The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Chapter Seventeen Unleashed Revenge

He left the house moments after she exited the parlor. Lizzy worried over his frame of mind disturbing his focus during the planned activities for his afternoon, but otherwise refused to dwell on the unknowns any further. If she was with child they would know soon enough, and she had no doubt that Darcy, once assured of her health, would be overjoyed. His all-consuming love and devotion to his family frequently stated desire for a bevy of children, and general good sense allayed any fears she had over his present trepidations.

Tea was taken on the Darcy House rear garden. The air was crisp with a slight chill but pleasant enough for an outside dining experience. The four women conversed and ate at the round table under the shaded patio while the four boys nibbled picnic-style on the open grass beside the fountain.

It was a quiet affair, despite Mrs. Smyth’s predictions. Ethan Bingley and Hugh Pomeroy were not as placid as Alexander, but they were well-behaved children able to pass a few hours in backyard play. Nine-year-old Harry spent part of the time chasing the younger boys around the grass and playing with the new bunny, and the other portion with his nose pressed into a book.

The ladies were content to gossip and laugh. Georgiana accidentally mentioned Mr. Butler at one point, Jane then being let in on the secret. After the expected congratulations and teasing, mostly from Lizzy, a goodly amount of time was spent on marital advice, leading to more laughter and blushes from the shy Georgiana.

While Alexander napped, Lizzy retreated to Darcy’s office to write a few letters. Georgiana was busy with her music, amid frequent glances out the window just in case a courier arrived—or better yet, a handsome man with curly blond hair. Servants moved about performing their duties with some noise attached, and Michael’s cries for nourishment did pierce the calm twice that day. But otherwise, it was a tranquil Monday boding nothing sinister.

Therefore, it was with a spring in her step and smile that she laid Michael down after his late afternoon meal, gathered Alexander and their gardening equipment, and headed to the northeast corner of the yard. As Lizzy had surmised, the sun was located so that the harshest of its rays were blocked by the surrounding walls and tall trees. There was no breeze to cool the air, but this corner of the yard was partially in shadow at this time of the day. She would not need to fret over their son’s fair skin or wear a bothersome hat to shield her face.

In one arm Alexander clutched the glass jar given with a disgusted cringe by Mrs. Smyth, and in the other he held tightly to the basket of sunflower seedlings transported all the way from Pemberley. Lizzy hummed throughout the transplanting, babbling to her son as he attended to packing the rich earth carefully around the root-ball of each tiny plant, his focus lost only when the gray rabbit hopped over to investigate from time to time.

She wore gloves to protect her hands, and a thick apron over the lightweight muslin gown of dark green specifically created for such gritty tasks. Alexander wore a child’s dress of dark blue, a color that accented the tiny flecks of ultramarine lining the edges of his otherwise azure eyes. His hands and feet were bare, the dirt grains settling into the creases and between tiny toes. Side-by-side they worked, kneeling in the springy clover bordering the flowerbed, Lizzy’s instructions of a practical nature and in sharp contrast to Darcy’s scientific expositions.

“Feel how rich the soil is here, love. Filled with wonderful nutrients to help the plants grow. This spot receives sun almost all day long, and that is why the sunflowers will grow so well here.”

“Papa say sunflowers look at the sun.”

“Yes, they do tend to turn whichever way the sun moves. Very interesting to watch.” She glanced to her son’s round face, marveling at the intent wrinkles between his thick brown brows as he set each sprout into the holes she created. It was always, “Papa say…” about everything. She did not think he stated, “Mama say…” nearly as frequently or with the same assured authority, but she did not mind in the slightest. His father was where he turned for education, steadfastness, and rough play; but to her he sought succor when hurt, babyish cosseting, and the fulfillment of daily essentials. It was a balance between his parents: Darcy the all-knowing, masculine, stalwart protector; and Lizzy the ever-present, mothering, empathetic attendant.

The planting and dirt play continued, both oblivious to the pair of eyes that observed their every move.

