The Trouble with Mr. Darcy

Chapter Eighteen The Night of Reckoning

I have your wife and son. No harm shall befall them if you heed my demands, quietly and alone. 70,000 pounds will pay for their safe release. Make arrangements immediately. You will be contacted for further instructions. Any hesitation or deviation from my dictates and they will die.

Darcy read the words for the hundredth time. He had no need to read them, as they were indelibly etched into his brain and would likely never be forgotten. No salutation. No signature. The handwriting was not Wickham’s, of that Darcy was certain, so he assumed it was Orman’s penmanship. Of course, there was no way to know for sure, but he had little doubt.

He sighed, closing his eyes and dropping the clutched note to his side. The wait was killing him. It had only been an hour since the messenger had arrived at Angelo’s and they had torn through the crowded streets of London to reach Darcy House. An hour that was an eternity.

At least he was calmer now, Richard succeeding in penetrating his irrational raving before departing to collect the necessary manpower required to deal with the situation. Of course it had required taking him bodily and slamming Darcy into the library wall to accomplish the feat, utilizing a strength that amazed his younger cousin who was physically larger. Richard had revealed a side to his character that Darcy was not familiar with: the commanding colonel who knew how to quell an entire company of men with a single look or growled demand. It was painful, and a bit humiliating, but the action had done the trick. Darcy’s emotions were no less tumultuous, but at least he had them well buried and under a semblance of control. The arrival of his uncle was beneficial, the older man so accustomed to trauma that he was a stabilizing force.

Darcy glanced to the wadded fabric lying on the table by the window. George, who paced several feet away, had instantly recognized the odor emanating from the moist cloth as oil of sweet vitriol, or ether. The brief exposition that the doctor provided of the chemical compound had only added to Darcy’s distress over his wife and son.

The questions of how this violation could have happened within the confines of his home were too numerous to deal with at the present time. His unquenchable fury over what he saw as a failure on the part of his staff was so monumental that he simply could not allow himself to dwell on it. Richard was correct. He needed to remain levelheaded and composed for the sake of Elizabeth and Alexander.

But it was horribly difficult. The chaotic clash of indescribable terror and unprecedented wrath warred within his body and mind unrelentingly. It was only by the grace and strength of God that he did not collapse. Or begin breaking things.

Although they had no conclusive, legal proof, everything pointed to Wickham and Orman being behind the kidnapping of his family. They planned to proceed as if this were the case, but on the slim chance that it was all a horrific coincidence and some other criminal was the abductor, he had written to Mr. Daniels for the funds to be delivered as soon as was possible. Darcy could care less about the money, and would pay far more to ensure the safe return of his wife and son. Nevertheless, he abhorred the idea of anyone escaping justice, especially if the lawbreaker was Wickham or Orman. But of greater importance was finding his family before they were harmed any further.

A soft knock at the door caused both men to jerk and whip about. “Enter!” Darcy barked, involuntarily taking a step toward the door.

It was Mrs. Smyth carrying a tray of hot coffee and pastries. Her face was pinched and gray, haughty eyes shadowed with deep emotion, but Darcy wasted no time wondering at her odd expression. She curtseyed and kept her gaze downcast as she cautiously approached the desk and sat the tray down. Under different circumstances Darcy may have felt shamed at having inspired such trepidation in his staff, but not today.

“Very good,” George said, stepping up and pouring two cups of coffee while biting into a scone.

“How can you eat?”

“I can always eat, you should know that by now. It settles my nerves. I would encourage you to eat, but figure I will be ignored. I am going to insist you drink some strong coffee with several spoons of sugar, as you will need both. Doctor’s orders.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Mrs. Smyth hesitantly interrupted, flinching when the stormy cast to her master’s face turned her direction. She diverted her eyes, not wanting him to note the anger she felt over this violation to the house, it just one more proof, in her mind, at the downfall and imminent disgrace since marriage to that woman. “Miss Darcy wished for me to inform you that Master Michael is now asleep. He finally ate from the milk feeder offered, as well as some of the barley porridge Cook prepared, and Miss Darcy was then able to rock him to sleep. She thought this news would ease your mind.”

Darcy nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Smyth. Indeed that is excellent news. Please thank Mrs. Hanford for me. Assure her that her expertise and devotion are greatly comforting at this time.”

He turned away, preparing to resume his blank contemplation of the flowering lilacs outside the study window, when a startled gasp from Mrs. Smyth caught his attention. He swung about just as the housekeeper lifted the miniature from the packing box sitting on the edge of his desk. She noted his movement, instantly attempting to drop the portrait into the box, but his rapid lunge prevented her concealing.

He latched onto her wrist, eyes engaging hers. “You recognize this man.” It was not a question, her face clearly stating the answer.

“I…” She licked her suddenly parched lips, the seething anger in his glacial voice terrifying her and rendering her speechless.

“Answer me,” Darcy whispered, a note of ruthless command ringing through the regulation.

“He… is a friend.”

“George Wickham is your friend?”

“No,” she stammered in confusion. “That is… I do not know… This is Geoffrey Wiseman.”

Darcy did not respond. His gaze pierced through Mrs. Smyth, her body shuddering from what felt like visible beams of fire searing into her eyes. The grip on her wrist was painful, but the expression on his face was far more terrifying. He took a step closer, Mrs. Smyth withdrawing a pace reflexively.

