My Dearest Mr. Darcy: An Amazing Journey into Love Everlasting

Chapter Twelve Pemberley Estate

Darcy was quite occupied during these weeks, busily catching up on the endless affairs that only he could properly and legally handle. He relished the work, though, in truth, missing his wife during the long hours either in his study or on his horse; nevertheless, the Master of Pemberley thrilled in the occupation as a necessary part of life.

For Darcy, this time of the year was his absolute favorite. The weather cooled, although such minor annoyances as excessive heat or driving rain never bothered him all that much. Rather it was the constant activity as the estate prepared for the stasis of winter that thrilled him. He could quite easily spend the hours from sunrise to well after sunset engaged in some sort of outdoor pursuit and frequently did.

Upon occasion George or Richard would join him when he left the house on his horse. Neither knew much about the business affairs of Pemberley, so when they did travel along it was for the exercise and fun. Richard relished the action as much as his cousin, but he came and went, often staying at Rivallain with his parents or visiting with Gerald Vernor and the other gentlemen of the county whom he, like Darcy, had known all his life. George tended to prefer quiet solitude in the library, so unless his nephew was planning a casual ride to one of the tenant farms, he stayed home with the ladies.

Mr. Keith was forced to accompany Darcy for certain jobs that required his legal or clerical input, but the steward was not as comfortable on a horse. It was a fact that may have precluded his acceptance as a steward to many large estates, but in the case of Pemberley it was a perfect arrangement as Darcy preferred to oversee the workings of the estate. Therefore, whenever Darcy was in residence, Mr. Keith could sigh in relief, settle into his office, and immerse himself in documents, ledgers, and mathematical figures.

But even Darcy knew his limitations. The management and mechanics of the fishery and wool mill were outside his full comprehension. He understood the basics but had long ago learned to trust the overseers and workers to handle the day-to-day. His knowledge of the harvesting facilities and crop maintenance was inclusive, and he made the ultimate decisions regarding what to grow and how to distribute, but it was the economic side of the equation that was his true purview. Therefore, he again trusted to the wise farmers, who in most cases were descended from generations of tenant farmers, who uncannily grasped the mysteries of agriculture as if the intelligence was written in their blood. Darcy's trips to these parts of his vast estate were generally brief, involving spoken conferences only with rare physical contribution. He kept his Master of Pemberley pose; the workers pleased to know their Master cared but relieved when he departed.

Of course, the stables were an entirely different matter! Mr. Thurber and all the grooms and stableboys were accustomed to seeing their Master walking among them, working alongside, and conversing with superior expertise. Obviously they treated him with the utmost respect, but it wasn't a shock to see him performing the same tasks as they, and he was readily approachable.

With his eventual elevation to the exalted rank of Master of Pemberley, he had easily assumed the pose of commander. In truth, the mantle of leadership, although arriving unexpectedly, had fallen upon his shoulders naturally. His inborn reserve, dominant competence, and estimable intellect had already given him an air of distinction long before his father's death. It greatly set him apart even when he performed mundane tasks like brushing Parsifal or breaking a horse.

Yet, for Darcy, it was necessary and intrinsic to undertake any physical, outdoor activity as often as possible. For this reason he was delighted when Mr. Keith interrupted his studied reading of a new contract from his shipping partners with the conveyed request to meet Mr. Burr at the dovecote. He mounted his horse with a barely concealed grin, spurred Parsifal into an immediate brisk run toward the gamekeeper's cottage two miles south.

The spread that consisted of Mr. Burr's modest home, the huts where his assistants lived, the falconry, numerous barns and pens for the animals, and the dog sheds spanned a wide-open area at the roots of the eastern forest. The entire complex was encased by a stone fence. Built into one wall near the iron-gated northern entrance to the compound and constructed out of the same gray and brown river rock was the dovecote.

