Chapter 18
George Darcy cleared his throat; Mr Wickham, his steward, kept his gaze steady on his employer.
“I know this cannot go unanswered, sir. I shall deal with him.”
“Those were your words to me the first time. As well as the second.”
“I was too lenient. I see now he requires physical punishment. I shall...” Wickham stopped speaking at the shaking of his employer’s head.
“Your relation is in the magistrate’s cage.”
“What? How?”
“Upon receiving a report of his cousin’s beating, my nephew Richard Fitzwilliam rode into Lambton. It seems your nephew and his gang of ruffians importuned a local girl, in addition to their many other offences.”
Mr Wickham looked sick. “Was she injured?”
Darcy confirmed she was not. “Although those four boys are poorly off, I hear.”
“Hard to believe,” whispered Wickham.
“Richard has my son’s best interest at heart.” Darcy paused. “As do I.”
“How may I be of service, sir?”
“A friend has already dispatched his assistance. A decorated officer from the Regulars.”
“And does this assistance have a name?” asked Wickham.
“Reeves. According to Bennet, before giving up his commission, the sergeant suffered a wound to his face during hand-to-hand combat. He wears an eyepatch, as his left eye is missing.”
“Does that not present an issue to that side of his person?”
“I have absolute confidence in Bennet’s recommendation. He would not send assistance that he considered wanting.” He waited for the following question regarding qualifications. Wickham was nothing if not thorough.
“Did Mr Bennet inform you of Mr Reeves’s former competency while serving His Majesty?” Wickham’s curiosity got the better of him.
“Sergeant Reeves was Major Bennet’s armourer.”
Wickham’s expression was nearly comical. “You wish to have such a dangerous man at Pemberley?”
In a sober voice, George Darcy confirmed his decision. “Yes. Make no mistake. My son comes before all else.”
“Mr Lucas.”
“Thank you, Hill.” Bennet rose and welcomed his friend and neighbour. It did not surprise him to see a less-than-warm smile.
“This is a rum business, Bennet. This accusation that you killed your cousin?—”
“Unconscionable, I know.”
“No one can ignore his letter to Franny. So despicable, such a damning piece of evidence. Threats! Curses! Calling on the Almighty so irreverently. Sacrilege, I daresay!”
Bennet nodded. Lucas was a talking gale, and nothing Bennet should add would deter the deluge. He let his mind wander off until his guest’s prattle kicked a stone over in his mind.
“Where did you say they found Collins?”
Lucas cleared his throat. “The brook on the forested side of the inn.”
“By the brook…in the opposite direction from his hovel?”
“They found him in the brook. Face down.” Lucas’s eyebrows drew together. “As if sleeping in the water.”
Bennet leant his head back and laughed. Then he saw Lucas’s affront and quickly apologised. “Forgive me, but may I make a suggestion? It should convince the coroner of my innocence and solve this mystery.”
Bennet beckoned his friend forward and spoke quietly. Lucas nodded, and upon standing, announced with vigour, “I will use all of my authority as magistrate to see this through. Worry not. Unfortunately, I must take all the credit for this solution to this vexation, mind you.”
Bennet stood, bowed, and in a credible tone with gravitas, declared, “I would suspend no pleasure of yours, magistrate.”
Bennet assessed the individual standing in front of him. His average height, unremarkable stature, relaxed carriage, and forgettable features—neutral hair, bland eye colour, and a lack of discernible marks—belied what the man had been: by reputation and deed, one of the kingdom’s deadliest military assassins.
“Questions before you assume your duties?” Bennet asked, aware that Legget knew already why he was there and was not the sort of man to waste time on pleasantries.
“Boundaries?”
“Maintain a defensive posture.”
“I am not Reeves,” admitted Legget.
Bennet grinned. “No, I can see you are not.”
“And the Miss Bennets?”
Bennet’s grin evaporated. “Dismantle any threat.”
When Fitzwilliam Darcy was nearly fifteen years of age and close to six feet tall, Pemberley’s beautiful ballroom was, with his father’s approval, temporarily decommissioned. Previously, carpet runners had framed the outer perimeter, and within its borders was a dance floor that gleamed like a diamond. That stately situation was no more. That woven framing lay in parallel lines as the room floor alternated between gleaming marble and Turkish carpets.
He was both excited and nervous. He was to fence with Mr Reeves!
“Prêt,” announced Mr Jeffers.
Fitzwilliam snapped his sword into the ‘ready’ position.
