Chapter One
The Rescue
Will Darcy heard the click of the heavy door behind him and took a deep and long breath of the cool night air.
London was hardly known for the purity and sweetness of its atmosphere, especially in the heaviness of summer, but after the miasma that pervaded the interior rooms of his club this evening, even these breezes felt fresh.
He had not intended to visit the club at all, but Monfort and Churley had all but dragged him bodily from his house, and only the comment that his friend Bingley had promised to appear as well convinced him to accompany his old school chums without a fight.
But the club had been noisy with the sound of men at their games, and the air heavy with the smoke of a thousand cigars and pipes and the stench of too much alcohol.
No matter how fine the spirits, in such great quantity and combined with the fumes from whatever men were smoking, they turned sour to the nose.
In no humour to abide the lewd jokes and with no desire to empty his pockets over some wager, he stayed as little time as he thought polite, and then took his leave.
Bingley had never arrived; in retrospect, he suspected that this had only been a ploy to convince him to come and that his young friend had never intended to be there at all.
He tugged down upon his tall hat and straightened his cravat before descending the few stairs to the street.
The building which housed the club loomed tall and imposing behind him, a haven for the wealthiest of the elite, a bastion of masculine arrogance.
He enjoyed the society and activities of the establishment from time to time, but this was not one of those times.
Now he simply wished to be out of London.
“Just a few more days,” he murmured to himself as he began to make for his home.
The walk was short, a mere twelve or thirteen minutes through the streets of Mayfair, and he felt in need of the exercise.
How he longed to be out of the city, away from the crowds and stench, away from the society that rose at noon and played until dawn, away from the stifling inactivity that even a stroll or ride through the parks could not alleviate.
Other times he had enjoyed the parties and balls and entertainments, but now, after this past summer, not even the allure of the opera or the galleries could spark a desire to remain in Town.
Just a few more days of meetings with his bank and his attorney, and he would be free to depart once more.
Where he would go, however, was less definite.
He turned off Piccadilly and onto Berkeley Street, heading towards the square, and from there towards his London house, wondering all the while where to go after departing from Town.
He could not return to Pemberley for the time being; his sister had made that very clear.
She wished nothing to do with him, and he could hardly send her from her home after.
.. he refused to finish that thought. Perhaps he might prevail upon some friend or other to host him for a time.
If matters were different, if Europe were at peace, he might venture to France for a time, or Italy.
But that was impossible now. The war with France, and now with the Americans in the New World, made any thought of leaving Britain futile.
Never mind; he would find a place out of London for a time.
If not with a friend or relation, he might take a small house somewhere, perhaps on the beach, or maybe venture up to his small estate in Scotland and spend the remainder of the summer there, hunting and fishing, where nobody knew him and where he might find some peace.
He tried to recall the last time he had travelled to that remote and harsh place for more time than it took to confer with his steward and leave once more. It might be a fine choice.
So enrapt was he in these musings that he almost did not hear the running footsteps until they were nearly upon him; neither did he feel any sense of alarm until he heard the sound of a snap and felt something heavy and sharp hit his leg.
Half in shock, half in astonishment, he spun around to see what in heavens was going on, and only by this movement did he avoid some projectile that had been flying directly at his head.
His beaver-fur hat took the force of the hit instead of his brow, and it was knocked right off his head from the blow.
Such a strike on his forehead might have wounded him gravely, or even killed him!
Almost immediately, another snap resounded in the air and his left shoulder exploded in pain.
Something had hit him, something aimed directly at him!
Despite the pain and wielding his cane as a weapon, his eyes sought his attackers.
There were three that he could see, all dressed in dark clothing with woollen caps pulled low over their heads, their faces all but obscured by the darkness and heavy brims despite the sultry air.
One man cradled a large club, studded in spikes; another carried what appeared to be a slingshot and a handful of large stones—that must be what had sent his hat from his head and had crashed into his shoulder—and the third was advancing towards him with slow, menacing steps, the glimmer of the distant gas street lamps reflecting off the cold metal of a long knife.
Several thoughts flooded through Darcy’s mind, each fighting for supremacy.
The first was wonderment at such ruffians here in Mayfair!
These streets were some of the finest in London; this was not Whitechapel or Seven Dials!
What were such miscreants doing here? They had not happened upon this place by chance, but were here for some purpose.
Nor was the hour so late that they might be pursuing their nefarious plans whilst the good people of Mayfair slept.
No, it was not even midnight, early hours yet for the idle men and women of the Ton who would be still at their cards and dances and games.
Did they merely seek any man who chanced to be walking these streets alone, or had they come for him in particular?
The next thought, struggling to make itself heard, was that he ought to fight, to protect himself.
The man with the club had not raised it yet, and seemed content for the time being to hang back behind the others, nor did the man with the slingshot seem to be readying his next stone.
The third, however, with that thin and sharp shard of a blade, was encroaching closer and closer, and would soon be upon him.
Darcy had no means of protection other than his cane, but he had fenced at university and was more than adequate at the sport, and he was a man accustomed to the activities of the country rather than the indolence of London. He could defend himself if necessary.
The third thought was that he ought, rather, to flee, to yell and scream and make enough of a racket to bring somebody to his window and then, hopefully, to offer refuge.
The fourth thought was that he was sufficiently in shock from the attack and pain from whatever had hit his shoulder that fighting would be futile and fleeing hopeless.
Something wet oozed down his leg from where he first had been hit.
Was he cut and bleeding? He could hardly stand, and the ground seemed to sway beneath his feet, and his left arm hung useless at his side.
He was but one injured man, caught unawares.
They were three large, armed, and well-prepared bruisers.
Had he been laying wagers at his club, he would not have bet upon his own success.
But neither would he go down without a fight.
With what little strength he could find, he summoned a breath and let out a mighty yell, whether to raise the alarm amongst any passers-by or to inform his attackers that he was not down yet, he did not know.
With his good arm, he brandished his cane as he would a fencing sabre, his feet, conditioned by hours of long training, sliding into position to lunge, parry, and riposte.
The pain in his bleeding thigh and useless left shoulder dwindled to a dull ache as he narrowed his focus onto the three men who threatened him.
The man with the knife halted in his tracks, clearly not expecting such a response, and then darted forwards, the weapon slicing the air before him.
With motions borne of instinct rather than conscious thought, Darcy stepped aside and flicked his cane.
The tip caught the knife and sent it twirling through the air; a dull thud suggested that it had landed some distance away.
Bereft of his weapon, the knife man staggered backwards and took off at a run.
Any satisfaction Darcy felt at this small victory was short-lived.
It would be far less easy to defend himself from another hurled stone, and once struck again, he doubted he would long survive that mace.
As the man with the slingshot readied another projectile and the man with the cudgel began to swing the club through the air in preparation for an attack, another crack split the air.
This was no snap of the slingshot or even a pistol shot, but the crack of a whip, followed by the thunder of hooves on the cobblestone lane.
A large carriage, little more than a shape in the darkness, had rounded the curve of the street at a tremendous speed, and a man’s voice—no, men’s voices—rang out through the night.
The two remaining attackers took their fellow’s lead and fled into the night, and for the first and hopefully last time in his life, Will Darcy fainted.