Chapter Twenty-Five
Darcy awoke, sore from sleeping upright with another person using him as a pillow.
Miss Bennet—Elizabeth—was pressed against him, blanket clutched under her chin, hair curling out of its pins in wild, dark tendrils, her hands disappearing inside the sleeves of his greatcoat. She had borrowed his warmth all night, and he had given it willingly.
The fire had sunk to a bed of red embers. Late morning light seeped into the room, making the rough plaster and low beams look even meaner than they had yesterday evening.
He remained still for one moment longer, listening.
No shriek from Mrs. Hobart. No complaint from Sir Reginald. No noise at all, in fact. There was only the faint crackle of cooling ash and the slow, steady rise and fall of Elizabeth’s breath against his chest.
Carefully, he began the work of disentanglement.
Elizabeth made a small sound of protest in her sleep and turned her face into his coat. Darcy swallowed a fond laugh as he eased her down along the settee. He picked up the blanket from where it had fallen and tucked it over her shoulders.
His back ached, his neck was stiff, and his good arm, the one Elizabeth had used to cushion her head, was now coming back to life with a hundred sharp pinpricks. But it had been worth it.
He went to the hearth and coaxed the embers back to life, adding wood a bit at a time until the flames flickered cheerfully.
He wondered whether he ought to return to his abandoned carriage on the chance Mr. Bennet and his party had ridden out early.
He suspected they would, given that he had not met them at the inn last night as planned.
A sound from the back drew his attention. Darcy walked as quietly as possible to the other room.
Anders sat slumped in a chair, long legs outstretched, eyes open. Johnson lay on the floor, snoring.
“All quiet?” Darcy asked. He was about to tell Anders he intended to saddle a horse, but the front door shook under a sudden, violent pounding. Darcy was at it at once, hauling the door open.
But the face that met his was not one he expected. He blinked.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s cousin, stood on the threshold, sword in hand, snow powdering his shoulders.
“Fitzwilliam?” Darcy inquired, shocked.
“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam cried, delighted.
Darcy shook his head a little. “What are you doing here?”
“You sent a letter, of course. Once I was certain Adrian was safe, I thought to seek you out along your typical route.” He tipped his head to the men behind him. “And early this morning I ran into these men, who were seeking you as well.”
“May we enter?” Mr. Bennet asked, shifting so that he stood at Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. “You did not return to the inn last night, Mr. Darcy.”
“I did not,” Darcy replied, but before he could go on, Mr. Bennet had interrupted.
“We saw your carriage, no horses, no sign of you. Have you found my daughter?”
Darcy opened his mouth but Elizabeth spoke first.
“Papa,” she called as she rose from the settee.
Darcy was privately grateful to find her stockings restored. Elizabeth had not only thought quickly, but acted, which made their impropriety a bit less incriminating.
Upon seeing her father, her composure—that astonishing composure she had maintained through everything—finally crumbled.
Mr. Bennet was across the room in an instant. He wrapped her up in his arms as if he never meant to release her, as if he could keep her safe so long as she was in his embrace.
Elizabeth’s hands gripped at her father’s greatcoat with a desperate sort of strength that pained Darcy. She made a small, helpless sound and then, as if angry at herself for the weakness, swallowed it down and wept without noise, her shoulders shaking.
Sir William, who stood nearest the door, turned away briskly and pretended to inspect the ceiling beams. Mr. Gardiner cleared his throat before stepping close and laying a steadying hand at Elizabeth’s back.
Darcy remained where he was, useless for once and forced to endure it. He had defeated her captors, found her, kept her safe, but she belonged to her father now.
At last Elizabeth drew back. Her cheeks were damp, but no new tears fell. “I am well, Papa. I am just happy to see you.”
Mr. Bennet kissed the top of her head, then guided her back to the settee near the fire. She sank into it gratefully.
Then Mr. Bennet looked up at Darcy, and whatever gratitude had begun to form was overtaken by something darker.
“Where is Sir Reginald?” Mr. Bennet asked, each word clipped.
“Anders,” Darcy said without raising his voice. “Johnson. Bring the two of them out.”
Johnson heaved himself up, yawning. “Aye, sir.”
Fitzwilliam sheathed his sword and stepped into the room, catching Darcy’s eye and giving him a nod of approval.
The pantry door scraped open. Mrs. Hobart’s voice rose at once, shrill and indignant. “Well! It is about time!”
Johnson led her to a chair and she gave them all a haughty look. “Do you know what we have endured? Mr. Bennet! Thank heavens!” She waved her bound hands at Darcy. “This man! This brute!”
“Mrs. Hobart,” Darcy said mildly, “if you do not cease talking, Johnson will put you back.”