“Geoffrey Wiseman, you say? And you know him? And have allowed this stranger into my house?”

“Fitzwilliam,” George spoke softly, but Darcy curtly gestured for silence and never removed his savage gaze from her face.

“Sir, please.”

“How long? How far has this man penetrated these walls? What have you allowed him to do?” She shook her head, visibly undone by the black, thunderous cast to her master’s normally kind face. “Answer me!”

His shout reverberated around the room, Mrs. Smyth gasping in fright. She felt near to swooning by the assault of emotions and thoughts roiling within. What was Mr. Darcy doing with a painting of her Geoffrey? A surge of doubt stabbed her heart. The numerous questions she had sensed over the past months, questions that she submerged due to her entanglement with her lover, slammed into her forehead until the pain darkened her vision and stuttered her speech.

“I trusted him. I… loved him. He…”

“Was he your lover? In my house?”

“Yes! Oh, please, sir… I am so sorry… I…”

“Do you have any idea what you have done?”

Mrs. Smyth released a whimper, truly petrified. She remained puzzled over the identity of her lover and the man in the miniature portrait, but it was also abundantly obvious that Mr. Darcy was connecting the two and intimating he was the culprit in the Darcys’ abduction. And worse yet, she was beginning to wonder the same. It was also obvious that Mr. Darcy was murderous in his rage, and she honestly feared for her life.

“Fitzwilliam,” George stated in a firmer voice, his hand gently touching Darcy’s rigid forearm. “Think. We now have the proof we needed. Calm yourself, and remember Elizabeth and Alexander. We can deal with Mrs. Smyth at a later date.” He tugged on each finger gripping the housekeeper’s wrist, prying his nephew loose.

It was a tense moment to be sure. Darcy yearned for a physical outlet for his considerable stress and Mrs. Smyth seemed like the perfect recipient. How it may have ended will never be known as just then Richard rushed through the door.

“Forgive me for taking so long! I have ten men…” He stopped, his eyes taking in the scene and turning a questioning look to George, as Darcy refused to relinquish his focus from the shaking, weeping Mrs. Smyth.

“It appears,” George offered, “that Mrs. Smyth has been befriended by George Wickham, alias Geoffrey Wiseman. He has been in the house, according to Mrs. Smyth. Recently?” She feebly nodded at the doctor’s inquiry. “Indeed,” he said, removing the last of Darcy’s white-knuckled fingers from her wrist, the housekeeper collapsing onto the sofa.

“Excellent!” Richard boomed with a satisfied nod. “This is the information we needed. The connection to Orman. Surely Elizabeth and Alexander are in Surrey. We must make haste.”

Darcy inhaled, gathering the frayed edges of his emotions and reining them in. He nodded, stepping away from the cowering woman. “Uncle, I expect you to take care of this.” He waved a hand in Mrs. Smyth’s direction, a steely-eyed George inclining his head in agreement.

“Trust me. You listen to Colonel Fitzwilliam, do you hear me, Son? He knows what to do.”

Darcy glanced to Richard’s grim, commanding face. “Very well. You are in charge, Colonel. I will obey your orders. But once my wife and son are safe, do not think about constraining me.”

Richard grinned evilly. “At that point, Cousin, I will be assisting you.”

Lizzy’s memory of the hours and days following her abduction would remain hazy for the whole of her life. There would be some impressions so vivid, yet obviously so fantastical, that she knew they were generated by the drug. And then there were other momentous events described to her later that seemed unfathomable for her to be unaware of when she was front and center to the action. Even years later, when she allowed herself to muse on the experience, she would not be able to say for certain what was real or what was of her drug-induced imagination.

Her first memory, after Wickham overwhelmed her in the garden, was of a dimly lit staircase, seen upside down and moving. Her body felt weightless and disconnected from her eyes as if floating. She noted the individual tattered threads on the carpet runner covering the steps, but could not differentiate between one hand and the other. Both were dangling before her eyes, tied together with a knotted cord wrapped around her wrists, but they looked like a flesh-colored lump with no definition. She knew this was odd, that she should be alarmed or at least curious, but she was apathetic. She closed her eyes and returned to sleep.

Much later—or was it only minutes? she did not know or care—she heard voices. She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. No matter. She just listened to the voices. They were pleasant. Hollow, almost echoing, with drawn-out syllables. The words were mixed up, no order or sense. She found it humorous and wanted to laugh. Maybe she did laugh, but she never remembered for sure. She drifted off again with the funny voices soothing her.

Again, she was lifted. Her hands hurt, but she could not move them. She heard a name being called close to her ear, yet from miles away. Elizabeth. She was fairly sure that was her name but was uncertain. She opened her eyes to a face near her own. It was a cat! A cat with horrible breath and a massive scar cutting through the fur on its left cheek. How strange. The cat was talking to her. Hissing, really. Silly cat, attempting to speak. She smiled and began to giggle. The cat meowed and growled. A cat growling? How strange and amusing. She continued to giggle until sleep and dreams of talking cats consumed her.