The stalker hugged the deep shadows cast by the four tall Mediterranean cypress trees lining the open glade near the rear wall of the mews. This corner of the moderate-sized enclosure that contained the Darcy House gardens, lawn, and patio was away from any open windows and hidden from easy view by sculpted hedges, bushes, and thick-trunked trees. The fountain that sat in the precise middle of the yard was not large, but the water bubbled, splashed, and trickled loudly. It was designed to mask the noises from without the walled sanctuary, but the interloper depended on its dampening properties to aid his scheme.

A final cap was the rarely used, small, recessed door that gave access to the endmost stall within the stables. As if by divine intercession, a plain wooden cart was kept parked there for the occasional hauling of rough materials. That his prey would choose this place to be alone and unguarded, trusting in the safety of their abode, was unquestionably providence.

It was almost too perfect, but Wickham was convinced his time for vindication and success was destined. The pieces of the puzzle had fallen from heaven into his lap, snapping together into a beautiful picture that was foolproof. He had duped the mighty Darcy, beguiled his way into the arrogant man’s house, and would now prove his superiority by absconding with those his nemesis held most dear. Right from under his haughty nose.

Wickham allowed a thrill of victory to rush through his body before squelching the emotion. He must maintain cold control. All day he had lain in wait for them to garden as Prudence sneeringly revealed at one point last night. Now, all he needed was for the two to separate so he could deal with them individually before the other noticed, but patience was a virtue he had mastered.

It happened a few minutes later.

Alexander rose, walking with a sure gait for one so young, to the decoratively piled rocks amid the flowers. His father had taught him that the dark, moist areas under the rocks were the best places to find wiggling worms and pill bugs. He placed his jar onto the ground, making sure it was upright and near at hand, added a handful of dirt and some leaves, only then kneeling to upend the rocks and begin his quest. Lizzy, after assuring his occupation, turned to the wheelbarrow encumbered with the potted plants gifted by Mr. Clark to be added to the Darcy House gardens. She set to her task, humming and blissfully unaware of the horror that was about to be unleashed.

Wickham checked the thick, woolen scarf that covered his nose, leather-gloved fingers pulling the fabric tighter. With a practiced tug he loosened the cork plugging the narrow neck of an amber bottle and saturated the folded cloth held in the palm of his hands, careful to avoid inhaling the fumes wafting. With eyes shifting between Lizzy and the boy, he crouched low and crept away from the wall. It was easy to remain in the shadows or hide behind the thick copse. The trick was to avoid stepping on dry leaves or twigs, and not to scrape against the brush.

He skulked warily, crossing the four feet to where Alexander huddled in rapt attention. He paused, gauging the scene and preparing. A quick glance assured that Lizzy was occupied on the other side of the roughly five foot grassy plot, her back to him as she dug holes. Alexander was close, his tiny face the mirror of Darcy’s and filled with childish delight as he observed the pill bugs crawling over his small palm. He was ignorant to the lurking menace and therefore had no warning, or later memory, of the hand that suddenly emerged between a gap in the branches and clamped over his nose and mouth. A startled indrawn breath of the sickening sweet fluid and he was on his way to unconsciousness without uttering a sound.

Even Wickham, who had seen the effects of inhaled ether used by Lord Orman to dull his pain and induce oblivion, was stunned at how rapidly it worked on the toddler. In the midst of his planning he had wondered if the liberal amount needed to sedate a fully-grown woman may be too much for the tiny body of the boy, but he had no choice in the matter and could only hope the youngster did not succumb before Darcy could watch.

Wickham’s lack of precise knowledge meant that when Alexander so quickly reacted to the drug, his abrupt slump took Wickham off guard. The hand that held the cloth to the boy’s face slipped, and Alexander landed facedown onto the arranged stack of rocks. The stones slid, falling in a clattering shower that was not noisy, but enough to cause Lizzy to turn her head to investigate.

Despite his momentary surprise, Wickham responded instantly. He lurched forward, bounded through the thicket, and dashed across the lawn in seconds. Lizzy released a sharp cry that was cruelly cut off when Wickham crushed her head between the wet rag cupped in one hand that pressed harshly over her face, and the other hand that painfully twisted into the hair pinned into a lovely arrangement on the back of her head. He hauled her upward, relishing the pain he knew he was causing, until she was facing him.

