Chapter 7
The carriage lurched forward, and though there was no time to relax, Richard’s body melted against the cushions.
He had not been so bone-tired since his last campaign on the continent—riding for months through sleet and rain, too exhausted to care how hard the ground was at night, too hungry to mind the meager, tasteless rations.
How he wished he were back in Portugal. It was better than this.
After all night searching for Darcy, all night facing dead trails, the dawn forced them to face new, worse realities. Either Darcy had been kidnapped or impressed into service, or he was dead.
Richard hoped he was early enough to catch Phil Rouncewell at the Bow Street Runners’ office. Father had agreed that involving Richard’s former colonel was the wisest step.
Rouncewell took satisfaction in helping people, seeing justice done, and making England a safer place for his children and grandchildren to live.
He did not chase after the prize money most of the runners pursued when their criminals were convicted and punished.
His duties seemed to satisfy his need for purpose while ensuring he returned to his comfortable bed, dinner table, and loving family every night.
Richard envied him.
Fifteen minutes later, the carriage jerked to a halt. Richard settled with the driver, adding a few extra coins in appreciation for his haste.
The Bow Street office was a hive of activity—runners with their blue tailcoats and top hats darting to and fro amidst a sea of victims and defendants clamoring for their attention.
Rouncewell stood out with his gray whiskers and stiff posture—the vestiges of his military days.
He spotted Richard, dismissing himself from the companion with whom he was speaking, and clapping Richard enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Colonel! It has been many moons since I have had the honor of seeing you. What brings you here? You are looking well.”
Richard returned his friend’s warm greeting. “How is your family?”
“My youngest married last year and recently blessed us with another strapping grandson.” His chest puffed with pride. Elbowing Richard, he asked, “When will it be your turn, lad? Only those who marry young have the energy to play with their grandchildren.”
Richard brushed off his question with a vague, “Soon enough.” Nonchalant as he pretended to be, the question always pinched his heart.
Rouncewell kindly let the matter drop. “I trust your excellent father is in good health?” He had the utmost respect for Richard’s father, Lord Matlock. One word from the earl had secured Rouncewell’s paid position on the Bow Street force.
“Fit as a man half his age. He wished for me to convey his regards. It is, however, another family member who brings me to you.”
Rouncewell’s smile faded into a marked frown. “And here I had hoped your call was of a social nature. How can I be of assistance?” He clasped his hands in front of him, his gaze intent, head tilted so that his ear leaned toward Richard—a stance of attentive concentration.
“Do you remember my cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
Rouncewell nodded. “Tall, dark, proud-looking gentleman.”
“He has gone missing.”
His gaze snapped up to Richard’s. “How long?”
“Since Sunday night, about nine o’clock.”
Rouncewell tugged his whiskers. “There has been trouble in town of late, especially at the east end. War has made the press gangs desperate.”
“It is a possibility.” That had been Father and Richard’s primary concern.
The Devil’s Tavern was an unsavory place, not just for the hardened folks who frequented such an establishment, but for its location near the Thames.
Even if Darcy had identified himself as a landowner, they might not have believed him.
Gentry had no reason to enter that part of town.
Why had Darcy not told him he was meeting with Wickham? Richard would have accompanied him, wearing his uniform to offer a degree of protection for them both.
He had argued as much to Father the night before, and his father’s retort rang in his ear then, too. “What about Georgiana?” And he was right.
Darcy would have reasoned that, should something befall him, she would not be left without a guardian so long as she had Richard.
And so his stubborn cousin had gone to the enemy’s camp, determined to bend Wickham to his will, risking his own neck to save the standing of a family with whom Darcy held no hope of uniting himself.
Richard spent most of the night and a fair portion of the early hours that morning cursing Darcy’s heightened sense of responsibility and honor. His cousin did not take his life lightly, but if someone he loved was in danger, he would not hesitate to stand between them and peril.
Richard hissed a slow exhale. How could he condemn his protective cousin when he would do the same for his family? For the lady he would one day love?
Rouncewell interrupted his thoughts. “Do you wish for me to put a word in ‘The Quarterly Pursuit’? Get the public to assist in finding him?” The weekly newspaper provided the public with descriptions of criminals, information on stolen goods, and other activities of the underworld.
While the journal kept people informed, it had also proved to be a valuable resource for the runners when readers came forward with helpful testimony.
But Richard’s father had been adamant. It was too soon to expose their family to the public eye.
The paper was helpful, but there were people who preyed on anxious families.
Sorting false testimony and dealing with fake ransom notes would only slow them down.
“My father believes it best to keep Darcy’s disappearance quiet for now.
We are prepared to devote all of our time to his recovery. ”
“Very good. Has there been a ransom note? Any known threats?”
“Nothing. One moment, he was in town, and the next, he was gone. He was last seen by the waterfront.” Richard gave the specific location of the inn where Wickham stayed.
Rouncewell stewed on that, eyes staring unfixed, fingers tugging his side whiskers.
Richard’s thoughts turned to the potential dangers. Aside from the press gangs and thieves, there were the Resurrection Men. Those unscrupulous monsters, tired of grave robbing, had begun killing able-bodied men so that they could sell the fresh cadavers to eager surgeons.
Finally, Rouncewell spoke. “It is not as bad there as St. Giles, but that is no place for a gentleman. What was he doing in that area?”
Richard told him about Wickham, keeping certain details about the lady silent to protect the Bennets’ reputation.