On it went. Bizarre delusions melded with reality an uncountable number of times. Finally she woke to a clearer observance. Her vision was fuzzy and there was a loud ringing in her ears, but she felt the cushions of the sofa she was lying on. Her head was resting on a soft, threadbare pillow. Her hands were still tied, as were her feet, she sluggishly recognized. They were tight and in an awkward position that was uncomfortable but not painful. Her face was sore and both of her cheeks tingled. In fact, she gradually became aware of dozens of gnawing aches and sharp pangs all over her body. Her breasts burned with the need to feed her baby, and the thought, as nebulous as it was, caused milk to leak and wetly soak into the bodice of her dirt-stained gown.

Abruptly she remembered the garden and Wickham, and the panic rose to form a cold knot deep in her abdomen. But surprisingly, she was not as distressed as one would expect. A cold, detached voice within told her this was the drug’s effects acting upon her mind, and she found this interesting, but could not decide if her lassitude was beneficial under the circumstances or a detriment.

She scanned the room, clouded eyes adjusting to the half-light. It was evening, dusk settling in the world without. Several lamps were lit and there was a glow emitting from somewhere behind her head that was probably from a fireplace. The chamber, clearly a parlor, was rustic with furniture of hewn wood and beamed ceilings of knotty oak. It was a large room, well-appointed and fine, but layers of dust and scattered cobwebs were observable even to her limited vision. She saw two windows from where she slumped on the sofa, both covered with thick drapes that allowed minimal light to escape or enter.

“She is awake.”

It was George Wickham. She recognized the voice though it was slowed and monotone. He materialized in front of her, kneeling and obscuring her limited range with his smirking face. She blinked several times, but the filmy glaze did not disappear.

“Mrs. Darcy. How delighted I am to see you. Did you sleep well?”

“Alexander?” Her voice, even to her own ears, was grating. The effort to say that one word burned a pathway through her vocal cords and she winced in pain.

“He is nearby, asleep and well. He will stay that way, as long as you cooperate.”

“Cooperate?” she murmured roughly between giggles. “I do believe you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Wickham. I cannot see how I have much choice.”

She was laughing uncontrollably, the ache in her throat increasing, but she could not stop. Does he not see how utterly ridiculous this is? Does he not see the true danger?

Wickham frowned, his face turning red. But this just made Lizzy laugh harder.

“Oh, Mr. Wickham! I would not worry about me. It is my husband who will be killing you.”

The laughter was by then in gales, and the pain to her throat severe. A voice shouted from the background to shut her up, but it was not necessary for anyone to take action as the edges of blackness crept over her eyes. A dark tunnel that grew narrower and narrower until there was no light at all and she remembered no more for a time.

Minutes, hours, days?

Lizzy had no sense of time when she next rallied. Nor did she care. The only concern—in fact what brought her out of her drugged, unconscious state—was the violent pain and upheaval from her stomach. Her previous bouts with nausea and vomiting, even when pregnant, were minor annoyances compared to this affliction. She heaved until her midsection ached, long after the contents were evacuated. Her throat was on fire, but that was paltry compared to the hurt she felt in every muscle and the ague that enveloped her. She had absolutely no control over her body; the chills and shuddering ruled.

A man swore, and Lizzy felt the end of the sofa she was laying on give as he jumped up. It was Wickham, her clearing mind noting that he must have been sitting with her legs on his lap. The image was greatly disturbing, but fresh waves of tremors took over her thoughts. Breathing became increasingly difficult and painful, so she assigned all concentration to the mere act of inhaling and exhaling. However, she did hear another man laughing.

“Fortunate that I insisted on the tub sitting there, eh, Wickham?” Orman laughed, the sight of Elizabeth Darcy suffering highly amusing, as was the disgust on Wickham’s face as he looked at the mess. “How badly do you want her now? Hmmm? Ready to take her this instant?”

Wickham ignored the gibe, crossing instead to a door located on the far wall. “You there!” he bellowed. “Leave the boy and come clean this mess. He will not be going anywhere.”

The girl who entered at Wickham’s bidding was dressed in a ragged gown, her emaciated frame unable to keep the neckline from gaping and showing her bony chest. She cowered, dropping an ungainly curtsey in Orman’s direction before setting to the task Wickham ordered.

He stood away, covering his nose with a scented handkerchief until the job was done. “How is the boy?”

“Asleep, milord. Woke and got sick once. Fell ta sleep agin.”

“You keep him breathing, understand girl?” Orman growled from his chair near the fireplace. “Thanks to his incapability in handling an infant, the whelp in there has been dosed with enough sweet vitriol for a grown man.”

“You did not have a miniature ruffian pounding your shoulders and stomach, all while screaming directly into your ears. The monster actually bit me on the neck! It was nearly my life, as the imp thrashed so as I almost fell down the stairs, breaking both our necks. Be thankful I had the ether at hand. Should have known Darcy’s progeny would be the devil’s spawn.”

Orman grunted. “Be that as it may, you are lucky you did not kill him. Keep him tied down and gagged, girl. I do not want the brat waking up and screaming for his mother. But keep him breathing or it will be your hide, understand?”

She performed her clumsy bob again, departing into the room where a trussed and muzzled Alexander lay on a narrow bed. Wickham closed the door firmly on the sight, turning to see Orman staring at him with derision.

“Do not make me retch,” the Marquis said scornfully. “Does seeing the brat in such a state injure your tender heart?”

“Hardly. I am more concerned over him dying too soon, that is all.”