The circular tower was over twenty feet high, the steepled roof deeply pitched with one narrow opening under the gable and the round hole at the point protected by an elaborate lighted cupola. This particular pigeon loft was very old, the origins unknown, but Darcy had always marveled at the beauty of the structure in comparison to most dovecotes he had seen. The roof was covered with interlocking tiles of slate, the colors different and forming a pattern extremely pleasing to the eye. The two-foot-thick bricks constructing the walls were also artistically selected to create a design of alternating colors with two wide supporting buttresses of aged oak. A ledge ran along the top, just under the roof's eaves, the pigeon roost also of hardened wood, although the intricate etching had long ago succumbed to claw markings and the scrubbing removal of bird droppings.

Mr. Burr sat on a low bench positioned against the stone wall, his legs stretched before him with two gigantic mastiffs lying on either side of his booted feet. He was smoking a pipe, his eyes half lidded as he watched his employer approach. He did not rise, instead silently observing as the smoke rings rose into the air. The dogs seemed equally bored although their ears twitched, Darcy not doubting for a second that the well-trained killers would launch into an attack at the merest word from their master. Fortunately he had nothing to fear, the massive animals finally rising with tails wagging to greet the familiar man once he dismounted.

“Vella, Raven,” Darcy greeted, scratching behind their drooping ears. “Treats for you as always. Must keep those muscles strong.” The raw chunks of meat, hastily confiscated from the kitchen and shoved into the saddlebag, were devoured in seconds, Darcy not even sure if the two-hundred-pound animals even tasted them. He ignored the saliva on his palms and the wet noses pressed against his body in hopes of finding additional food, continuing to pet the blocky heads as he turned to address the reclining gamekeeper.

“Mr. Burr. How fare you?”

“Well enough, Mr. Darcy. Still up before the sun and shooting straight.”

Darcy nodded seriously, the standard greeting all he would ever get from the reticent man, so replied, “Can't ask for anything more. Problems?”

Darcy nodded toward the dovecote, noting nothing amiss, but well aware that Mr. Burr would not have called for him otherwise.

Darcy frequently visited the gamekeeper's complex, but for his own pleasure. Rarely was it to deal with problems or overtly question the master huntsman and breeder. Instead he came to interact with the dogs, picking ones to be stationed at the Manor; to hunt with the raptors, one of which he had trained as his own; or to enlist the company of a hunter when the mood struck him to hunt in the traditional shotgun manner. Occasionally he and Mr. Burr would hunt together, the gamekeeper an astounding marksman who had taught Darcy how to handle every firearm known to exist from the time he was old enough to pick up a shotgun. The two men were friendly but far from intimate.

Before Mr. Burr could answer Darcy's query, Mrs. Burr stalked through the gate, her gravelly voice lifted in anger.

“Damned scoundrel escaped! The tracks were lost in the river. Mole couldn't smell him after that.” A string of expletives erupted as Mrs. Burr stalked directly toward the two men, Mr. Burr yet in casual repose; a lumbering mastiff easily fifty pounds heavier than the others walked at her side. She removed her tattered hat with an angry yank and threw it against the wall, cursing all the while. “Just you wait! I'll get my hands on the filthy rat and wring his scrawny neck! Mole will catch the bugger eventually and then we can fight over who gets to have him. Mr. Darcy,” she finally acknowledged with an abrupt nod, not waiting for a reply as she turned to her husband. “You tell him?” She jerked her chin toward Darcy while tossing the leather sack draped over one shoulder to the ground with a thud, the Brown Bess musket more cautiously unslung and sat to lean against the wall.

Darcy stood unfazed, his years of acquaintance with the Burrs no longer causing surprise at anything they said or did. Mrs. Burr was six feet tall, as was her husband, almost as wide in the shoulders, and her husky frame was dressed as it always was in a loose men's shirt and trousers. Darcy had never seen her in a dress. Her iron gray hair was a wild mass of coiled curls cut short with no attempt ever made to style or control. Oddly, she was a very handsome woman in the face, her features angular and refined under the tanned skin with startling eyes of sea-foam green. Her hands were broad, fingers long and elegant—not the type of hands one would picture gripping a firearm with ready competence or slaughtering a pig with cool efficiency. Yet she could, and did, do all that and more. Mr. Burr was the head gamekeeper and prodigiously skilled, but everyone knew that his wife was every bit as formidable.

