Chapter Eleven
Alice Hill smiled bashfully at Wilson, and moved closer to the handsome valet at the sudden shouts outside of the manor.
She drew in a deep breath, fidgeting with her hands, terribly nervous as the sounds of the approaching intruders grew louder and closer.
Wilson gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder.
“Do not fear, Miss Hill—we have the easiest job.”
They could hear Captain Denny outside the window, speaking to his companion. “Try opening it first—breaking it will be too loud.”
Gloved hands appeared on the windowpanes, pushing against the glass to slide it upward until there was an opening big enough for the officer to clamber inside.
He entered head first, and had just raised a knee onto the ledge when Wilson dove forward, pressing a rag soaked in turpentine to the officer’s face.
“Sanderson?” Alice gasped. She recognized the officer, and would never have imagined the timid young man to be a part of a wicked band of brigands. He had taken tea with the ladies of this house!
But Sanderson did not answer her; instead he grappled for a moment as Captain Denny held his arms from behind and Wilson continued to hold the rag forcefully over his mouth and nose. A minute later, the lad’s head and shoulders slumped forward, and Denny lowered him back out of the window.
Wilson leapt out the windows and landed in the snow with a dull crunch, and extended his hands to help Alice.
She perched on the ledge, ducked her head out first, and then swung her legs out in a fluid gesture, then hopped down beside Wilson, hanging onto him until she had gained her balance.
She let out an excited laugh, her breath visible in the frosty air.
“Well done,” Denny said, waggling his eyebrows.
“Our first man down. We better get him to the stables.” He opened his coat and handed Alice a small pistol.
“Let us hope your brother taught you well. Cover us, Miss Hill.” He lifted Sanderson by the shoulders, and Wilson lifted under the lad’s legs; together they hauled their captive to the stable as Alice scanned in every direction, pistol at the ready as she followed them.
Sanderson had just begun to rouse when they entered the dimly lit stable.
Alice’s eyes adjusted to the light of a single lantern and she saw Captain Denny cuff the young officer in the head, knocking him out once again.
He and Wilson laid their prisoner down on the ground and bound his wrists and ankles with a couple lengths of rope; several had been cut and laid out in advance for just this purpose.
“Good,” Captain Denny said with a decisive nod of his head. “Gag him, Alice, and stand guard. Wilson and I will go back to the house to retrieve the next men felled.”
“Of which I hope there will be several,” Wilson drawled. He gave Alice a rushed bow and took off running behind the dashing captain.
She bit her lip as she watched the two men gallantly rushing back to the fray at the manor, both relieved and envious that she had not been given a more hazardous task.
Then she turned back to Sanderson, who had again begun to blink his eyes and stammer incoherently.
Clutching the pistol in her right hand, she crouched down in front of the lad and clucked her tongue.
“Shame on you, Sanderson, gettin’ mixed up in all this.
” He appeared to understand her, but before he could reply, she reached into her apron, withdrew another rag, and stuffed it into his mouth.
Elizabeth crouched behind the sideboard in the dining room, hidden from view of the window.
A few feet away, Mr. Darcy stood concealed in the open doorway that led to the kitchen, while Georgiana hid beneath the large oak table in the center of the room.
They were all so silent Elizabeth was not entirely sure they were breathing.
The waiting was unbearable, and seemed to stretch on indefinitely, until at last they heard the sound of prowlers outside the window.
There was a scrape as the windowpane was slid open, and hushed laughter as one of the bandits observed to the other, “They thought they was so clever, havin’ that party to trick us into thinkin’ the whole family come home, and then they don’t even latch the windows.”
“Not so high and mighty now,” the other officer agreed.
Elizabeth gritted her teeth, silently fuming as she recognized their voices. It was Harrington and Marveston. She waited for the pair of dolts to shamble in through the window; her timing had to be perfect.
When she heard the first scuffling of their boots on the floor, before their footing was sure, she stood and spun around to face them, and lifted a small dish from the sideboard.
The dish contained wig powder she had found in the attic during the rummaging phase of their plan that afternoon; Elizabeth had mixed a little something extra into it.
Shielding her own eyes with her forearm, she stepped closer to the officers and blew the contents of the little dish into their faces.