She snapped her mouth shut, though her eyes blazed.
Anders and Johnson dragged Sir Reginald out between them, his wrists bound, hair disordered, face bruised and swollen.
Mr. Bennet regarded him in silence, then turned to Darcy. “Your handiwork?”
Darcy dipped his head.
“You have my thanks.”
Sir Reginald lifted his chin. “This is nothing but a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding,” Mr. Bennet repeated, the mildness in his tone so unnatural it rang like a bell. “How novel. I had been labouring under the impression that my daughter had been abducted.”
“Quite right,” Fitzwilliam said.
Sir Reginald’s gaze flicked to Fitzwilliam, and Darcy took great satisfaction in watching a dawning dread appear.
“Let us begin simply,” Mr. Gardiner said, standing before Sir Reginald and staring down at him. “What was your purpose in taking Elizabeth?”
“I did not take anyone,” Sir Reginald said stiffly. “The young lady came of her own accord—”
Mr. Bennet’s smile was thin and dangerous. “Shall we ask Mrs. Hobart?”
“Oh, yes, I shall be happy to—” Mrs. Hobart stopped when Anders shifted meaningfully beside her.
Darcy’s voice was quiet but carried. “Answer the question, Sir Reginald.”
The man looked away. “My father had debts. Foolish ones. When he died, the men he owed were quite determined that what he owed would not die with him.”
“Is this why you left your home?” Elizabeth’s voice was growing a little stronger.
“We were . . . required to leave.”
“They were dismissed,” Fitzwilliam said. “For stealing.” He looked at Darcy. “Good thing you used her name. I asked Adrian about Mrs. Hobart and he mentioned she was dismissed along with her brother.”
Darcy was confused. Dismissed from what? How did Adrian know Mrs. Hobart?
Mrs. Hobart’s face flushed red. “It was not stealing! It was compensation!”
“I can see how you would mistake one for the other,” Mr. Gardiner said with a touch of sarcasm that Darcy quite approved of. “And so you left in disgrace.”
“Lucky you were not sent to gaol,” Sir William blustered.
Sir Reginald’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, we were dismissed. We came to England with nothing but my father’s debts and what little remained of my savings.
We were here almost two years when the creditors found us and again demanded payment.
” He looked up as if to plead with them all. “We were desperate.”
Mr. Bennet exhaled slowly. “Sir Reginald, I have five daughters, and therefore I am no stranger to melodrama. But my tolerance is spent. Your explanation is this: your father left you with debts, you stole and were dismissed, you fled to England, the creditors found you, and for some reason, you decided abducting Elizabeth and ransoming her was the solution to all of your problems.”
“The debt was not mine,” Sir Reginald growled.
“Well, it was certainly not mine,” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“Were you taking her to Thurnia to negotiate in person?” Mr. Gardiner asked. "Sending a ransom note from England? I am curious to learn what shape your treason takes.”
Darcy, who had nearly forgotten that he and Elizabeth were still at odds about one rather important thing, felt as though he had been struck by lightning. “Treason?”
Mr. Gardiner looked at him oddly. “Yes,” he said slowly, as if Darcy were a dullard. “Kidnapping a member of a foreign royal family with whom England has treaty obligations tends to be frowned upon.”
Darcy’s thoughts lurched and the room tilted. He looked at Elizabeth. “You are—” He stopped because the sentence felt absurd even as he formed it. Impossible.
And yet . . .
Elizabeth’s brows lifted. The faintest spark of mischief returned to her tired eyes, as if she could not resist teasing him, even now.
Darcy tried again. “You are a princess?”
Fitzwilliam’s entire countenance lit up.
Mr. Bennet’s mouth twitched once, before he controlled it with visible effort.
Sir William, meanwhile, stared at Elizabeth with his mouth hanging open like a landed fish. At least, Darcy thought with a wild sort of relief, he was not the only man in the room who had not known.
Elizabeth’s voice was still hoarse, but there was definite warmth in it when she said, “I did try to tell you, Mr. Darcy. Repeatedly, if memory serves.”
Darcy stared at her. “But you . . . How . . .”
“My father was the youngest prince. He married my mother, who was—”
“My sister,” Mr. Bennet said.
Fitzwilliam made a choking sound that devolved into poorly suppressed laughter. “You truly did not know?” he gasped between chuckles. “All the time you travelled with her? Darcy, you met Mr. Bennet!”
“Who never said—”
“You sent me to warn Adrian!”
“Because—”
“He does not listen,” Mrs. Hobart interrupted. “Mr. Darcy is brave, I will grant him that. But he is not terribly bright.”
The snort that now escaped Fitzwilliam reminded Darcy of a horse.