“I was about to,” Mr. Burr replied. He finally stood up, stretching his limbs before continuing. “We have a poacher,” he said matter-of-factly, his wife releasing another curse, “or most probably a duo or more. They have been plaguing us for a month or so now. Mostly small thefts. It took us awhile to figure out we were missing a number of deer and that the grouse and pheasant coveys were smaller than expected for this time of year considering the egg laying numbers and calculated growth-loss ratios. I got Lew and Sean tracking down numbers on the hare, turkey, and other game populations. We have had the dogs on it, but he, or they, are very clever. Last night the dovecote was robbed.”

“They are getting too bold,” Mrs. Burr interrupted. “To come this close to our house and the yard where the dogs roam is crazy. Next they'll be attacking the sheep. They took a dozen eggs at least and probably ten birds. We can't be sure as yet since the doves scattered and haven't all returned. Three were left dead on the ground, probably dropped when they ran from Hass and Jen who were prowling on guard that night.”

Mr. Burr spat, releasing an evil chuckle. “Jen got one of them. Took a chunk out of his arse.”

“But he still got away,” Mrs. Burr grumbled.

Mr. Burr shrugged. “We'll get 'im. The dogs are as mad as you, so it's inevitable.” He turned to Darcy. “Thought you should know and spread the word about. I had Ollie talk to Mr. Amos since Mr. Vernor's land is the next closest. He said they have noticed a few irregularities as well, but not enough to be one hundred percent sure it was a poacher. Now they'll keep an eye.”

“I will talk to Mr. Murphy and Mr. Hughes,” Darcy said, referring to his next nearest neighbors, “and let you know if they have encountered troubles. If we work together, I am sure we can catch these criminals. Have you set traps?”

“Yep, a few. I have some men setting up more today. Now that we are getting an idea of their tactics we can be more strategic. But I need more. That's another reason I sent for you, Mr. Darcy. Can I sign for ten of those new spring-traps that Ocktonlee makes? I can get them from the smithy in Matlock, but they are pricey.”

Darcy was already nodding. “Of course. Whatever it takes, Mr. Burr. We cannot allow this to continue. I will have Mr. Keith speak with the constable so he can be prepared when the thieves are captured.”

“If I let them live long enough to be hanged or shipped to Australia,” Mrs. Burr rasped. “I make no promises.”

Darcy smiled, not doubting the woman's declaration in the slightest. “As you see fit, Mrs. Burr.”

She nodded once and then released a shrill whistle. Mole, who had wandered to the small creek some forty feet away, responded instantly, his massive body darting across the field with graceful power and stopping sharply at her side. “I'm going to search the west for a sign.” She gathered her supplies, tucked the musket under her arm, slapped the hat back onto her head, and with another curt nod muttered, “Mr. Darcy,” as she stalked away, Mole at her heels.

Mr. Burr had relit his pipe and was puffing contentedly. He was watching his wife walk away and for one fleeting, undisguised moment Darcy saw an expression of pride and love cross his grizzled features. Then his typical imperturbable mien returned, his untroubled gaze turning to Darcy.

“Mr. Holmes wanted to talk to you as well, Mr. Darcy. The fledglings have taken flight and he thought you may be interested.”

“Indeed. Thank you, Mr. Burr. Keep me informed.”

Mr. Burr shrugged in answer. Darcy smothered his smile, remounting Parsifal for the short ride to the falconry. He immediately decided to pass a pleasant afternoon with the hawks, not overly worried about the poachers as he knew the competent gamekeeper staff would deal with the problem as they had in the past. Considering the frightening determination of Mrs. Burr and the crushing strength of the mastiffs bred to protect Pemberley, he almost felt sorry for the thieves.

Almost.

The falconry was located farther south, on the extreme edge of the gamekeeper's complex. Mr. Holmes, the falconer, lived alone in a tiny cottage tucked under the trees outside of the walled-in area with the mews yards away and semi-attached by a covered passageway.

