Chapter 8
The fire crackled in the grate in Darcy’s study at his London house as he spread the large Mediterranean map across his desk, its edges weighted down with books to prevent it from curling.
The candlelight flickered across the coastlines of Spain, France, Italy, the Holy Lands, and the mysterious shores of North Africa.
Richard stood beside him, also studying the routes they would soon traverse.
“Strange to think that in less than twelve hours, we shall board the Meridian, bound for these very waters,” his cousin mused. Tracing from Gibraltar to Rome with his finger, he said, “I confess, Darcy. The prospect of traveling as a civilian feels like putting on a costume for a masquerade.”
Darcy looked up from where he was marking potential ports along the coastlines. “Your orders are clear. You are to be nothing more than a gentleman interested in trade opportunities.”
Richard moved to his traveling trunk, which lay open beside the window. He lifted a folded military coat, its brass buttons catching the firelight. “Though I have tucked this into my provisions, just in case.”
“Richard, If the French board us, that uniform could be your death sentence. Enemy officers rarely show mercy toward captured British military personnel.”
His cousin’s jaw set with familiar stubbornness as he wrapped the coat in oiled cloth.
“There may come a time, Darcy, when I need to be exactly who I am—a loyal supporter of the Crown and a colonel in His Majesty’s army.
I will not skulk about the Mediterranean claiming to be someone I am not if the situation demands otherwise. ”
“Even if it costs you your life?”
“Even then.” Richard held his gaze. “Some things are more important than mere survival, Darcy. You, of all people, should understand that.”
Darcy nodded slowly, recognizing the steel beneath his cousin’s easy manner. It was the same quality that had earned Richard the respect of his men. “Very well. But promise me you will exercise extreme caution before revealing yourself.”
“Naturally. I am bold, not foolish.” His cousin grinned suddenly. “Though I suspect we shall both look quite the pirates before this voyage is through. Without Parker to tend to your appearance, you will discover what the rest of us mortals endure each morning.”
Darcy ran a hand along his jaw, already imagining the discomfort. “I had not considered the practical difficulties of shaving oneself while the ship rocks over the waves. Perhaps a beard is the wiser course.”
“Safer, certainly. I have no desire to slit my throat with a razor. Can you imagine the embarrassment? Surviving French warships and Mediterranean storms only to be done in by incompetence with a blade?” Richard chuckled. “I should never live it down.”
“Assuming you lived to experience the shame,” Darcy observed dryly, which earned a bark of laughter from his cousin.
“True enough. Though I suspect Georgiana would find our bearded appearances to be shocking.”
“She would.”
“My mother looks forward to having Georgiana underfoot.”
“She is well-settled with your parents,” Darcy said with relief. “Your mother has already introduced her to several suitable young ladies, and your father has promised to escort her to the museums and lectures she enjoys.”
“They adore her, you know. Mother particularly. She has always longed for a daughter to guide through Society.”
Richard returned to the map and pointed to Rome. “Which brings us to the more immediate concern: where do we start once we reach Rome?”
Darcy retrieved the parchment fragment from Professor Drye. He read the Latin inscription aloud: “Where the eagle’s shadow falls upon the seven hills, seek the scholar who fled with flame-touched scrolls. In the house of law, wisdom sleeps beneath marble feet.”
“The seven hills point to Rome,” Richard said, leaning over the map. “But the rest remains puzzling in its vagueness.”
“The eagle’s shadow…” Darcy traced circles on the map around the Eternal City. “Roman eagles, certainly. But which eagle, and where does its shadow fall?”
“Possibly there are great eagle statues in the city.”
“Probably there are. However, the clue might be more symbolic. Eagle’s shadow could mean the shadow of Roman power itself.” Darcy frowned. “The scholar who fled with flame-touched scrolls… Someone escaping the burning Library of Alexandria, carrying manuscripts to safety?”
Richard nodded. “In the house of law. A courthouse? A legal building of some kind?”
“It could be the Forum itself―the center of Roman law and governance. But what lies beneath marble feet?” Darcy set down the paper with a frustrated sigh. “We shall have to wait until we reach Rome to make proper sense of it.”
Richard drained his glass and set it aside. “I confess, Cousin, I am eager to begin. It has been so long since I was dealt a challenge worthy of the name. It is rarer still that you and I collaborate on a project together.”
