Chapter Sixteen
Leaving his mount with a footman, Darcy took the front steps of Netherfield Park’s manor house two at a time.
Autumnal gusts clawed at his hat, heralding a change in the weather and running a shiver down his spine.
Though the hour was still early, the door opened to the expressionless face of the so-called butler with his too-military stance, revealing the warmth within.
Entering, Darcy began stripping his outerwear as he asked, “Where may I find my cousin?” He did not care to refer to Richard as ‘Mr. Darcy’ if at all avoidable.
The butler exchanged a look with the underservant to whom he passed Darcy’s gloves and hat before replying, “I could not say, sir.”
A prevarication if Darcy had ever heard one. They were here to know where Richard was at all times, to safeguard him. “The cellar, then?”
The man’s grimace was all the confirmation Darcy required. He turned and made his way deeper into the house.
Though unfamiliar with the location of Bingley’s leased cellar, Darcy had fair knowledge of the general layout of most stately homes. Before long, he located a doorway flanked by two men garbed as footmen. Shoulders back, he marched forward.
“Sir, this door leads to the cellar,” one said, stepping in front of Darcy.
“I am aware.” Although he hadn’t been sure until the man spoke.
“Ah, I am not certain you are meant to go down there, sir.”
Darcy looked the man up and down. “Have you been ordered to keep me from entering the cellar?”
“Well, no, sir.”
“Then I suggest you permit me to pass.”
The man barring Darcy’s way looked over his shoulder. The second so-called footman shrugged. Both moved out of the way. After a moment’s hesitation, the first pulled open the door. Darcy trotted down the wide, well-lighted staircase, making no effort to mitigate his growing frown.
He came out into a large room, various bundles of linens and articles of furniture piled against the walls to make space for a table in the center, behind which sat a clerk wearing footmen’s livery.
The man, perhaps five years younger than Darcy, looked up from the open ledger before him, his hand poised to dip a pen in ink.
Behind him, to either side of a hallway, stood two more of Richard’s men, armed with cudgels.
The clerk blinked twice. “Mr.… Ah, that is, Colonel Fitzwilliam, you are not meant to be down here, sir.”
In the door-and-sconce lined hallway behind the man, fresh, unpainted planks and what were undoubtedly new brackets barred nearly all sixteen doors, drawing Darcy’s stunned gaze. How many prisons did Richard require? Were the rooms all in use, or merely prepared?
Partway down the left side, one of the bars rested against the wall, though the door stood shut like the others. Richard must be inside. “I have come to speak with my cousin.”
The clerk glanced at the unbarred door. “He is busy at the moment, sir.”
“Then tell him to un-busy himself.” Before the man could answer, Darcy leaned forward to demand, “How many of those rooms are occupied?”
Another quick look over his shoulder between the stoic guards. “I am not certain that is information that I am permitted to pass along to you, sir.”
“I am,” Darcy growled. “Or do you want me to fetch Mr. Bingley down here? This is, is it not, his leased property?”
The clerk looked about yet again, but the guards were no help, doing their best to appear deaf. He tugged at his collar. “I could fetch Col—Ah, Mr. Darcy, for you, sir?”
“I believe that would be best.”
Finally setting down his pen, the clerk rose. He reached the un-barred door and knocked, then took up an at-attention stance. A moment later it opened. A head, not Richard’s, stuck out.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam would like to speak with Mr. Darcy,” the clerk said.
The head disappeared, the door closing. Darcy’s impatience grew.
Richard strode out, drying his hands on a cloth that he handed to the clerk. He murmured instructions to the man, who nodded and went in, then came up the hall. Pausing at the two guards, Richard ordered, “Take up position at the far end of the hall for now.”
Both nodded, saying, “Yes, sir,” in a crisply military way in which no one would reply to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. They marched down the hallway.
Finally, Richard came to stand across from Darcy, the clerk’s table-turned-desk a barrier between them. “Well?”
Darcy’s gesture took in the room, the hall, the many barred doors. “What do you think you are doing down here?”
“Holding and interrogating men who came to Hertfordshire for the express purpose of murdering you.”
If Richard meant to shock Darcy into accepting that as an excuse for what was quite obviously illegal imprisonment, he would be sorely disappointed. “How many men do you have down here? When, exactly, did they make these attempts? About what are you questioning them?”