The Darcy family was one of a few who still practiced the art of falconry. An ancestor of Darcy's, Edward Darcy, had developed a passion for the sport in the early 1600s, when it was still a highly favorable royal pastime. It was he who built the falconry, captured and then bred the birds, and hired the men who served as specific caretakers. Edward Darcy was so enthusiastic about the endeavor that his exceedingly explicit journals with astoundingly precise drawings and diagrams were considered prized possessions among the Darcy family heirlooms.

The passion ebbed and waned over the centuries with not every Darcy learning how to hunt with a raptor or even paying much attention to the existence of falcons on Pemberley lands. Yet, the inhabited mews remained as an indelible aspect of the estate with a falconer always employed if for no other reason than to uphold a tradition.

Darcy's grandfather hunted with a falcon from time to time and did take his beloved grandson along on a few expeditions. Darcy held fond memories of the old man with a fierce peregrine or lanner on his arm. But his father was not interested in the hawks, and upon his grandfather's death when Darcy was twelve, he lost interest as well and did not embrace the sport. In truth, his energies were focused on the horses of Pemberley, his passion for hunting following the typical pattern of the day with the use of a firearm preferred.

It was not until his return from London the previous summer, still grieving and ill from his failure with Elizabeth Bennet, that Darcy began spending time with the hawks. It arose out of a request by Mr. Holmes to update some of the woefully ancient and decaying equipment and facilities. Darcy rode to the gamekeeper's yard, and after one afternoon talking with Mr. Holmes and observing the raptors in action, he was entranced.

In large part he knew it was a mental diversion from his ceaseless dwelling upon Elizabeth—and of course the concentration and commitment necessary to adequately train a young bird did effectively drive romantic thoughts away—but he also experienced a thrill nearly as strong as when he trained his horses. He quickly became addicted, spending hours every day with his chosen peregrine, Varda. Always a quick learner and extremely patient, Darcy and his hunting hawk rapidly built a successful relationship.

Parsifal took it well, the screeching bird no more annoying than a blasting shotgun. Running after a fast-flying falcon with his rider urging him to greater speeds sufficiently pleased the equine. Since his marriage, Darcy had not been able to spend as much time pursuing his new-found hobby as he wished, but the zeal and excitement remained present.

The majestic animals kept by Mr. Holmes were truly magnificent. Primarily peregrine and gyrfalcon with an array of other species added to the mix, all were bred for strength and speed. The falconer was a tiny man, barely five feet in height, with a beaked nose and fine-boned frame that rather resembled a bird. The largest of his falcons, when perched on a gauntleted forearm, looked scarily capable of snapping the limb in half or dropping him to his knees from the weight. But the diminutive, middle-aged man was surprisingly strong, and his rapport with the wild prey birds was remarkable.

One never could completely trust a raptor, of course. Incapable of being truly domesticated, feeling affection, or bonding with their master, they were not pets who desired to please. Rather, they were wild animals with independent wills and intense survival instincts. Life involved killing for the purpose of eating and very little else. The challenge was in learning to control the beast as much as possible and forging a working partnership. The thrill was in the hunt. It was a sport nearly as old as hound coursing and every bit as exhilarating.

For Darcy, who loved to hunt with his hounds, it was even more so as the birds are forever unpredictable. Working and hunting with them was never boring.

“Mr. Darcy, glad to see you,” Mr. Holmes greeted, his voice as high-pitched as one would anticipate. “Burr told me you were coming out to see about the poaching problem. Terrible mess that is. I have been on the alert for days, barely sleeping, although I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to attack my hawks. Get a finger bit off, they would. Serve them right if they did. Maybe an eye gouged or earlobe torn. I know Pan and Shrill would not allow anyone to touch them. Varda either, Mr. Darcy, so you need not worry. But I have been alert. Set a few traps around the perimeter just to be sure. Burr said you would get 'im more so he did not begrudge me taking a few. Since the birds do not like the dogs about, I do not have that protection, so it was only fair. I am sure you understand. Of course, it might actually be entertaining to see one of those wretched scum try to take one of my birds! One swipe of Shrill's talons would damage more than Jen's bite.”

