Chapter Seventeen The Pursuit of a Penniless Rogue #2
And bringing up the rear, Mr Darcy, stern as ever, though his eyes held a spark of intrigue and perhaps a hint of exasperation. He adjusted his gloves with precise movements, as if the entire affair were a mild inconvenience to his otherwise ordered day.
"Caroline," Charles began, slightly out of breath, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. "The Colonel was not at White's. In fact, the porter said he had not been seen there in days—he had been avoiding billiards and bad wagers."
Her heart sank like a stone in the Thames. "Then where—"
"But Lindon was," Charles continued, gesturing to the man as if recounting a battlefield victory.
"Sitting at a table with a glass of claret, looking every bit the dashing officer.
I approached him—discreetly, as you said—and explained the urgency.
And I must say, Colonel, that trick with the carriage the other night?
Stopping it dead in the street like some sort of human barricade?
Masterful. I was impressed. Terrified, but impressed.
How did you know the horses would not trample you? "
Lindon bowed with a flourish, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"A calculated risk, Mr Bingley. Though I believe the driver still harbours a grudge—he muttered about 'reckless fools in red coats' as we departed.
But flattery will get you everywhere. Perhaps I shall teach you the technique someday.
It involves impeccable timing and a complete disregard for personal safety. "
Charles chuckled, clapping Lindon on the back with enough force to jostle his epaulette.
"From there—Lindon insisted on coming along, said he owed the Colonel for some old campaign favour or another.
Thought we would find him at the barracks next, drilling recruits or polishing his sword or whatever soldiers do to pass the time when not chasing women through Mayfair. "
Lindon cleared his throat. "He was not there.
The sergeant at the gate looked at us as if we had asked for the moon—said the Colonel had marched in this morning, papers in hand, and resigned on the spot.
He walked out without a backward glance.
Spoke about 'new horizons' to the adjutant, apparently.
Bold move for a man like Fitzwilliam—soldiering was his life.
No fanfare, no farewell salute. Just gone. Poof."
Caroline's patience frayed like an overused reticule string. She gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. The floor tilted, as if the room had become a listing ship. "Resigned? But—why? He loves the army. The uniform, the orders, the… looming."
Charles and Lindon looked at her in unison.
"Then where is he? Speak plainly, for heaven's sake!" she snapped.
"We did not stop there," Charles said quickly.
"Drove straight to Matlock House. We found Lord Keathley," he pointed a finger at him.
"He explained the whole thing. The Colonel accepted Mr Darcy's offer of Thornwood—his estate in Kent.
A small, charming place. He is travelling there as we speak, in the Matlock carriage.
To manage it. To build a life of his own, away from debts and deadlines. "
The Viscount, who was standing by the fireplace examining the statuette of Athena his brother once wanted to confiscate, looked up.
"I offered to come here to inform you in person, Miss Bingley, but it was only fair that Darcy be present.
So we went by Darcy House, extricated him from a tedious appointment with his steward, and here we are. "
"It was not tedious, but it makes no difference," Mr Darcy interjected.
Caroline stared at them, the words tumbling over her like a cascade from a poorly aimed teapot—scalding and chaotic.
Thornwood. Kent. Resigned. Making a new start.
The logistics hit her: Kent was a good forty miles south-east, through twisting roads and posting inns.
If he had left that morning, he would be hours ahead, changing horses at places like the Red Lion in Dartford or the Crown in Rochester.
She might catch him before nightfall if she hurried, but the roads could be muddy from recent rains, and carriages were not built for speed chases.
"What?" she whispered, then louder, her voice rising like a crescendo in an opera. "What?????????? I must speak with him. Now. Before he buries himself in some rural backwater and turns into a hermit with sheep!"
The men exchanged looks—Charles uncertain, wringing his handkerchief. Lindon amused, one eyebrow arched in delight. The Viscount pleased, rubbing his hands together as if plotting a prank. Mr Darcy resigned, sighing as if this were the tenth such escapade he had been dragged into that week.
"Then we chase him," Lord Keathley declared, straightening with the authority of a viscount who rarely heard the word 'no'.
"My carriage is outside—fresh horses, plenty of room for a pursuit party.
We shall stop at inns along the way and ask after him.
He cannot have got far. And knowing Richard, he has probably stopped to argue with the tollkeeper over a penny. "
Caroline did not hesitate. She grabbed her pelisse from the hook by the vestibule door, her heart pounding like a war drum.
"Schmidt!" she hollered over her shoulder. "Pack a small valise—essentials only. And tell the cook we are dining out. Or not at all."
Schmidt appeared in the hall in less than five minutes, holding a neatly bundled bag, her face a portrait of long-suffering efficiency. "Thought you might, Miss. Biscuits and a flask of tea inside. Mind the roads—they are a mud bath after yesterday's rain."
"Lead on," Caroline said to the Viscount, sweeping past the men with the regal air of a general mounting a campaign.