“None of your concern, over the past several weeks, and, again, none of your concern.”
Darcy frowned at his cousin. “I recall but two attempts and I was made to understand that the one on the day of my arrival was the first.”
“I cannot imagine who made you understand that, because it was not me.”
Richard appeared every inch an officer, a persona Darcy knew he could don or shed at will, and which intimidated him not at all. “It is quite obvious that you have been holding some of them for weeks.” He lowered his voice to add, “Have you not heard of habeas corpus?”
“They will stand trial, never fear.”
“Legally, they must be brought before a judge. Swiftly.”
Richard braced his knuckles on the tabletop, leaning closer. “They will be.”
Darcy matched his stance. “You expect me to believe you do not know what the word ‘swiftly’ means?”
“They have been informed that they will not stand trial until the first of December.”
“That is nearly two months away.”
“December first will be upon us in under six weeks. ‘Nearly two months’ is an exaggeration. I have been under the impression that you were taught to count.”
“And I assumed you were given a basic understanding of languages and the laws written in them.” Darcy jabbed a finger down the hallway. “Those men must go to London and appear before a magistrate.”
They locked glares. Darcy’s jaw ached with the strain of his scowl.
Richard pushed off the tabletop, straightening.
“We cannot take them back to London yet. We cannot risk word that coming to murder Mr. Darcy is a trap. Our plan is working well, and—” Richard broke off with a glare as Darcy opened his mouth to speak, then continued, “And, if you must know, what I am questioning them about is where they learned of the bounty and who their fellows are. Leniency has been promised to anyone who gives us information that results in the imprisonment of other criminals. Transportation rather than death.” Richard’s voice became beseeching as he continued, “We are doing a great deal of good here, Darcy.”
“You are violating the rule of law.”
“Stretching it. They will have their day in court.”
“Habeas corpus was introduced to prevent detention without—”
“I know the law,” Richard snapped, his tone of entreaty vanishing. “Short of gathering a force with which to extract them, you have no means by which to enforce your will in this. I am in charge and under orders to keep these men here until December first.”
Darcy ground his teeth. Richard was correct.
Unless he wished to reach out to a higher-ranking officer, Darcy had no option but to bow to his cousin’s will in this, and who would he even approach?
Putting aside that such interference would do irreparable harm to Darcy’s relationship with his cousin, he had no notion how secret Richard’s mission was and who could be told without violating that trust. “And precisely how will you transport…” He peered behind Richard.
Did each room hold only one man, or more?
“However many men you are holding, to London?”
“I have requested a militia be deployed to Meryton. They should arrive soon. When the time comes, they will assist me and my men in escorting the prisoners.” Richard eyed him, obviously mistrusting even such a slight show of capitulation.
“They are the dregs of London. They have come here with the single purpose of committing murder.”
Darcy sighed. “I am not saying they should be set free. Merely that we must uphold the law.”
“And we will. They will all have their time before a judge.” Richard’s features hardened. “I will see to that.”
“And are you torturing them in Bingley’s basement?”
“No. The most I have done is withhold food and water for a day, and that for throwing said victuals at my men, not to extort information. I am not torturing men in Bingley’s cellar.”
Darcy worked to ease his frown. As he had no actual means of imposing his will on Richard, he supposed he must, for now, be content with that.
Perhaps once the militia arrived, if the officer in charge seemed amiable…
Yes, that might be a solution, but for now…
“I will summon Mrs. Annesley to escort Georgiana back to London. I am not comfortable having her in a house with a basement full of would-be murderers. I will recommend to Bingley that he send Miss Bingley and the Hursts away as well.”
“You mean, you will attempt to send Georgiana to London,” Richard said lightly.
“You do not believe she will go?”
“I do not. Not while you are here, in danger, because of her choices.”
“We will see.” He could order her to London, but he didn’t know if she would obey, or to what length he should go to enforce such a command. She was a man’s wife now, Darcy and Richard’s ward no longer.
“As for Bingley, I suppose if you must inform him of who I am keeping in the bowels of his residence, you must, but you will recall that Miss Bingley and the Hursts believe the scheme to be kidnapping, not murder. Only Bingley knows the truth of that. His relations may not wish to go unless informed, which may cause a certain amount of, shall we say, familial discord.”