He paused to laugh evilly, Darcy smoothly interjecting as he had many years ago learned was necessary to stem the verbal stream. “The fledglings have flown?”

“All but Zell. She may never be strong enough to train for hunting, poor sweet. But no matter. She can be a breeder. That makes four new hunters. Mr. Davington wants two, as we agreed, so I have sent word. Since Leo died, I thought to keep one as replacement. Did you have anyone interested in the other?”

They entered the mews—Mr. Holmes continuing to chatter about the newest hatchlings, eggs recently laid, the two latest young to be fledged, flight patterns, hunt statistics, and more in the same vein—with Darcy primarily nodding and commenting in short phrases.

The original mews were built of rubblestone with thick coats of plaster, the remnants of those two-hundred-year-old lofts now used for storage. It was these that needed the most repairing, Darcy endeavoring to restore without altering the unique style. The newer mews, built nearly seventy years ago, were far larger. Constructed of ashlar blocks with a combination of partitioned perches for each bird and open freelofts for limited exercise, these mews were lovely as well as functional. Darcy's grandfather had expanded the structure, keeping the sculpted appearance of the rectangular bricks but adding additional perches and nesting boxes to the already generous-sized mews. There was enough space to easily house three dozen full-grown raptors. Currently the census was twenty-two, most of the larger species of falcon but also a breeding pair of hobby and merlin falcons and a small collection of hawks. Mr. Holmes loved all types of raptor, although he naturally preferred the larger varieties.

Lizzy, on the three trips she had taken to the gamekeeper's facilities, found the whole concept fascinating and was intrigued by the blue-feathered merlin. At less than one foot in height, it was the perfect raptor for a woman to use. Mr. Holmes was instantly animated at the idea of teaching the new Mistress and thus crestfallen when she declined his offer. Unfortunately the fact that Lizzy did not ride made the possibility of hunting with a bird of prey next to impossible. However, she did enjoy observing the procedure, especially her husband with his Varda, a prime example of impeccable breeding.

Darcy greeted the peregrine now. Varda gazed at her master, black eyes steady and emotionless, waiting impassively for him to make the first move. Like many birds of prey, the females are generally larger than the males. Varda was no exception. She stood close to eighteen inches high, her body compact and strong. Mr. Holmes had chosen wisely between the three choices available when Darcy first asked to train a bird. Varda was intelligent, adapting to her expected behavior easily, and establishing a bond with Darcy as complete as one could hope for. Furthermore, her speed, size, and power enabled her to catch bigger prey, adding to the thrill of the sport.

Darcy smiled. “Well, my lady Varda. Since I am here we may as well have some fun. Hungry?” She lifted her black crowned head, yellow-rimmed eyes seeming to sparkle in answer. “As you wish, then,” Darcy said with a chuckle, reaching for the thick leather gauntlet, jesses, hood, and bells kept by her cage.

No point in wasting the long ride out to the gamekeeper complex, Darcy thought with a grin. Varda released a screech, apparently agreeing.

A week later the small family gathered in the parlor after dinner. This was typical, of course, and it was also typical for Georgiana to entertain on the pianoforte. What was atypical was that the shy young woman had finally revealed to her admired older brother that she dabbled in minor musical compositions. True to Lizzy's prediction, Darcy was amazed but exceedingly proud. It had taken a bit of prompting, but Georgiana finally agreed to play her music in a miniature concert.

Thus they now reposed in the lavishly decorated yet somehow homey room and listened to the songs flawlessly played by the talented eighteen-year-old. Her blushing had finally ceased as she concentrated on the task, absorbed and filled with joy. Darcy stood near Lizzy, George was comfortably sprawled in a chair, and Richard acted as official page turner. All of them were entranced by the music. Honesty would require them to admit that the simple sonatas were far from brilliant, but the melodies were pleasant and well constructed. Clearly Georgiana was a novice, but the evidence of a blossoming talent was firmly apparent.

The applause was enthusiastic and genuine, Georgiana's flush reappearing with the effusive praise from her family. Such was the zealous attention that it was several minutes before Darcy noticed a patient Mr. Taylor standing by the door.