Her eyes were wild with fright as she met Wickham’s triumphant gaze. There was immediate recognition, but also, to his amazement, a blaze of indescribable fury. With a jolt of astonishment he realized that she was holding her breath! Additionally, although he had expected some feeble struggling, she nearly overwhelmed his considerable strength by her strenuous counter-assault. She violently wrenched her head to the left while lashing out with her limbs. Her legs, stout and supple from years of walking, pounded into his shins with well-aimed kicks. Her hands contorted into dangerous claws, gripping and slashing with frenetic attacks to his face and neck.

Several hopping steps were required to avoid tumbling over, but he managed to collect himself and widen the stance of his stiffened legs, planting his feet into the soft turf. In desperation he tightened his grip to her hair, waiting for the muffled squeal of pain that she refused to release, and pulled her into his chest for additional support.

“Breathe damn it!” He growled, the fingertips holding the cloth digging into the tender flesh of her cheeks.

But Lizzy did not breathe. Instead she fought, frantically. Her body writhed and strained, every muscle contorting and contracting with incredible power. She grabbed on to his wrists, twisting the leather covering his flesh abrasively. She fisted her hands, raining clouts over his shoulders and upper arms. Her feet, encased in sturdy half-boots, beat into his shins and feet. The maniacal struggle led to an odd sort of dance, Lizzy’s zealous maneuvers forcing him to sway and bend in order to maintain control.

He arched his head backward, both to avoid inhaling the ether or presenting an easy target for her fingernails, and held her in a crushing embrace. He knew she would have to breathe eventually, so he ignored the bruising blows peppering his legs and upper torso.

It seemed to last forever, although in truth less than two minutes passed before the need for air overwhelmed her. He felt her inspiration, marveling anew that even in her panic it was shallow. It was followed by fresh thrashing, but he sensed her weakening as another wheezing breath was taken and her flails lessened. He kept the pressure steady as her muscles began to relax.

Nonetheless, he was again taken by surprise at her resilience when she acted in a final, ferocious protest. She released an animal scream into the wad of sweet vitriol soaked cloth, raked the fingers of her right hand deeply across his left cheek while pulling the protective scarf away from his nose, and aggressively pushed with her legs and shoved her lower body into his. The combination again disrupted his balance, only this time he was unable to correct his equilibrium, and they toppled onto the spongy clover.

His clasp was lost, the ether-doused cloth falling forgotten to the ground, and Lizzy rolled away from his side. Wickham had enough presence of mind in his blinding rage and pain to follow after her, prepared to reestablish his domination. He sprawled bodily onto her, straddling her legs and pressing them together with his knees while his hands reached to encircle her slender throat. But it was not necessary. Her last outburst and gasping shriek had overwhelmed her, the drug finally penetrating to subdue her brain.

The only sound was his harsh respirations. He was so angry that his vision was hazy and mind clouded. It did not occur to him to consider that their struggle may have drawn attention, nor was he coherently able to halt his rage.

He lashed out, delivering a stunning slap to her slack face. “Witch!” he bellowed, following with another blow to the opposite cheek and additional foul expletives. He sat back on his heels, breathing raggedly, and then heaved to his feet. Sanity and calm were slow to be restored, but he had not planned this revenge only to allow one unsuspecting difficulty to ruin all.

His fingertips wiped the oozing blood away from the four stinging wounds rived into his left cheek. “You will pay for this, Elizabeth Darcy. Now it is not just about Darcy. Another score will be settled this day.”

“Point to Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

The declaration rang out, but Richard did not experience the elation he normally felt when scoring one on his cousin. He frowned behind his protective mask, raising his left hand to signal a suspension. Pulling the mask away from his sweating brow, he approached his opponent.

Darcy removed his own mask and raised his arms in question, sword firmly gripped and by all outward appearances ready to continue the match. He was not breathing heavily and only a light sheen moistened his forehead, but that was all the more reason Richard knew something was not quite right.