Orman cackled. “He will recover enough to be conscious and crying out to his papa when we slit his throat. Ah, the look on Darcy’s face while he watches his precious son and wife die! The joy, Wickham, the incredible joy!”

“Well,” Wickham interrupted what he knew could easily bloom into a full-fledged manic tirade, “I shall allow you that task. I will take care of Mrs. Darcy in the way that best satisfies me. We shall both have our revenge before he dies.”

“You are a fool,” Lizzy rasped through clattering teeth, “if you truly believe you will get away with any of this. Fitzwilliam will not fall for your pathetic ruse or be taken so easily. He is stronger than you, Wickham, and always has been. This you know and you are afraid.”

Wickham smiled confidently, only a glimmer of nervousness showing in the depths of his eyes. “How touching,” he drawled. “The faith you have. All the more reason why taking you while your hero watches powerless to intervene will be so extremely pleasurable, for me anyway.” He leered, one hand rubbing vulgarly over his crotch while lecherously scanning over her body.

He sat again onto the sofa, pulling Lizzy’s lower legs and feet onto his lap and commencing a lazy caress over her bare shins.

Lizzy jerked her legs from his offensive touch, kicked powerfully with every ounce of her strength into his jaw, and watched his head snap backward as blood spurt from between split lips in a gushing stream along with teeth.

At least that was what she imagined doing. That was what her mind desired to happen. But her muscles and nerves betrayed her, refusing to obey the brain’s command. Instead she cringed and quailed, her stomach threatening to again disgorge, and her weeps of anguish caught in her chest.

Wickham and Orman talked on, with glee, about the plans they had laid. How Darcy would be, even at that moment, collecting the funds to retrieve his wife and child, funds that they would enjoy, but were only a diversion. How he was probably agonizing over the loss to his fortune while also agonizing over the fate of his loved ones. How he would suffer all through the long night and all the next day before he received his instructions. How they would drop vague hints of Lizzy and Alexander’s torment designed to torture him. How they would lure him with promises of a safe return, only to capture him when he played to their directives like a marionette. How they would follow through with the final monstrous assaults to Lizzy and an innocent child, ending their heinous campaign with Orman killing Darcy.

The declarations and fits of laughter blended in her weary, stupefied mind. Lizzy sensed the tendrils of oblivion creeping over her and she reached for them eagerly. She hurt, physically and emotionally, and yearned for the relative peace that sleep would bring her. Her last memory was of a loud bang and muted scream from somewhere far away, but she could not muster the curiosity needed to maintain a grip on her reason. Blackness again consumed her.

The ride from Grosvenor Square to the remote hunting lodge in Surrey, near the village of Oxshott, was uneventful. The twelve men on horseback drove their mounts hard, not bothering to talk, and crossed the distance in record time. Nonetheless, to Darcy it felt like an eternity. Only a few hours had passed since the suspected time of the kidnapping, fewer still since he had been interrupted with the news at Angelo’s, but it was more than enough time for any number of gruesome punishments to have befallen his wife and child. No matter how hard he tried to squelch the visions, they occurred with alarming frequency. It was only the driving will to rescue them that preserved his sanity.

The calm, military proficiency of Colonel Fitzwilliam was a soothing balm at this time. Even in the midst of his turmoil, Darcy was consciously appreciative that he had such a man on his side. It would not be until much later, however, that he would be able to think back on his cousin’s sapient leadership with the full amount of pride and awe it deserved. For the present, he could only focus on holding his wife and son in his arms, and putting this nightmare behind them. Luckily, he did have enough clarity and good sense to hearken to Richard’s decrees.

They did not slow their galloping pace until they neared the narrow weald bordering the unkempt expanse surrounding the house. The colonel signaled a halt amongst the concealing woods. Each of the ten men he had circumspectly chosen for this mission dismounted in complete silence. They tied their horses to the trees, gathering around their commander in hunkering positions without crunching a single dried leaf. With a combination of gestures and pointed words spoken in hushed tones that were nevertheless crisp and comprehendible, their plan of attack was laid out.

Richard signaled Darcy, the only nonmilitary man in their company, to stay close to his side. Darcy nodded, knowing that this was as much to be sure the emotionally charged man did not do something stupid as it was to be sure he was front-and-center to the final rescue.

The other men fanned out in a rough semicircle between the trunks of oak, wild cherry, and birch. They crept silently, low to the ground, eyes scanning through the faint illumination of dusk, edging ever closer to the boundary of the concealing forest. Once the house was within easy sight, they halted again. More faint whispers and gestured commands were given. Darcy only understood about half of the communication, but then, his eyes were riveted to the lodge beyond the weedy, dilapidated yard.

It was not large, strictly being a temporary resting place for menfolk to lay their heads in relative comfort while hunting the plentiful game that inhabited the surrounding woodland. Fashioned from roughly carved logs and timber, it almost reminded Darcy of drawings he had seen of cabins in the American frontier. Although the current pressing point was to spy the land and collect necessary intelligence, Darcy did spare a moment’s curious inventory of the architecture, grudgingly admitting that the rustic design was appealing. Moreover, on a practical level, it made this venture easy to delineate.