“Sir, Mr. Keith is in his office requesting an audience.”

“Of course. Excuse me, please. Georgiana, keep playing your beautiful songs.”

Darcy found his steward bent over his desk reading a folded parchment. Ollie, one of Mr. Burr's hands, stood by the window, nervously shifting from foot to foot and kneading his hat.

“Mr. Keith. Do we have a problem?”

“The opposite, sir. Ollie here has delivered a note from Mr. Burr. He received a summons earlier today from Mr. Lange, the surgeon in Rowsley. Apparently a man was dropped at his door in the late stages of acute blood poisoning from an abscessed wound on his right buttock. Upon cleaning the wound it became clear it was a bite inflicted by an animal. Lange had heard of the incident with the poacher—thank goodness for gossip swapped in pubs—and sent word to Mr. Burr, who rode to Rowsley to question the man. Apparently it was difficult as the man is near death, raving, and quite jumbled in his words. But he feels certain he learned enough to ascertain that the poachers are hiding in the abandoned limestone quarries at Cregg's Ravine.”

“That is a dangerous place to dwell.”

“Probably why they chose that as their lair. No one goes there anymore. Those collapsed caves and rocky terrain are treacherous.”

“How many poachers are there?”

“He could not be certain. The man named at least three that Mr. Burr could be sure of, but beyond that it was indistinct. He isn't even sure where they are exactly as those mines extend for a good half mile, but the man made a couple of vague references that led him to deduce they are near Struve's Ridge, where the river once flowed before being dammed and diverted underground.”

“Odd place. There isn't much cover there and no water.”

“The stream is now aboveground,” Ollie said. “The old dam broke years ago, and an avalanche off the ridge collapsed the ground so's that the stream now runs partially through the ravine, at least 'til Sawtooth Hill. Then it disappears again.”

Darcy nodded. “Thank you, Ollie. I haven't been to that part of Derbyshire for well over a decade. If memory serves, there are a few caves, or at least semi-sheltered cliffs that could be fashioned into a dwelling of some kind?”

“Yep. That is what Mr. Burr suspects,” Ollie continued with a nod.

“He is gathering his best men, and Mrs. Burr, and plans to attack under cover of darkness,” Mr. Keith said, tapping the paper on his desk. “It is a good night with the moon at half brightness. Ollie here, as well as Lew, will be in front since they know that area best.”

“We grew up just a mile away,” Ollie explained, “and it was a sort of dare to hike through the quarries. Lew almost died when he was thirteen and he slid on some loose rocks. Mama forbid us to ever go again,” he paused, his shrug and grin clearly stating how that order was disregarded. “That's how we know the stream is runnin' and that a few straggling trees and shrubs have grown up near there. It really is a good hidin' place, if you don't count the frequent rock slides.”

“And flash floods,” Darcy said, shivering slightly in memory of a horrific occurrence in his youth when some thirty miners were killed after a deluging rain high on the Peaks rushed through Cregg's Ravine. Not long after that the quarries were closed.

“That too. But the location is central. They can poach from several estates bordering, keeping the losses scattered. We figure this has been going on for some eight months now, but the takings were wide enough that no one gamekeeper figured it out. They made a huge mistake attacking the dovecote. That tipped us off for sure.”

“That and bringing this man within Jen's teeth,” Mr. Keith offered with a chuckle.

“So, what does Mr. Burr plan?”

Ollie shrugged. “A simple frontal attack. Should be easy. These are low thieves who probably have no idea how to fight. The man dying at Doc's don't look too healthy or kept up. We'll wait 'til after midnight, just to be sure they're sleeping.”

Darcy considered for a moment, reading through the brief statement penned by Mr. Burr. “Very well then. Tell him to proceed as he sees fit. I will be joining in, but he is in command.”

Ollie nodded. He wasn't at all surprised at Mr. Darcy joining the expedition. In fact, he would have been shocked if he hadn't. He put his hat back on and headed toward the door. “We are meetin' at the east gate in one hour. It is quickest to head through the narrow strip of forest there and then turn north. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Keith.”

