Chapter 58
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Elizabeth and Francis continued to talk in the drawing room as Francis laid before her much of the information that had been so painstakingly gleaned by Hanley over the months past.
“I was so ill for so very long—I cannot tell you how many days I thought were certainly my last—but then I began to recover. Once my survival was assured, I realised I had been spared for a greater purpose, almost as if the Almighty Himself approved of my mission.”
“You were in the mines for such a long time. Were you ill the entire time?”
“Oh no.” Francis shook his head. “It was simple, my dear lady.
Of the men on the road to Crewe that day, three of us walked away: me, my brother, and the man he hired to kill me.
I knew that eventually I would be the last one standing, but I had to bide my time.
Alas, the gunman had heard Henry and me argue—we were angry and not discreet.
I know not what he understood of it, but I did not choose to find out at the risk of my own neck.
“You see”—Francis gave her a condescending smirk—“one must plan carefully for these things. Mistakes had already been too numerous. I could not be hasty again even if it meant more time in that wretched mine, not with so important a mission before me.”
The thought stilled Elizabeth’s heart. She imagined how it might have been had they dismissed George Wickham’s rambles and this man had come forward of his own volition months, maybe even years, later.
She shuddered to think of it, glad that the pain forced upon her and Darcy was not, after all, in vain.
“How…?” She paused a moment. Her voice had emerged in a squeaking croak and she did not wish it to give away her anxiety. Forcing herself to sound calmly interested, she asked, “But how did you know your brother had been hanged? Did you have someone to tell you these things?”
She could see this raised his suspicion.
He gave her something of a searching look before saying, “I have many friends, my dear girl. Friends whose loyalty is indisputable. Even at my lowest point, there was always a way to get information although it sometimes took months to learn what had passed.”
Realising she needed to distract him, Elizabeth caressed his arm. “Of course,” she murmured. “Of course, you did.”
“You see, Henry was soft. In the manner of most people who are handed everything and work for nothing, he had no idea how to survive. I did, and that is why it was he who swung from the scaffold and not me. There are too many of his kind in this country—too many who take position and fortune and use it for no good but to further their own selfish—”
He was growing angry, and Elizabeth interrupted, her tone soothing. “But it will not be thus for long. Not once you have what is rightly yours.”
“Quite right.” Francis relaxed, seeming to enjoy her flattery.
“Parliament is filled with the dissolute and the reprehensible. Our regent is a disgrace, and his behaviour makes us all a mockery. There are people dying in the streets of London, starving, desperate for a crumb of bread while he wastes fortune upon fortune.”
“So you wish to make it equal for all?”
He smiled at her indulgently. “Equality is a worthy notion but hardly practical, at least not within my lifetime. Leading a revolution, my dear, sweet girl, is about knowing what you can and cannot achieve. No, I simply wish to complete the first step: to remove the reprobates from governance. We shall never win these infernal wars with such vile creatures leading us. We must remove them and bring in new leaders, ones who will make the changes that are needed.”
“So your plans were…? Help me understand, dear husband.”
He pulled her hand to his lips for a soft kiss.
“A war, any war begins with bloodshed. It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that the blood of one person of note is far more effective at raising the hue and cry than is the slaughter of a hundred of those of lower birth. So it must be the regent, but his abettors in Parliament would follow soon after.”
Elizabeth tried not to shiver at the cold look that came into his eyes. “I see.” She was searching for something else to ask him when she heard a sound at the door.
“Yes?” Francis called out impatiently.
“It’s Hanley.”
Francis scowled and quietly said to Elizabeth, “Stay as you are. I will see what he wants and get rid of him.”
Francis strode to the door and flung it open. Mr Hanley and Colonel Fitzwilliam entered the room.
“Madam.” Hanley acknowledged Elizabeth with a bow then smiled genially at Francis.
“What are you doing here?” Francis asked the two men, not hiding his exasperation.