The land in between where they hid among the underbrush and the house was level, only some thirty yards wide, and conveniently dotted with wildly overgrown hazel, green hound’s-tongue, herb Paris, and a number of other bushes and small trees. The house was dark with glimmers of light showing from one first floor window on the far corner and a group of windows on the second story. They waited, watching, unbelievably coming to suspect that there were no guards or servants in the vicinity, when an armed man walked around the corner.

Richard snorted in disgust, nudging Darcy with his elbow, and leaning for a murmured commentary. “Look at how he is holding his shotgun. Pathetic. Not looking around or alert. Oh, this is almost no fun at all.” He signaled to one of his associates, Colonel Roland Artois, older brother to Kitty’s husband Randall Artois, who nodded curtly, rose, and almost instantly seemed to disappear!

Darcy blinked in astonishment, as he would several times in the next few minutes, finally espying the enormous soldier with bulging muscles that looked to burst through the strained fabric of his lightweight jacket. He was melting into the darkness cast by the foliage, his hulking body appearing to magically fade as he furtively grew closer and closer to the unsuspecting sentry. The man stood nonchalantly by the wall, puffing on a glowing pipe, the shotgun negligently slung over his shoulder.

It was a thing of beauty. One moment he was there, in full view, and the next he was dropped to the ground. It happened so fast that if their angle did not allow the scene to play before his eyes, Darcy may have thought the man evaporated! In one smooth motion, the brawny warrior emerged behind the watchman, his arms and hands circling with a knifing twist and jerking clasp. The unfortunate man instantly went limp, Colonel Artois lowering them both gracefully to the ground amid the concealing bushes and shadows.

Darcy gasped. Richard grinned, delivering a wink to his cousin. “Do not fear. All the men have been instructed not to kill unless absolutely necessary.” He shrugged. “Generally it is not necessary. There are ways to subdue and leave for future questioning. Can help when you need information, keeps down the mess and boring questions later, and gives the courts and lawyers something to prove their worth in this world.”

Richard delivered another wink before growing serious and motioning to more of his assistants. Four more slunk away, two in each direction. “They will approach the house from the back and side, take care of any other guards,” he emphasized with derision, “and stand watch around the perimeter. Ah, there is the signal.”

The bulky figure of Roland Artois came into view from amid the brush, nodding at the colonel.

“Come. It’s time to retrieve your family!”

The next span of minutes, again seemingly agonizing in their slowness, was rather exhilarating. If the stakes were not so high and Darcy’s insides were not in a twisted knot of tension, he may have welcomed the thrill of the hunt. He was eager to confront Wickham and Orman, more than hoping there would be some resistance merely for the delight in dispensing some well-deserved physical pain! The awareness of his zealous barbarism elicited a sad smile, knowing that Elizabeth would scold him for the train of his thoughts while secretly swelling with pride.

Be strong, my love, his thoughts pleaded, I am coming for you and our son, and all will be well.

It was late in the evening, and although the setting sun still cast rays through the surrounding trees, inside the two-story lodge it was dim. No lamps were lit in the lower level chambers except for a glow from far down the hall in what they discovered was the empty kitchen. The only obvious illumination in the upper story came from the chamber at the top of the stairs and another further down the corridor. It was eerie, but certainly made stealthy reconnoitering easy.

Entering the house, investigating the empty rooms, and gathering before the dark stairway leading to the upper floor was accomplished expeditiously. The four soldiers assuredly secured the exterior and then, per the colonel’s instructions, remained posted outside the house. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that they would provide safeguarding in a far superior manner than Orman’s dismal protectors, all three of whom had been efficiently incapacitated.

The murmur of voices and movement could be detected from above as they cautiously ascended the long staircase leading to the upper floor, hugging the shadows against the wall. Richard was in the front of the line with Darcy on the next lower step and six soldiers bringing up the rear. Halfway up the steps the voices grew clearer, with words distinguishable and distinct.

“How badly do you want her now? Hmmm? Ready to take her this instant?”

At Orman’s repellent words, uttered with a sickly humorous tone, Darcy stiffened and took an involuntary step forward. It was only Richard’s steely grip on his right upper arm, fingertips digging in so harshly that he would note bruises on the morrow, along with a chary but determined push into the wall, which kept the enraged man from leaping forward into the room.

“Wait,” Richard hissed. “We must be certain where they are. Trust me.”

Darcy nodded, grimly setting his jaw and regaining mastery over his emotions. Fresh rage consumed him, but Richard’s stern warning enabled him to seek the placid restraint he needed for his family’s benefit.

The lurid exchange that followed was horrible for both Richard and Darcy to hear, but it furnished the required information. Locations could be determined and a vague grasp of layout ascertained. The surge of unfathomable joy Darcy experienced upon hearing Elizabeth’s voice was immeasurable. The relief when he realized that, although ill, both she and Alexander were alive and not violated drove out the fear. All that remained was pure, cold, rational anger and the hunger to exact justice.

Tiptoeing with incredible caution, they ascended until on the landing. With the briefest of nods and hand motions, three of the soldiers passed by and headed left to the door down the hall behind which they now knew Alexander was hidden. The remaining three soldiers spread out behind Richard and Darcy as they approached the parlor, careful to stay out of the light bathing the carpeted hall from the half-opened door.