Three hours later the group of seven men and Mrs. Burr dismounted. The five mastiffs stood calmly at attention and the two bloodhounds pulled impatiently on their leashes. They were a quarter mile north of the area known as Sturve's Ridge. Or rather the section of rubble, small caverns, and graveled flooring below Sturve's Ridge, a sharp precipice thirty feet high. The ridge and narrow ravine below the crag was a treacherous place very difficult to navigate safely without a detailed map and light. Unfortunately they did not possess the former, aside from the imperfect memory of Ollie and Lew, and had to circumspectly utilize the latter. It was deemed best to enter from the north rather than attempt to scale the escarpment too close to where the poachers were probably hiding.

Each person possessed a tiny covered oil lamp, the screen to be opened only if absolutely necessary. It was doubtful that the thieves would post a lookout, but then again, they might be on a higher stage of alert after depositing their friend on the surgeon's doorstep.

Darcy kept to the rear of the group, a shotgun tightly clutched in the crook of his right arm and two loaded pistols tucked into his belt. He had wisely waited until he was in the stables before loading the firearms, Lizzy already fretting enough at his involvement in the venture. She said little, but the anxiety was discernible on her lovely face. He hated worrying her, but Darcy had never been the type of Master to sit back and let his employees do all the work. Besides, this sort of adventure was simply too much fun to miss, not that he would have said that to his wife!

Colonel Fitzwilliam, naturally, had come along. His expertise was valuable, although like Darcy he hung back and allowed the gamekeeper to command. Or rather the gamekeeper and his wife, since Mrs. Burr was stationed to her husband's immediate left, shotgun at the ready and Mole protectively flanking.

Lew withdrew the bloody, crumbled garments worn by the unfortunate poacher lying in Rowsley, if he was still alive, and held them under the noses of the two hounds. They each sniffed and slobbered over the clothes, taking less than one minute to firmly and irrevocably plant the scent within their nostrils before beginning the search. Noses pressed to the rocks and dirt, their leashes given plenty of slack to scout about, the dogs led as the hunters trailed behind.

It took about fifteen minutes. The dogs searched for the one scent among all the others detected, ranging over a fifty-yard span before finally finding the poacher's scent on a narrow trail winding through a dead copse of trees at the base of a shorter cliff a bit north of the taller pike. The silent black and tan animals gave no vocal indication of their victory, merely launching purposefully forward. Once on the hunt, nothing would divert them and their handlers were forced to trot at a rapid pace in order to keep up with the relentless pursuit.

The bloodhounds did not stumble, nor did the mastiffs. Their eyesight was keen and feet surely placed. The humans struggled more, no one escaping the occasional stumble, but gradually they advanced.

The wide valley closed in as the walls grew steeper and higher. Attempts were made to be as quiet as mice, but the crumbled chunks of limestone littering the ground prevented this. Thus, everyone was wary, each sense straining and vigilant. Eyes swept the environs constantly with peripheral vision locked onto the mastiffs, who would definitely detect trouble long before the humans.

The smell of water and sound of slow trickling over rock was noted before they reached the tiny creek and moderate-sized pond. A rapid assessment determined that the pond was not natural, a crude dam stopping the natural flow down the ravine's floor. It was their second indication—after the hounds' detection of the poachers' scent—that they were on the right track. The next question was how to determine precisely where they were hiding.

“Well. Look at that! They lit the welcoming light for us. How considerate.” Richard's dry whisper reached Darcy, both men chuckling faintly at the sight of the flickering fire that answered the question.

The rock ring was located approximately four feet away from a gaping opening in the solid wall, the small fire casting uneven illumination over the clearing before the cave. But it was enough to adequately visualize the raggedly dressed man sitting in a slump before it. The sentry, presumably, although he appeared to be dozing and his rifle was lying negligently across his lap. The light was not bright enough to conclude there were no other caverns in the area, so they advanced with caution. Still, with minimal intelligence, the plan was fairly straightforward: a frontal attack.

