Chapter 1
Later the day of the attack:
Mrs Fitzpatrick, or more correctly Mrs de Bourgh, was in shock.
All her dreams of revenge and dominance had been washed away like debris in a dry riverbed after a heavy rain.
She did not want to believe it, but her current situation and the men of her former family all glaring at her gave a lie to her wish.
When everything went wrong, the former Lady Catherine de Bourgh could not fathom what was happening; she could not understand how this could result from her meticulous planning.
How could a plan she devised and deemed to be perfect become such a disaster?
She, a great lady, was bound like a common criminal, and a carriage was being made ready to transport her to gaol where, as she understood, she was to stand trial for the murder of some inconsequential maid that happened some years ago--well, and that of her late husband.
And, apparently, they called the small matter of attempted murder of many people a crime.
She had not actually been able to commit those crimes!
At some point in her ravings, Catherine de Bourgh had retorted to a comment about her killing her husband in a way that admitted she had, thus increasing her murder count from one to two.
And now, no matter how much she screeched for them to end this farce, no one was paying heed.
A point was reached when they had heard more than enough of her caterwauling, so one of the men gagged her, with both Richard’s and Andrew’s permission.
Why did people continuously refuse to follow her direction?
That was it! The failure was not in her plan but with the dimwits who tried to execute it.
They must have missed a critical step and look at the trouble it now caused her.
She was sure, though, that as soon as she ordered the judge to set her free, he would do so.
She ignored what her former brother-in-law had said about her secret spy not being so secret and that her family had planned her downfall, only giving her the illusion of being in control.
Not only had Pemberley slipped through her fingers again, but her house and all of her money were to be given to the family of a servant!
Why should these lowlifes take what was rightfully hers just because she killed their daughter?
She was a servant! It was her right to treat servants as she saw fit.
They could not have paid her a greater insult if they had tried, given what her former brother-in-law and her late brother’s whelps had decided to do with her money and property.
Catherine de Bourgh was now penniless, the same as the nobodies that she so disdained.
The funds that she held in her carriage to pay the men were forfeit, and her erstwhile Darcy nephew had taken her private ledger that listed the banks and accounts, along with the names that she had used on each one.
Her former brother Darcy had told her that they would have a judge’s order by morning ordering the banks to turn over all of her funds, and they would be disbursed to the family of the maid they claimed she had killed.
It would be their choice to reside in the house in Packwood or sell it. If only she could escape.
No matter how deep her delusion, she was bound, gagged, and in irons, so no matter how much she desired to be free, she would never be again.
Her destination was the Old Bailey in London, where she would answer for her crimes, and without a miracle from on high, she would swing.
The fact that she still believed that she had the power to order things as she wished would not change the fate that awaited her in London.
In terrible shape after saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, Wickham was on his way to the gaol in Lambton.
His sentence would be carried out in the morning, and he would be hung—if he survived the night.
All of the hired criminals, including McLamb, minus the handful who had stupidly tried to resist, were under arrest. McLamb was fuming in the back of a wagon, cursing the day that he ever heard of Mrs Fitzpatrick, or de Bourgh, or whatever her name was.
The only question to be answered for McLamb and the rest of the men was would it be the noose or transportation without the option to return to England?
Earlier, as the attack began:
McLamb stood and pointed his pistol at the lead carriage’s driver, proclaiming “Stand and deliver” while his men aimed their weapons at all five carriages; his triumphant smirk was wiped off his face in the next instant.
“All of you! Raise your hands NOW!” he heard from behind him.
He had been so focused on his intended victims that he had not noticed the wall of men that had materialised, seemingly from nowhere, and surrounded them.
If that was not bad enough, there were weapons pointed at them from the insides and tops of each carriage.
McLamb saw that his men were outnumbered more than two to one.
He was not about to give his life for the woman who had hired him.
He was the first to lower his pistol, dropping it before raising his hands, telling his men to do the same.
She was not worth any of his men dying for.
Mrs Fitzpatrick was about to jump up and scream that they should kill all of them when her two footmen pulled their pistols from their belts.
It was the last actions of their misspent lives.
Before either could raise his weapon, they were cut down by a volley of shots.
Three more of McLamb’s men made the same mistake and quickly met the same end.
After that, every mercenary dropped his weapons and raised his hands high.
As she sat in shock from the loud reports of the shots which were so close to her, and once the gun smoke cleared, she stared at the bodies of her men lying near her. Her shock increased tenfold when she heard the voice behind her.
“Did we spoil your plan, Aunt?” Andrew spat the last word out as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “I thought that you were always right, so how is it that you have finally been captured, and your men are now dead or captured?”
“How dare you!” she demanded hotly.
“How dare we what, Mrs de Bourgh?” George asked from behind her. “How dare we know all about Jones? How dare we send you notes in his stead? How dare we foil your plans to commit mass murder of men, women, and children? Or how dare we stand up to an insane murderer like yourself?”
“I should have poisoned all of you the same as I did that useless Louis de Bourgh,” she spat back.
“Thank you for admitting to a second murder, Mrs de Bourgh. Unfortunately, they will not be able to hang you more than once,” her former brother told her with no feeling for the woman that sat spluttering before him.
She started to scream and screech her vitriol, and after a minute or two, Andrew nodded to one of their men to gag the woman, and none too gently.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~
As they were dealing with the delusional mastermind, Will was searching her carriage.
It seemed the driver had run off, and the carriage was unguarded; however, the guards with Will were vigilant and would take no chances.
Will found nothing of consequence until he spied the corner of an oilskin pouch sticking out from under a seat.
In it, he discovered the deed to her house in Packwood, account statements from the three banks among which she had divided her money, and all of her account books showing the name of each alias that she had used.
The books were just as poorly kept as those at Rosings used to be when under her tenure.
Before he headed back toward his father, he put everything back in the pouch to hand to him, knowing that his father would want to see all that Will had discovered.
~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~
George Wickham could not comprehend what was happening.
It seemed that not only would he not get to kill the foundling and spirit Miss Darcy to Gretna Green and marry her, but he had just seen an up-close demonstration proving that the men with weapons trained on him and the old bat’s surviving men would not hesitate to shoot him if he made a wrong move.
Being the coward he was, he decided that his only slightly viable option was to slip away in all of the confusion as he was a yard or two away from the rest of the men.
He had hoped that he had not been noticed as no one had turned in his direction.
While he was contemplating how to make his getaway, he had not heard the stealthy approach of some men as they closed in.
He suddenly sensed that there was a presence behind him, and he turned slowly with his hands raised, not wanting to give the man an excuse to shoot him.
Wickham did not make it all the way around to face them before a fist connected with his face, which seemed to have the force of a horse kicking him with all its strength.
The blow knocked him back into a tree. At first, he was too dazed to see who his assailant was.
As his vision cleared, he saw a seething Richard Fitzwilliam in regimentals standing in front of him, his fists still balled and ready.
“Did you think I would allow you the easy way out at the end of the hangman’s noose only, did you, Wickham?” As he spoke, Richard unsheathed his sabre, ready to use it if needed.
Wickham made the mistake of opening his mouth to try to taunt Richard as he used to when they were both lads at Pemberley.
“It is a pity my aim was not better, so I could have put that mongrel foundling…” Whatever he was about to say was lost in his scream of pain as Richard had dropped his sabre and started to pummel Wickham with blows, each one harder than the one before.