then curved before a handsome gray-stone edifice with Palladian columns near the front entrance.
The lawn sloped slightly down from the building and was dotted with sheep.
A three-sided shelter was built to the west of the house at the bottom of the gentle incline, a small barn some distance farther in the same direction largely hidden by a stand of trees.
“Handsome house,” Richard said. “It is easy to see why she might prefer it to St. James.”
Darcy nodded solemnly. St. James’s Square was a fashionable address and the duke’s home was enormous, but the activity all around it was somewhat mixed.
Though she had likely been well tended, he had to own a little surprise that the Russells had resided there even when Elizabeth was a child.
Pall Mall was not far away, and even during the day there might be less savory characters making their way about.
There was prestige there, but not peace.
Here, even so close to London, just over three miles from his own domicile in Mayfair, it was as though he was in the country.
Even with all the troubles that had crowded upon him fast and thick in the past week, nearly all of which remained unresolved, he could feel the tension in his back beginning to ease.
Elizabeth, he thought, his eagerness to see her at last growing stronger with every moment.
Richard was still speaking as Darcy made to rise. “Darcy, are we going at this the wrong way? If it was Wickham firing at the carriage—then he followed the duke’s carriage, not Lady Catherine’s.”
Darcy was only half-listening. They had arrived, and he nearly leapt down the steps as they were positioned. He needed to see Elizabeth.
Before they could approach the door, there was a clattering of hooves from one side of the property, and a horse came galloping back towards the stables. Darcy froze. It was an Arabian. With a side saddle. And no rider.