The two officers both howled with pain and rage, clutching at their eyes and shouting oaths and curses at her. “Not so high and mighty now,” Elizabeth said in a deep, mocking voice.
Mr. Darcy moved swiftly from the shadows of the servants’ corridor.
He lifted a silver serving tray from the dining table and brought it down over the head of the nearest officer, who was already fumbling for his weapon.
At the impact, Harrington crumpled. Marveston had already doubled over from the pain in his eyes.
“Ground pepper,” Elizabeth explained as Mr. Darcy fixed an inquisitive gaze on her.
With a shameless wink, she quipped, “I thought I might add a little spice to our plan.”
He gave a bark of surprised amusement, while underneath the dining room table, Georgiana fairly snorted with laughter.
And then the girl sprang out of her hiding place and swung a stoneware pitcher at Marveston before Mr. Darcy could raise the serving tray to land another blow.
Wine sloshed out of the pitcher, dousing both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, and as Marveston toppled, Georgiana’s mouth fell open in shocked horror at what she had done.
They were all quiet for a moment, and then Elizabeth burst out laughing.
She retrieved a cloth napkin from the dining table, dabbing at her face with it before offering it to Mr. Darcy, who had reached into his pocket for a surprisingly frilly handkerchief.
He decided on the napkin, and accepted it with an abashed smile before wiping his own face clean.
“Sorry,” Georgiana murmured, biting back another peal of laughter.
“That was brilliant,” Elizabeth said.
“You were meant to remain hidden,” Mr. Darcy said at the same instant. He looked ruefully between the two women, then added, “But it was impressive and effective.”
Georgiana glowed at their praise. “Should we tie them up?”
“Yes—and disarm them for good measure,” Elizabeth said.
She knelt down beside Harrington and removed his gun from its holster, offering it to Mr. Darcy and taking the wine-soaked napkin from him.
She used it to bind the unconscious man’s wrists, and then checked Harrington’s pulse.
“He is not dead,” she said with a sigh of relief, resisting the urge to kick him as she stood to retrieve another napkin.
Marveston began to rouse. Mr. Darcy bent down and removed the officer’s weapon, using the butt of the gun to render him inert once more. He checked the chambers of both pistols, revealing that only one was loaded. He tucked it into his coat pocket, and tossed the empty weapon out into the snow.
Elizabeth knew the officers must also be hefted back out the window, a prospect she dreaded. And then Georgiana’s voice lilted, “Captain Denny!”
Their ally had appeared outside the window, panting with exertion, his eyes alight with the thrill of it.
He reached his hands in through the open window and made a beckoning gesture.
Mr. Darcy grabbed Marveston by the collar of his coat and dragged him across the floor, toward the window.
Elizabeth hastened to help him, and together they lifted the limp villain out of the window.
Denny managed to sling his fallen comrade over his shoulder, and began to carry him off to the stable.
Next was Harrington; Mr. Darcy scooped him up with both arms and unceremoniously tossed him out into the snow.
He closed the window, smoothed out his coat, and offered each of the ladies one of his arms to lead them from the room.
“High and mighty, indeed,” he said, raising his chin so high he might give Miss Bingley a lesson in hauteur.
In the back parlor, Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Annesley waited behind a large folding screen they had discovered up in the attic. They were almost entirely concealed, though they both took advantage of the shadows that fell over them to peek around the side of the screen.
To their left, the french doors that led to the back garden slowly opened from the outside.
Two officers crept into the parlor, and Mrs. Hill squinted in the moonlight that filtered into the room, trying to make out their faces.
She recognized them as officers that had visited once or twice—Mitchell and Hayes.
She clenched her fists in fury at the nerve of them, repaying Longbourn’s hospitality with such treachery.
Quelling her impulse to throttle them both, she stilled her breathing and watched as they fell into the trap.
Two steps into the room, the officers reached the liberally applied floor polish, and their balance grew precarious.
They wobbled and swayed, scrambling for surer footing, their arms flailing as they cried out in alarm.
It was not long before Mitchell went careening to the ground, which had been strewn with rusty nails from the tool shed.
He shrieked with pain, and Hayes jerked in panic before tumbling down after him.