“Do you want to tell me why I am beating you so easily?” Richard inquired, his voice low and a faint smile lighting his face. Still, he peered into Darcy’s eyes with clear concern. “You are hardly trying, and have been distracted all afternoon. Are you yet disturbed over the information I gave you this morning? I did not plan to win on default.” His tease was met with a blank stare.

“Put your mask back on, Colonel. The match is far from over.” Darcy clapped the hood in place, gesturing with his sword arm, and resumed a precision fencer’s stance.

The battle recommenced and although Colonel Fitzwilliam did ultimately defeat the younger man, it was not the resounding victory he suspected based on how it began.

Darcy managed to rally his focus and skill, but remained preoccupied and was not in top form. He could not bury his vacillating emotions over what had transpired with Lizzy that morning and all afternoon the iciness of fear raced uncontrollably through his veins. The four months since he and Lizzy rekindled their relationship and her mysterious illness faded was too short a time to expunge the trauma from his memory. The terror of revisiting such a place of agony was as real as if it had happened yesterday.

He hated that their interview was so abruptly cut short. He had not been able to articulate his feelings and to discuss with her as they always did until understanding was reached. The idea that she may be confused as to his concerns, reaching the conclusion that he wanted no further children, or fearing his displeasure regarding another baby, greatly weighed on his mind.

Indeed, he had not anticipated her conceiving so rapidly, so part of his shock was due to that. He was not an imbecile and knew precisely the mechanics of where babies came from. However, probably due to the fact that it had been well over a year between Alexander’s birth and Michael’s creation, he had somehow not given the possibility any thought.

Nevertheless, it was the worry over his wife’s health that overwhelmed him and sent shivers of foreboding through his body. It had taken her so long to regain her physical stamina. Weeks after her mental and emotional status returned to normalcy—his uncle’s stated diagnosis that it was primarily the breach with her husband that prohibited her spiritual recovery proving true—she had remained tired, weak, and delicate. For only the past month or so had her constitution and physique rejuvenated to her prior vigor and lushness. In fact, Darcy recognized with daily surging happiness, she was robust beyond what she had previously been. Thus, the hint of anything disrupting her hard-fought wholeness and vitality was enough to numb his bones.

Yet, oddly, amid the rivers of cold he began to detect a warm center of happiness. It began deep in his belly, almost touchable, and gradually spread to dispel some of the frostiness. It was bizarre and unexpected, but his mind was continually invaded with the image of a tiny face. A feminine, delicate, and beautiful face.

Numerous times he shook his head, forcing the vision to evaporate, but it kept returning.

Unlike his wife, Darcy had experienced no prescient dreams or inclinations with either pregnancy. Lizzy had known, each time, that the baby she carried was male. With Michael it was merely a “feeling,” partially based, she admitted, on the fact that her body carried the infant precisely the same as Alexander. She did not have a crystalline dream as with her first pregnancy, but there was no doubt in her mind that she would be presenting her husband with his second son.

He did not believe the image that plagued his mind today was a premonition, but rather a divine message. As the afternoon progressed, he renounced the worst of his anxiety and cautiously allowed the possibility of further happiness to creep in. It was difficult to focus on business or manly pursuits while sensing a strange need to rush back to Darcy House and make amends with his wife now, not later.

He shook his head to dispel the disquiet and dipped the damp cloth into the cool water filling the porcelain bowl. He wrung the excess away, wiping over his neck, shoulders, back, and underarms. He did not have time to return to Darcy House for a complete wash prior to his appointment at White’s, but like most gentlemen who frequented Angelo’s Fencing Academy, he toted a clean shirt and cravat, as well as a bottle of his preferred cologne, to freshen up after a vigorous workout.

He splashed a palm-full of the musky concoction that Samuel provided onto his chest, forcing his thoughts away from holding Elizabeth in his arms while assuring her of his love and supreme joy in accepting the God-given gift of as many children as He chose to entrust to them. His concentration turned to the upcoming session with his business partners, rigid intellectual calculations snapping firmly into place, and he began pulling the crisply ironed linen shirt over his shoulders when the door burst open.