“What about this Wickham? Could he be involved?” Rouncewell asked.
“I have three reliable youths posted near the inn. If Wickham attempts to escape or if he meets with anyone suspicious, they are to report to me immediately. His involvement is unlikely, but until we find Darcy, I must acknowledge the possibility.”
Rouncewell nodded. “Good. You cannot afford to overlook anyone. Too many times, the originator of the worst, most brutal crimes are members of one’s own family. Or a close friend.”
“A sad testament to our times.”
“It is at that, but I see too much of it to ignore the reality.”
The entrance door opened, and they stepped aside to allow the young lady and her maid a wider path. Richard only caught a glimpse of her face before her bonnet blocked his view. She left a soft trail of jasmine in her wake, an improvement over the pressed bodies in the office.
“She is a persistent one,” Rouncewell muttered.
Richard noticed the determination in the young lady’s rigid posture and the confidence with which she approached one of the senior runners. Whatever she was after, she would not give up easily.
She spun around, and Richard sucked in a breath.
The quality of her gown, the elegance of her bonnet, and the perfection of her auburn ringlets around alabaster skin suggested she was of a privileged class that did not belong in a place such as this.
And yet, she did not seem in the least bit uncomfortable.
“What is her story?” Richard did not have the time to ask, but he was intrigued.
“Poor lass,” Rouncewell said, dropping his hand from his whiskers.
“I feel for her predicament, but she will never get her sort to admit to what she fears they have done. They are above the law. And unless she finds the persons involved in a crime committed over twenty years ago—a crime for which she has no proof—she is unlikely to get them to admit to any wrongdoing.”
“What does she suspect?”
Rouncewell’s voice was low and cold. “Baby snatching.”
Revulsion twisted Richard’s stomach. It pained him to know there existed such an evil in the world. “Who is she?” he asked.
“The only child and heiress of Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild. They recently died in a carriage accident.”
“Foul play?”
“Worse. Miss Rothschild suspects she was not their child at all.”
Richard gasped. “She suspects she was snatched? By them?”
“Unlikely. Mrs. Rothschild was well known for her philanthropic work. Mr. Rothschild was generous and supported her every cause.”
“Guilty consciences?”
“Perhaps. If Miss Rothschild was, indeed, snatched as a babe. About a year ago, she met a family from Kympton—”
“Kympton? That is near Pemberley, Darcy’s estate.” Richard’s heart leapt into his throat at the connection. It hardly seemed like more than a coincidence, but with the little Richard had to go on, every lead was worth pursuing.
Rouncewell rubbed his whiskers again. “Perhaps you know the family. Hale is their surname.”
A sharp inhale. “Mr. Hale is the rector there. My cousin gave him the living when it became available some five years ago. The rectory is suitable for their large family.”
“And far away from Kent, where their infant was stolen from their home all those years ago,” Rouncewell said gravely.
“Miss Rothschild is of a similar age to their lost child, and she bears a striking resemblance to Mrs. Hale. As tempting as it is for me to probe further into the matter, I fear it would only be a waste of time and cause her more hurt. Grief does not settle well with anyone, but some take it harder than others.” He sighed.
“I suspect that Miss Rothschild is a lonely young woman so desperate to have someone in her life, she has imagined herself a new family.”
Richard tried to remember the Hales—the parents and their children.
They all had various shades of ruddy hair, from bright red to the darker auburn Miss Rothschild possessed.
Richard could not say if there were additional similarities.
He looked at the young lady, searching for something familiar he could link to the Hales.
She spoke to her maid, her gaze roving over the people in the room until she locked eyes with him.
The noisy room silenced and, for the briefest moment, time stopped as she peered at him with piercing emerald eyes.
Something inside him softened. He instantly knew that, should she ask him for help, he could not refuse her.
However, he could not abandon Darcy to chase after a whim.
Richard looked away. He would write to his aunt Catherine as soon as he returned to his apartment.
If a baby had been stolen in Kent, she would know about it.
Nothing else about Miss Rothschild’s case seemed to have anything to do with Darcy, and Richard did not have time to help lonely heiresses.
He had to find Darcy and make sure Wickham married Miss Lydia.
Turning to Rouncewell, he said, “I mean to go to the River Police next. Is there any officer in particular I should speak to?” With a force of over eighty men on their payroll and an additional thousand on reserve, the River Police had gained a foothold against the thieves and looters preying on anchored ships. They might know something.
“I have several contacts there, and I suggest you allow me to speak with them. They are more willing to help one of their own than an outsider.”
That would save a great deal of time. Richard thanked him.
Before he could take his leave, Rouncewell gripped his elbow. In a low tone, he said, “The waterman brought in three new bodies. I was on my way to see if they belong to anyone I know when you arrived. I hate to ask, but should you accompany me?”
A shiver gripped Richard. He could not bear to think of Darcy—his cousin and closest friend—drowned or otherwise dead, but he had to know. He nodded.
They made their way to the banks of the Thames where a morgue housed the unfortunate souls washed up onto the shores, caught in dragnets, dredged from the bottom, or fished off the surface by the watermen who made their living rowing people from one side of the river to the other. It was a damp, dreary place.
Richard closed his eyes and said a silent prayer, overwhelmed at the task before him. He uttered another when he discovered that Darcy was not one of the three corpses.
Seizing onto hope, Richard hailed another hackney. “Gracechurch Street,” he instructed the driver.