“Your enthusiasm is infectious,” Darcy admitted, though he was troubled. “I only hope we and the others are not heading for unnecessary danger.”
Richard studied his cousin. “Others? Or one particular ‘other’ whose safety is more important to you than ancient manuscripts?”
“I am concerned about all the members of our party.”
“Of course you are. And I am sure your decision to chase an archaeological discovery to exotic locations has everything to do with your hope that the romantic atmosphere might incline Miss Elizabeth Bennet more favorably toward your suit.”
“Richard…”
“For what it is worth, any woman who can reduce you to this state of romantic confusion must be remarkable.”
“She is,” he admitted. “Though whether she will ever see me as anything more than an arrogant, disagreeable man remains to be seen.”
“Then you must prove her wrong. Show her the man I know who is honorable, generous, and fiercely loyal to those he loves.” Richard’s voice grew more serious. “Be prepared for the possibility that she may not be ready to see it, no matter how you demonstrate it, though.”
“I am prepared for that. But I do not intend to give up until I am convinced there is no hope.”
“Now, that sounds like the Darcy I know. However, I warn you that if your romantic pursuits interfere with my intelligence gathering, I shall take drastic action.”
“Such as?”
“I shall write to Georgiana and Parker and tell them about your beard.” Richard teased.
Darcy laughed despite himself. “You are a blackguard of the highest order.”
“I prefer to think of myself as charmingly roguish. It is a quality that serves me well in my profession.” Richard stepped away from the desk. Closing his trunk, he prepared to leave.
Darcy approached. “Someday, Cousin, you will be as helplessly besotted as I am now. You will receive no mercy from me whatsoever.”
“That day will never come,” Richard declared with absolute confidence. “I am far too clever to be caught in love’s snare.”
“Hah!” Darcy murmured, rolling up the map with careful precision. “I shall remind you when you are sighing over some young lady’s fine eyes and making excuses to call upon her family.”
“Never!” Richard opened the door and looked back with a grin. “Early tomorrow, then? The docks at seven?”
“I shall be there.”
“Excellent. Try not to spend the entire night staring at maps and composing mental love letters to Miss Bennet. You will need your rest.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Darcy alone with his thoughts. He studied the parchment fragment once more, wondering what secrets lay hidden in the ancient stones of Rome.
Wisdom sleeps beneath marble feet.
Soon enough, they would discover what the long-dead librarian of Alexandria had hidden in the Eternal City. And if fortune favored him, he would also discover whether Elizabeth Bennet could ever see him as worthy of her regard.
The fire settled in the grate with a whisper, and Darcy began the final preparations for the voyage.
Early the next morning, the thunder of hooves echoed from the street. An express rider reined in his lathered horse beside the carriage, the animal’s flanks heaving from a hard ride.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?” The rider’s voice was breathless. Urgent.
“I am he.”
“Express from Professor Drye at Cambridge, sir. He said it was of the utmost importance.”
Darcy accepted the sealed letter with trepidation. The wax bore fresh cracks from hasty travel. “When did you leave Cambridge?”
“Before dark, last evening, sir. Rode straight through.”
Breaking the seal, Darcy scanned the hastily written lines. With each word, his ire rose.
Mr. Darcy,
Gravest news. Lord Burton’s wife passed away last week.
According to his letter, which I received this evening, he immediately recalled Viscount Levinson from London, only to discover a most alarming development.
The young man confessed that, in his anger towards his father’s demands, he gave away his expedition materials to a stranger at a London gaming hell.
The recipient was a militia officer named George Wickham, who claimed acquaintance with both you and Mr. Bennet.
Young Levinson was deep in his cups and desperate to avoid the journey.
This Wickham fellow convinced him to transfer all his materials and a sum of money for the promise to share any riches he discovers.
I fear the quest is most seriously compromised. Wickham now possesses the first clue and knows our destination. What he does not know is the exact nature of the treasure we seek. Most likely, he believes it to be gold and other valuables. Take all necessary precautions.
Your urgent colleague,
P. Drye
The letter crumpled in Darcy’s fist. The full implications struck him in full force, filling him with controlled rage. Wickham! Of all the men in England.
“Sir?” his coachman called down. “The docks, sir?”