“Darcy,” Richard flatly pronounced. “You are needed at Darcy House immediately!”

It was a nightmare. It had to be. There was no other explanation. It even felt like a nightmare with the racing heartbeat and fogged mind sensations typical of a horrific dream. Only usually she was able to wake herself when the terror grew too extreme. Upon waking, the negative effects would stop with the comforting familiarity of her bed restoring her wits. And then the dream itself would fade, the images once so disturbing quickly losing clarity.

This nightmare was not following that pattern.

Georgiana exited the nursery, the heaviness of her heart weighting her body down as surely as an oxen’s yoke, and her vision dimming to the point where she was forced to lean against the wall and grasp onto a narrow table or fall to the floor.

She inhaled deeply, willing the tears away. After all, it had to be a nightmare, an especially vivid one but a nightmare nevertheless. It could not be real and any second now she would wake and the scenes would shatter into dust.

She pressed her fingertips against her burning eyes, realizing with increased dismay that closing her eyes only brought the dream into greater focus…

At slightly before three-thirty the doorbell had rung unexpectedly, Georgiana’s heart lurching with the thought that it might be Sebastian as she jumped up from the pianoforte and dashed into the foyer. Her disappointment at discovering Lady Simone being greeted by Mr. Travers rather than Mr. Butler was smothered, and she embraced her cousin with true delight.

“Forgive me for disturbing your quiet afternoon, Georgiana dear, but I wanted to bring these books to Elizabeth before I forgot. Also, my painting of the stone pines in the Villa Doria Pamphili that she loved has been framed and I wished to give it to her right away.”

“Never apologize, Simone. You are always welcome and Lizzy will be thrilled. She has an abiding love for wooded places, we have discovered. Come, she and Alexander are in the garden up to their ankles in dirt I imagine. I am sure they would both benefit from some cooled juice, if you could provide some, Mr. Travers?”

He bowed, heading toward the kitchen while Simone and Georgiana walked across the tiled entryway to the wide glass-paned doors that opened onto the garden courtyard. It was strange how, in retrospect, traversing the airy hall seemed a walk of doom lasting an eternity. Yet she and Simone barely noticed their steps as they chatted and laughed all the way to the far corner where Lizzy and Alexander were supposed to be planting sunflowers. And then the painfully long seconds as they puzzled over a scene that made no sense.

Gardening tools and unplanted seedlings sat unattended but undisturbed, the dirt holes and misplaced rocks a normal expectation when gardening. It was the utter silence that struck them first. Then the absence of the two who should have been digging and who did not appear, no matter how often they both scanned the bush encircled glade expecting them to jump out and yell, “Surprise!” Still, they would likely have assumed that Lizzy and Alexander were in the house if not for the random clumps of grass gouged from the ground, the crumpled cloth discarded beside a human-shaped depression, the gray rabbit lying in a heap next to the cloth, and the folded parchment nearby.

Georgiana shivered and opened her eyes. The hallway was empty and silent. Michael was finally asleep, rocked in his aunt’s arms after the efforts of Mrs. Hanford to placate him with warm porridge and cow’s milk proved successful. The infant’s vocalized unhappiness at not having his mother’s breast and gentle touch was an emotion they empathized with, but neither spoke openly about the calamity that had befallen Darcy House. Miss Lisa had stood by the dresser silently crying as she folded and refolded a pile of Alexander’s freshly washed clothes.

Pushing herself away from the wall, Georgiana shuffled down the corridor wishing she could give in to her grief as Miss Lisa did. But then one should not cry over a nightmare, should they?

The period following the shocking garden revelation was identical to a dream. Someone screamed and Georgiana was still unsure whether it was she or Simone. She remembers bending to touch the poor rabbit, the warm fur and flutter of a heartbeat bizarrely relieving as if his life assured the survival of Lizzy and Alexander, wherever they were. Then there were shouts, running feet, and a blurred onset of commands and activity.

Simone scribbled a note, sending a groomsman to Angelo’s where she knew her husband and Darcy were. Another message was dispatched to the hospital for Dr. Darcy. Mr. Travers took charge, although there was nothing to do but wait.