At a hushed whistle identical to the call of an owl, Vella launched forward, her sleek body streaking across the space in a blur of motion. She leapt effortlessly over the fire, landing directly onto the chest of the sentry before he could inhale to scream a warning. Her massive weight knocked the man flat, air escaping his throat in a gush and rendering him incapable of speech. Not that he was likely to attempt it with a full set of razor sharp teeth less than an inch from his face. Vella released one short snarl, pitched low and profoundly menacing, her hot breath and saliva brushing over one cheek as she purposefully drew closer still until her wicked incisors rested against the man's jugular.

The Pemberley crew wasted no time. They moved forward, spreading in a wide arc with the dogs in front, sweeping the area visually for signs of movement or additional caves. A rapid scan confirmed two holes cut into the rock face of the cliff. A smaller opening some fifteen feet away showed no obvious tracks or signs of use, not that they would assume too much, while the one by the fire was clearly occupied. The bloodhounds were fighting the restraining leash in the mad desire to pursue their scented quarry into the large opening, and the numerous footprints and scattered debris surrounding the rough ground was further proof.

A faint light could be seen from within, but no motion or sounds were perceived. Darcy's heart beat a steady rhythm in his chest, his emotions controlled but the heat of excitement coursing through his veins. Richard's harsh respirations were an audible sign of his enthusiasm.

Vella maintained her position at the man's neck while Mrs. Burr knelt by the side of the terrified sentry, her attractive face set into a mask of fierce resolve. “How many?” she whispered, needing to repeat the question twice before the paralyzed man was able to squeak out the word “four” followed by a weak moan.

“Armed?” she asked.

“Yes… two… pistols.”

She nodded. “Don't move or speak and Vella will let you live. Understand?” His answer was another moan.

Mrs. Burr rose, signals given to convey the message. She stationed herself on one side of the cave opening, Sean on the other. Lew, Ollie, Abel, Mr. Burr, Darcy, and Richard waited several feet away in a line with firearms aimed and the four mastiffs poised. Only then were the frantic hounds released.

They dashed into the cave, finally emitting deep barks as they searched for the owners of the scent embedded in their nasal passageways. Chaos ensued. Shouts and shrieks erupted, crashes and slamming echoed. The pale light was extinguished with the sharp shattering sound of glass. The startled sleepers were completely disoriented from the abrupt awakening into pitch black darkness. Curses rent the air, followed by the unmistakable smell of spilled lamp oil and the sudden snap of flames freely fueled.

Screams pierced the air. The fire lit the walls, showing the way out to the panicked poachers who darted toward safety, only to be tripped up by the dogs who had also decided that the cave was not the best place to be at the moment. They shot out of the exit, adroitly dodging the foremost poacher, who sidestepped in surprise and stumbled into a second frenzied poacher, both of them falling down in a heap at the feet of Mrs. Burr and Sean.

The remaining two avoided the tangle of limbs blocking the exit, running to what they believed to be safety but quickly deducing was anything but at the sight of six shotguns pointed their direction and four growling, slavering dogs waiting to pounce. They skidded to a stop, hands rising in the universal gesture of surrender.

The first two, still unaware of the realities, struggled to their feet. Only one step was taken before they too noted the threat. One man mirrored the actions of the previous captives, his arms lifting as he instantly halted his forward momentum. His partner was the only one who showed the slightest sign of bravery, or stupidity depending on the point of view, by grabbing the grip of the pistol tucked into his belt. His attempt at heroics was short-lived, however, as Mrs. Burr expeditiously reversed her shotgun and smashed the stock forcefully against the man's temple. He crumpled.

“Well, that was rather anticlimactic,” Richard said to Darcy a half hour later as they mounted their horses for the ride back to Pemberley.

“Disappointed?”

Richard shrugged. “Somewhat. I haven't shot anyone in ages. I was looking forward to it.”

Darcy laughed. “Please do not tell Elizabeth you were hoping for that sort of action, or she may forbid you assisting me in the future.”

“Only if you promise that the next time will be a bit more exciting. I didn't even work up a sweat.”

“I shall do my best, cousin.”