“There is a gathering down on Wolsey Street, and I hoped you would join us.”
“Thank you, but no,” Francis replied firmly. “As you see, I am hardly attired.” He remained half-clothed from his earlier interlude with Elizabeth and did not seem inclined to alter his appearance.
Hanley looked at his chest, as did Fitzwilliam, and Francis understood it almost immediately. His chin rose, and he took on a rather shifty-eyed look although he attempted to appear amiable and relaxed.
“Perhaps I spoke hastily. Allow me to retrieve my coat, and we shall be off. You do not mind, do you, dear?”
Elizabeth, wide-eyed, shook her head.
“Excellent.” Francis turned and left the room, grabbing his shirt and waistcoat on the way out.
When the door closed behind Francis, the room was silent for a moment, all of them suspended in the questions of what was known and unknown.
Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke first, going to Elizabeth’s side. “We know—we know about him, and from your conversation, you do as well.”
Elizabeth nodded and glanced at Hanley. “Mr Hanley you are—”
“A spy, I guess you could say,” he said with a wry chuckle.
He sobered quickly. “You may be in some danger. I do think he suspects something is gone awry, and I believe he is capable of almost anything. You must leave immediately. Go to Darcy’s house and await us there.”
“I shall,” she agreed. “But what will you do?”
“Arrest him,” Fitzwilliam replied confidently. “We are government agents, and we heard everything from behind the door, including his wish to kill the regent. People have been hanged for far less, I assure you.”
“I shall go, but I do not believe he will return. If he knows, or even thinks he knows, that you have found him out, there are many ways to escape the house. He could be gone before we know it.”
There was a side entrance out of Towton Hall that led into the mews. It was dark and away from the main part of the house, making it an ideal escape route.
Darcy saw Jenny and Henry, along with an overgrown footman by the name of Rhodes, off on their way to his house. Although it was a short walk, he worried for them; however, encountering danger on the street was less likely than what they might have met within the house.
He turned to go back inside in the same manner he left, creeping up the back staircase, which was unlit save for the dim lamp he held. He had not gone far when he encountered Francis Warren.
For a moment, both stood motionless on the stairs, neither having expected to meet any other.
Francis reached towards his pocket, and Darcy reacted immediately, punching him forcefully. Francis fell backwards, striking his head, first on the wall, and then hard against the stairs behind him, but he did not go down easily. He grabbed Darcy and pulled him down the steps in a violent tumble.
Darcy held onto Francis just as tightly as Francis held him. Both were intent on injuring or even killing the other. Punches flew fast and furiously, and still they did not speak, silent save for the occasional grunt. For his size, Francis proved an able opponent.
“Give up,” Darcy growled, feeling Francis’s knee in a particularly vulnerable place. “You have no escape. You might kill me, but Hanley and Fitzwilliam are right behind me.”
“I will kill you, and then I shall escape. I have passage, and I shall be long gone when the cry is raised.”
“Never,” Darcy spat. “All of the world will know what you are and what filth has been eradicated in your passing.”
Francis struggled, clearly wishing for something in his coat that Darcy suspected was a pistol, and Darcy doubled his efforts to keep him from it, ramming him brutally into a wall and causing the much smaller man to cry out.
In retaliation, Francis brought his fist up underneath Darcy’s chin, snapping his head back and causing him to see stars.
The lapse in his attention, though unavoidable, proved dangerous. Francis was quick to pull the weapon from his pocket, pressing it to Darcy’s head and spitting. “Well then, all done with you.”
Darcy knew he had no more than a moment and summoned a burst of strength from within.
Grasping him by his coat, Darcy tossed Francis’s body over his so that the other man tumbled down the remaining stairs, with various loud thuds and cracks along the way.
He could not rejoice in his victory, however, as the gun fired nevertheless.
Although it was nowhere near his head, Darcy felt it in his chest, the searing, hot agony ripping through him.
He cried out once and then blackness overtook him.