The eight men carried a virtual arsenal of weapons. The military veterans held razor-sharp shortswords or daggers in their left hands, with two pistols holstered on their hips. The occasional gleam reflecting off steel and sundry materials fashioned into hard hafts proved the existence of additional weapons stashed upon their bodies. In fact, the man closest to Darcy, a wiry, short gentleman who nonetheless struck an imposing stance of coiled energy and cunning, had a dagger grip of what appeared to be bone carved with images of skulls, protruding from the top of his scuffed Hessian boots.

Darcy only had two weapons, not counting his hands. He held the comforting cold metal of a flintlock pistol in his right hand and a powder flask and balls in an accessible pocket if time allowed a swift reload. At his left hip he had strapped his sword, a colichemarde once belonging to his father. It was a favorite choice when he fenced, Darcy preferring something heavier that was efficient for thrusting, parrying, and cutting, and thus he was proficient with the blade.

The men stationed in the shadowy spaces near the bedroom door were tense, weapons at the ready, and eyes on the colonel, waiting for the final signal to spring into action. It was difficult for Darcy to entrust Alexander’s rescue and safety to strangers, but he was confident of their expertise. And, frankly, he did not have much choice. Seconds before Richard delivered the “Now!” sign, Colonel Artois met Darcy’s eyes. He solemnly saluted and inclined his head toward the closed door. It was subtle, but Darcy understood the silent communication. He nodded in return, feeling tremendous relief by the man’s acknowledgement.

Richard made a sharp, slashing motion with the shortsword he held in his right hand. Instantly, the leader of the rescue team for Alexander, that being Roland Artois, opened the door with a massive shove, barreling through the gap and slamming the heavy wooden door into the wall with a resounding crack. The other two men were on his heels, rushing through with a ferocious shout.

The violent entry and ruckus was intentional, of course, and it worked as the colonel planned. A shrill scream erupted from the panicked young woman, who Darcy would later learn was the only person attending to his son, adding to the clamor invading the quiet.

After a split-second of startled silence from within the parlor, precipitous movement and cursing issued forth. The response was as Richard anticipated and their slight delay in action was purposeful. No signal was necessary as the waiting deliverers noiselessly sprinted into the room.

Darcy’s eyes swung immediately to where he assumed his wife and Wickham were, the rapid scan of the room revealing it to be much as he had imagined.

A blazing fireplace was precisely in the middle of the outer wall with two large, partially draped windows flanking. A large, plush wingback of deep brown leather sat to the left of the hearth. Upon it rested the scarred and maimed Marquis of Orman. His sturdy, broad-pointed walking cane, an elaborate instrument of glossy cherry wood with a silver and brass handle shaped like a hissing snake, leaned against the chair’s arm by his knee. Orman, as hoped, was leaning forward and turned to his right toward the chamber beyond, his face a study in confusion.

There were two sofas in the room, as well as two additional chairs. The one with Lizzy and Wickham was nearest to the door, the end where Wickham sat pointing toward Darcy.

Richard headed directly toward Orman, crossing the short distance before the stunned man had any clue that people had entered his supposed impenetrable sanctuary. Wickham instinctively bolted upward, his impetuous ascent not considering that Elizabeth was partly lying on his lap. As Darcy assessed the scene, his fury escalated as he helplessly watched his precious wife go tumbling to the floor in a heap.

He yelled a snarling challenge as he lunged forward.

Wickham swung about. The shocked expression on his face instantaneously disappeared when he saw Darcy. It was replaced with a look of such vicious hatred that, if Darcy had not been filled with his own overwhelming loathing and wrath, it might have given him pause. Yet, despite his steely resolve and preparedness, he was astonished by how speedily Wickham retaliated.

“No!” Wickham screamed, charging aggressively to collide into Darcy with a resounding clash. The impact was intense, Wickham barreling into the bigger man with incredible force. Darcy was knocked backward a step, but otherwise countered the attack with tightening legs and a shove with his torso. Wickham was unfazed, one hand latching fiercely onto Darcy’s throat with squeezing fingers, while the other grasped and twisted the wrist that was aiming the firearm toward his chest.

Darcy wrenched his arm out of Wickham’s clutches, whipping the pistol about and delivering a strong clout to Wickham’s collarbone. He felt a surge of delight at the audible crack of contact on bone.

Wickham howled in pain and fury, but his assault did not lessen. The two men grappled together, squeezing, wrenching, and pummeling blows with increasing gusto. Energy and stamina were fed by their mutual hatred and ire, years of pent hostility seeking an outlet of a physical nature. Wickham did not have a weapon to use, but it was unlikely he would have used it any more than Darcy, both men perversely enjoying each landed punch.

They swayed and staggered across the floor, Wickham finally succeeding in slamming Darcy into the thick oak door.

The air was knocked from Darcy’s lungs, the back of his head also striking the surface hard enough for him to momentarily see stars and loosen his hold. Wickham shouted a victory, administering a hard wallop into Darcy’s midsection, and raising his leg in preparation for a crippling knee into the groin. Darcy, in spite of his pain and blurred wits, sensed what was coming and pivoted his hips away. Wickham’s knee came into crunching contact with the oak, his body sagging in Darcy’s arms.

Burying his hurt into a deep recess of his mind, Darcy rounded with a second clout of the flintlock, this one connecting with Wickham’s left temple. The injured man yelped and reeled backward, Darcy following with a balled fist landing under Wickham’s chin.