Georgiana clutched on to the note, afraid to read it after the look on the butler’s face when he had, delivering it into her brother’s hands when he stormed in less than twenty minutes later. She had no time to marvel at how quickly he and Richard managed to travel from Angelo’s Academy in Soho to Grosvenor Square, her hand’s shaking and heart breaking as he silently read. Then she shrank away from the fury suffusing his face as he turned to Richard, who was reading the letter over his shoulder.

“Wickham has taken my wife and son.”

“Wickham?” Georgiana blurted, beyond stunned.

But Darcy ignored her, his eyes locked with Richard’s. “It is not his handwriting,” Richard began, holding his palm up to stay the scathing retort Darcy was about to deliver, “but I would agree it the logical conclusion. With no reason to deduce otherwise, we have the upper hand, as we know where to find him.”

“We waited too long,” Darcy interrupted, his voice shaking with rage and fear. “We should have… I should have…”

“It does not matter,” Richard snapped, his voice commanding and in control. “All that matters is getting them back. Wait here and…”

“I am not waiting for a second!” Darcy yelled, the words echoing from wall to ceiling. “They have my wife and son!”

Simone and Georgiana flinched, instinctively stepping back a pace and reaching for the other’s hand. But Colonel Fitzwilliam stood fast, his face grim but unperturbed.

“We need assistance, Cousin. There is no way to know what we are walking into. The best chance of success is with numbers. We need men who know how to handle weapons and are combat trained.”

Darcy did not reply, instead pivoting abruptly and moving toward his study. Richard sighed, turning toward Simone. “Did anyone think to send for Dr. Darcy? Well done,” he said when Simone nodded, his lips lifting in a minuscule smile that did not touch his eyes. “Darcy will require physical restraining, I fear.” And after a quick squeeze to his wife’s upper arm and the same semi-smile directed to Georgiana, he followed Darcy, mumbling, “Bloody idiot is probably loading his pistols.”

What transpired in the study between Darcy and Richard was never revealed to the females, but within five minutes Richard exited. He briefly conferred with his wife, kissing her brusquely before leaving the house.

Through it all Georgiana stood glued to the same spot, her mind unable to veer from Darcy’s firm proclamation of Wickham being the abductor. It was impossible, all of it was impossible, her mind screamed. Lizzy and Alexander spirited away by an unknown assailant to God knew where with unfathomable tortures being inflicted upon them was horrid enough to contemplate, not that she was allowing herself to contemplate it, but to think that Wickham…

Georgiana shuddered, her heart pounding to the point that she heard the blood rushing past her eardrums and felt the beats under the palms pressed against her breast. Wickham. The man she nearly eloped with so long ago. The man she knew to be unscrupulous and plagued by envy for her brother, but had never considered truly evil. Yet this act crossed into a place beyond evil into…

She shivered and gasped, and felt the room swimming before her glazed eyes.

“Georgiana, dearest. Come, let us sit down while the men deal with the situation.” Simone’s tender voice pierced through the haze, her hands warm and stabilizing where they grasped Georgiana’s elbows. “Mrs. Smyth,” she called to the lurking housekeeper, her eyes engaging Georgiana’s steadily, “we require tea, very hot and very strong, as quickly as possible.”

“Wickham,” Georgiana squeaked. “How?”

“Let us sit before you fall down and I will tell you what I know of the situation.”

A bitterly strong cup of scorching tea later, Georgiana persisted in believing it had to be a nightmare. But she was calmer and somewhat informed based on what Richard had told his wife of the matter since suspicions were raised in Hertfordshire.

“I cannot believe that Mr. Wickham could do this.” Georgiana paused, not certain how much Lady Simone knew of her entanglements with Wickham and not prepared to delve into that portion of her past, especially not now. “That explains William’s extra caution this past week, not that it has apparently been effective.”

“Do not be harsh on your brother. I am sure he is berating himself enough as it is. I wish he were not alone…”

Noises from the hall caused them to glance toward the door, the stomp of feet and hasty greetings of Mr. Travers followed by the appearance of Dr. Darcy, tall and serious faced with his dark, stained hospital coat covering the flowing suit of blue worn underneath.