“Allez,” called Mr Jeffers. With blinding speed, Mr Reeves lunged forward and jabbed him in the chest. Mr Reeves lowered his sword.
“Arrêt,” commanded Mr Jeffers. Both fencers returned to their starting positions.
“Again,” announced George Darcy as he entered the arena. “Enjoying yourself, Jeffers?”
“Aye, sir. Nothing tops the elegance of the sport.”
“Would you agree with him, Reeves?”
Mr Reeves did not respond. Darcy looked at his father, who was gazing steadily at the man. “We did not bring Reeves this far north to assess his fencing skills, did we, Jeffers?”
Mr Reeves nodded and assumed his stance. Darcy, a tad confused at the tension in the room, did the same. As he snapped his sword into the ready position, Mr Reeves slithered forward and kicked his legs out from under him. Darcy fell to the floor. “Oof.” He looked to his father, taken aback that he merely grasped Mr Jeffers’s arm and shook his head.
Darcy stood up without his sword and pointed at his opponent. “Foul!”
Mr Reeves grabbed his extended arm and twisted it, forcing Darcy to give Mr Reeves his back. He yanked Darcy’s arm higher.
“You are hurting me!” he cried out.
“Had enough?” Mr Reeves taunted.
Furious and in pain, Darcy ground out through gritted teeth, “You shall regret your actions. And with my hands shall I render such!”
Mr Reeves released him. Darcy spun to face him, fists raised.
“Good!” his father said loudly.
He turned to stare at him. “Father?”
“You have two months before you return to school.” His father’s stony face brooked no argument. “Other than meals, you shall spend your days in this room until you can leave it under your own power. Reeves, carry on.”
Darcy lifted himself from the carpet. He ached less than he had two weeks ago, though defeat time and time again left ashes in his mouth. He stood, ready to engage again. Reeves apparently had other ideas, as he walked to the nearest chair and sat. He beckoned him to follow.
“You’ve improved, Master Fitzwilliam.”
“Thank you, sir,” he replied with a grin.
“I have a friend. Roark. Me and him go ways back. There was a free trader we called Mill, because he always was beating on someone. Didn’t matter who or what, longs as they was smaller than him. He caught Roark out one day, me being a hair late. When we was the two of us, Mill let us be. But with Roark alone, he went to pounding on him.”
“What happened next?”
“I got him good behind the meaty piece of his leg.” Reeves made a short jabbing motion. “Me mate Roark got up and grabbed his ballocks with both hands. And he squeezed the juice out of them.”
Darcy winced with sympathetic agony.
“I’m telling you this because the beating you took happened because you didn’t see a coward when he was right there in front of you.” Reeves put his hand on his shoulder. “Cowards ain’t got honour. Cowards are low. They’ll only show themselves if they see the favour to win.”
“Wickham beat me fairly,” Darcy said, his eyes lowered.
“His kicking you when you was down, were that fair?” Reeves retorted. “His stomping you when you was on your side, were that fair?”
“No.” Darcy shook his head.
“That’s right.” Reeves nodded approvingly. “Today is done. Tomorrow, we learns you to fight a coward. When someone goes cheating on you, hold nothing back. No rules, no honour, no stopping until he’s down.”
“Like my cousin. During one of his training skirmishes, a regular struck at him while he was getting prepared to tussle. Richard hurt him badly.”
“Your cousin trains with a weapons master?”
“Yes. He has since he was seven.”
That sparked Reeves’s interest. “Do you know his name?”
Darcy looked to the ceiling. “Marchand? Marker? Richard refers to him as the Prussian.”
“Butcher Markov is your cousin’s master?” Reeves closed his eyes as if to recall a memory. “Your cousin hurt one of the King’s own, you say?”
“That is what he wrote. His man, Villiers, confirmed it, as he was there.”
“Do you still have the letter? Did he write the man’s name? His rank?”
“I do.”
“Fetch it, will you?”
Darcy ran off to retrieve it, managing to locate it and return in minutes, opening it to skim as he went. “He wrote the man was a Sergeant Legget of the 7th Foot.”
Darcy looked up to see the amazement on his trainer’s face.
“Your cousin nearly kilt Legget,” Reeves whispered in awe. He looked up at his student, who sported a very grim mouth.
“My cousin does not suffer bullies.”
“Ne’er did Legget. But now he be minding a gaggle in Hertfordshire.” Reeves stared at his charge. “Time you learnt like your cousin.”
“I am ready.”