His head snapped back, hands desperately reaching for anything to correct his imbalance. He grabbed on to Darcy’s jacket lapels, the men again wrestling together as they tottered crazily into the hallway. The strange dance lasted for only a few seconds, Wickham then securing one arm around Darcy’s neck and clawing at the nape. Darcy knifed his left forearm downward with tremendous force, Wickham’s long arm bone cracking, while simultaneously bringing the pistol to bear and discharging the round into the wailing man’s abdomen.

Wickham released an inhuman squeal of agony, outrage, frustration, and disbelief. The bullet’s impact buckled his body, blood soaking through his clothing in a flood. His rapidly weakening legs bowed and his body rocked unsteadily on the top step of the staircase.

He glanced upward, the fraction of a second stretching as he met Darcy’s eyes with blazing defiance and mania apparent in his wounded gaze.

He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he meant to say would never be uttered. With the final iota of strength remaining, he threw his uninjured arm over his lifelong enemy’s shoulder, pulling with all his residual might, both of them falling over the edge of the staircase.

Wickham landed flat on his spine with a reverberating thud, Darcy’s muscular body smashing onto him forcefully. The pistol went flying into the air, Darcy releasing it in desperation and flailing his arms wildly for some sort of purchase. It came dually in the form of a handy baluster and the clutching grip of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Richard firmly hauled on Darcy’s left shoulder and side, staying his inevitable descent down the stairs.

Wickham was not so fortunate. The combined momentum of his fall and Darcy’s impact sent his body tumbling and sliding crazily all the way to the bottom. His cries echoed through the air until fatally cut off when his neck snapped on the last step.

Richard and the wiry soldier pulled Darcy to a semi-sitting position on the floor.

“About time! Where have you been?” Darcy gasped.

“You appeared to have it under control. Besides, I thought you would appreciate your wife lying comfortably on the sofa. Come. I will help you up. You look horrible, by the way, and later I shall chastise you for not shooting him in the first place, but right now I think your wife needs you.”

Darcy nodded, wincing with the pain felt from numerous parts of his body. With necessary assistance from each man, he was gingerly lifted to his feet. Richard held on to Darcy’s arm to ensure stability and handed him his handkerchief.

“Your head is bleeding. Are you sure you are all right?”

“I will be fine.” He blotted the back of his head but was already unsteadily moving toward the parlor. “Alexander?” he asked, glancing at the trailing Richard.

“He is with Artois in the bedchamber. He is still drugged but apparently undamaged.”

Darcy felt torn, but the need to touch Elizabeth was calling him. He crossed the threshold, his eyes only for his wife. But, his peripheral vision did note that the Marquis sported a number of fresh cuts and bruises, and was trammeled and gagged in a far corner with two burly guards watching him. He was thrashing maniacally, his muffled voice raving and face bleeding and red as a beet with eyes bulging scarily. He appeared near to an apoplectic seizure, foam and spittle soaking through the muzzling rag. The unfazed warriors stood nonchalantly a foot away, passing a cigar back and forth for several puffs before roughly dragging the insane man out of the room.

Darcy spared scant thought to Orman’s condition. He assigned immediate and total attention to his wife. Richard had positioned her body comfortably on the sofa, head resting on the pillow, and a blanket obtained from somewhere covering her lower body modestly. He had removed the rope bonds from around her wrists and ankles. She looked peaceful and beautiful, except for the snarls in her disheveled hair and the angry red marks on her cheeks that filled Darcy with fresh anger. Upon closer inspection he noted four circular pressure bruises the size of a man’s fingertip on one cheek, and raw burns on her dainty nostrils. He dropped to his knees, clasping her hands and brushing kisses over her face, not aware that tears were falling from his eyes.

“Elizabeth, sweet, precious Elizabeth. Wake up! Look at me, dearest. You are safe. Alexander is safe. I am here and no further harm will come to you. Please! Elizabeth, open your eyes!” His alarm grew when she showed no sign of responding. Not a moan or sigh. He touched his fingertips to her forehead, recognizing what his frantic lips had not sensed. “Richard! She is feverish! Why?” He turned questioning, anxious eyes to his hovering cousin. “Does vitriol do this?”

Richard shook his head slowly. His face was naked with concern as he too touched gentle fingertips to Lizzy’s forehead. “I do not know, Darcy. I have no experience with the drug.”

Darcy withdrew, blinking the moisture from his eyes to commence a detailed examination of his wife. First off he noted the rope burns to her wrists, fingering them lovingly, and sending a silent thankful prayer heavenward that her delicate skin was only mildly abraded and not bleeding. He kissed each wrist before moving his tender touch to the ivory, unmarked flesh of her neck. If he had seen evidence of Wickham applying filthy hands to his wife’s throat, he may have returned to the body lying twisted at the bottom of the stairs for a few well-deserved kicks!

He rested his palm over her heart, relieved to feel the steady beat. But, it was then that he became aware of the areas of patchy wetness and dried milk staining over the front of her apron covered gown. Additionally, and far more alarming, was the hard lumpiness of her breasts. He gasped, reaching to discreetly peel the fabric away from her chest. Richard, he noted in his periphery, turned away, leaving Darcy in relative privacy to examine his wife. He did not completely expose her, would not have in any case, but it was not necessary. The erythema spread in a fist-sized blemish over the top of her left breast. Carefully palpating, with tears stinging his eyes and fury freshly rising, Darcy felt the warmth and swelling of the starkly demarcated patch, the engorged milk pockets like little rocks.