“Ladies, can someone enlighten me as to what the bloody hell is going on?”

“I declare, Dr. Darcy, you must have flown from Whitechapel to arrive so speedily!”

“A fast horse can do wonders, my lady. Anyone I bowled over was instructed to convey my apologies to my associates and place the bill onto my account. Your note was understandably vague. Do we know what has happened? Does William know what has happened?”

“He is in his study awaiting the return of my husband with reinforcements. I am sure he needs you.”

George nodded, robes swirling as his wide stride carried him out the door, narrowly missing Mrs. Smyth, who flinched away from his body and the disgusting diseases she was sure he carried upon his person. He did not notice, intent only upon talking to his nephew, and seconds later was in the study where he would remain for a long while.

Mrs. Smyth, once recovered from the trauma of almost touching the doctor’s garments, delivered the message from Mrs. Hanford that Michael was awake and needing his mother.

Georgiana responded to the summons, as much to assist as to turn her mind away from the horrors that only grew worse. She informed the stricken nannies of Lizzy’s absence as succinctly as possible, her emotions buried while attending to her nephew. Assisting Mrs. Hanford with the chore of inducing a thoroughly angry baby to ingest warmed, sweetened cow’s milk and wheat porridge, and then rocking him to sleep while singing favorite lullabies had been an oddly comforting procedure that wrested her thoughts away from the drama beyond the nursery walls. At least to a degree as she was torn between envying Miss Lisa’s tears and shamefully wanting to throttle her!

Now she stood at the end of the hallway desperately searching for the strength to continue walking. She flipped open the dainty pocket watch fastened at her waist, shocked to note the time now a quarter to five. Barely an hour and a half since she blithely walked into the garden with Simone. Her thoughts were so scattered and clouded that the passage of time had no meaning. It could have been fifteen minutes ago or half a day and she would feel as shocked and numb.

Mrs. Smyth passed with a tray of coffee and pastries, heading toward Darcy’s study, drawing Georgiana into the present. “Mrs. Smyth. Would you please tell Mr. Darcy that Master Michael is fed and asleep? I am sure it will offer some comfort.”

The housekeeper nodded. “As you wish, Miss Darcy.”

Georgiana watched her walk away, momentarily distracted by the woman’s pained expression and clipped intonation. She is definitely an odd woman, Georgiana thought, but I would not have considered her caring for Lizzy enough to be so distressed. She shrugged, squaring her shoulders and entering the parlor.

“Needlepoint?” she exclaimed, so surprised that she released a humorless laugh. “You can focus on needlepoint?”

Simone did not glance up from her hoop. “I learned years ago that painful vigils passed quicker if my hands were occupied with something other than wringing my skirts. Precise stitchery requires concentration and calculation, thus keeping my thoughts away from dwelling upon the trouble of the moment and spinning wild with speculation. This is a new situation for me, to be sure, but I am well acquainted with periods of strain and waiting.”

“Yes, of course you are. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive. But do not be deceived, my dear. I am frantic on the inside, doubly so as many people I love are in jeopardy and not just my son.” The needle flashed, each stitch perfectly sewn. “Of course I now have trunks filled with completed samplers, garments, pillows, and so on. Quite beneficial for Christmas and birthdays.”

She smiled at Georgiana, who again laughed, albeit briefly. “Richard has not returned?”

“No. I am sure he is acting as expeditiously as possible, but amassing an armed forced must take some time. I am fairly confident that whoever he enlists will be highly competent for the task.”

“Armed forces. Loaded pistols.” Georgiana sank heavily onto a chair across from Simone. “Lizzy and Alexander kidnapped from my house. While I was here just yards away! While servants moved about and…” She drew in a deep breath, clenching her fists to control the shaking. “Please tell me this is a nightmare from which I shall awake momentarily?”

“I wish I could, Georgiana, I truly do.”

“Should we watch for them?” She glanced to the wide windows overlooking the Square, restless anxiety wrecking havoc on her attempts to calm. “Perhaps time will be saved if I alert William as soon as they enter the Square.”