“Richard, Elizabeth needs a physician.”

“Very well. I shall send Helt to Oxshott…”

“No. Search for a carriage. Surely there must be one since Orman could not possibly sit a horse. We must return to London immediately.”

“But…”

“No argument. No one will touch my wife but my uncle.” He looked up at the anxious face of his cousin. “Hurry, please. The nicest carriage, if we have a choice, with the fastest horses. Cushions and blankets. She cannot be jostled more than necessary. Quickly!”

Richard moved to administer orders that were carried out hastily. Darcy turned back to Elizabeth, covering her completely before leaning to kiss her feverish lips.

“Do not fear, my love. All will be well. I love you and will not leave you.”

“Mr. Darcy?”

“Papa!”

Darcy jerked at the overlapping voices, his eyes alighting on Alexander, who practically catapulted out of Artois’s arms into the open embrace of his father. Alexander buried his tiny face into his father’s neck, tears falling in waves, and arms and hands gripping adamantly as his little body shook. Darcy savored the sensations, his own body shaking with contained sobs as he clutched the vibrant life to his chest.

Cascades of murmured endearments and promises of safety fell from his lips as he planted dozens of kisses. He stroked over the soft back of his son. His firm hands and sturdy body were ready reminders to Alexander of his father’s strength and devotion. Gradually the weeping and tremors lessened, Alexander finally withdrawing to gaze into his father’s beloved face.

“I knew you come! I miss you and Mama, but I brave boy. I bite bad man, Papa! He got mad, but I not care. Kick him too. Bad, bad man! Bad man Mama not like. I told him you come and get me and he be sorry. Made me smell sweet water that made me sleepy and sick. Sorry, Papa, I try to be brave but I got sick. Nice girl washed my face. I sleepy a lot and my stomach hurt and nose hurt and…”

He spoke in a rush, gasping residual sobs interrupting the rambling dialogue. Darcy smiled through the commentary and brushed his hands and fingers over his son’s body. But the toddler seemed fair enough, all things considered. He kept babbling, the innocence of youth to an extent already beginning to see the whole incident as a great adventure, especially now that his father was holding him safe and secure. He finally glanced away from Darcy’s face and noticed Lizzy lying on the couch.

“Mama! Mama come with you, Papa? She asleep?”

“Yes, Son. She is asleep. We must be quiet and let her sleep for now, understand?”

The boy nodded, his eyes serious as he lifted one finger to his lips and made a shushing sound.

“Indeed,” Darcy lifted his finger as well, whispering. “Very quiet. We will be leaving soon to return to Darcy House where Uncle George and Aunt Georgiana are waiting for you.”

“Nanny and Michael too?”

“Yes, of course. They miss you very much. Nanny will want to hear all about your exciting adventure and how brave you were.”

Alexander brightened, smiling and nodding. “Can I give Mama kiss?”

“Certainly! We can both kiss her, how about that? But gently.”

Darcy leaned, Alexander firm in his grip, both placing soft kisses over Lizzy’s cheeks. She stirred and released a faint sigh.

“Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes! Yes, my dearest! It is I, and Alex…”

“Fitzwilliam will kill you, Mr. Wickham. You know he will. Hunt you down like the animal you are. It is only a matter of time. Only time, time, time.” She shuddered, arching her neck as her eyelids fluttered and opened. But the deep brown that Darcy so adored was glossy, the pupils largely dilated and not focusing. “So thirsty. Please, Mr. Wickham, water please. I need…”

She sighed, her voice dropping lower and her eyelids beginning to slide shut, before suddenly opening widely and looking directly at Darcy. “William. Where is Alexander?”

“Here, Mama!”

“We are here, Elizabeth. Both of us, see?” He was clutching her hand so tightly he knew it must be causing her pain, but she seemed impervious. Then, to his momentary joy, she did fix her gaze on Alexander and smiled faintly.

“I knew you would come. Your father always takes care of us, does he not, sweetie? Always, always.” Her eyes slid to Darcy, the smile waning as the glassiness overtook her eyes once again. “I love you, Fitzwilliam.” She groaned, her eyes closing in obvious pain as she grimaced. Her body shivered and shifted in discomfort, one hand feebly rising to lie on her affected breast. “I hurt, Mr. Wickham! Please, I need my baby! Please, it hurts so. Please, please.”

Tears were falling uncontrollably from Darcy’s eyes. Alexander was sucking his thumb, eyes large with confusion and fear as he looked from one parent to another. Lizzy’s voice trailed off into silence, once again succumbing to the fever and trauma of the past hours.

“Papa,” Alexander spoke in a shaky voice, “Mama be all right?”

Darcy swallowed, closing his eyes for a silent prayer as he pulled his son closer to his body for a tight squeeze. “Of course, my lamb. Your mother will be just fine. As soon as we get home, Uncle George will make her better and she can rest.” He kissed the soft forehead, maintaining a firm embrace, as his voice fell for a whispered supplication. “Please, God, let her be all right. Please.”