“They will come in through the mews,” Simone answered with a shake of her head, continuing at the questioning expression on Georgiana’s face, “Richard will be considerate of discretion. Best not to cause a scene. I am sure the neighbors are already spinning conjectures over what brought Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam galloping crazily into the Square.”

“Oh! I did not think of gossiping neighbors! This is horrible enough without wild tales spreading through Town!”

“Breathe, my dear, before you faint.”

“I cannot bear it, Simone. Please, tell me how you have learned to remain tranquil in crisis situations. How do you maintain your sanity and stay strong and act bravely? And do not say needlepoint!”

Simone shrugged, the needle continuing to steadily pierce the stretched linen in even strokes. “Tranquility and strength are illusions. And bravery in my case is more bravado. Trust me, crying and raging occurs. Frequently. All I have learned to do is choose the time for my emotional collapse when I am alone and not inconveniencing anyone. Well, generally so, I should say. I did try to kill my own father when my feigned acceptance and patience failed me.”

She spoke in a lighthearted tone, almost as if jesting, but Georgiana knew the pain buried underneath her carefree words. Suddenly, Lady Simone dropped the hoop into her lap, reached across the narrow space, and clasped Georgiana’s hand. “There is no shame in crying. You do not need to be brave or strong if tears are necessary. Releasing the emotion usually aids the rebuilding of one’s fortitude and restores clarity.”

Georgiana shook her head, opening her mouth to assert her intention to remain brave for her family when the door chime rang, jolting through the depressive pall heavy in the air as if a clanging cymbal. Nerves strung tighter than a coil, Georgiana jumped up, taking an involuntary step toward the doorway.

“Fret not. Mr. Travers will handle whoever it is.”

Georgiana nodded but moved closer to the foyer to overhear. Mr. Travers’s polite greeting transmitted across the expanse, but the response from behind the stout door was muted. Yet something in the hushed, mumbled tenor piqued her curiosity.

She opened the door further, peeking curiously through as a hand appeared with a folded envelope extended to the butler. “I shall see that Miss Darcy receives this as soon as she returns, sir.”

The hand disappeared, the butler beginning to close the door, when the response reached her ears. “I would appreciate that, thank you.”

Instant recognition swept through her body, the musical timbre of the male voice causing her heart to lurch with joy while also pulverizing the tenuous tethers holding her emotions in check. Her legs carried her across the tiled floor before she found her voice, then shouted, “Sebastian!” startling Mr. Travers into dropping the note.

Mr. Butler was equally startled, but responded with a broad grin of happiness which lasted about two seconds before the impact of his beloved’s body knocked the air out of his lungs and nearly sent him sprawling onto the outside step. Thankfully, Mr. Travers grabbed one arm, the other instinctively clutching the wooden threshold for stability so he did not tumble with the clinging, sobbing Georgiana onto the stones, but his emotions at such a bizarre greeting were chaotic to say the least!

Years of experience paid off as the butler rallied rapidly, hauling on Mr. Butler’s arm to bring him into the foyer and slamming the door shut. Then he retrieved the fallen note and walked away as if Miss Darcy weeping in a strange man’s arms was a daily occurrence.

Although not adverse to having Georgiana locked within his embrace and not impervious to the fragrance of her hair and warm curves pressed against his chest, Sebastian was utterly flummoxed, his confusion not aided by Georgiana, whose words were indecipherable amid the crying. He held her tight, comforted slightly upon noting Lady Simone standing in the parlor doorway. But her expression was grave, sending additional alarms through his mind, and then the appearance of an armed Colonel Fitzwilliam from the dimly lit back hallway sealed the awareness that something was seriously wrong.

“Ah, perfect timing, Mr. Butler,” Richard said, not a trace of humor or warmth on his face. “The ladies will need your added support. However, I would suggest that all of you retire to the parlor and shut the door as I do not think it wise for Mr. Darcy to see his sister in your arms right now, all considered.”

And then he pivoted, sheathed sword knocking against a holstered pistol, walking purposefully down the left hallway.