by Violet King
Mr. Darcy’s Cipher
Spies and Prejudice Book 1
Violet King
About This Book
A secret letter brings them together. Will an assassin tear them apart?
For Miss Elizabeth Bennet, love is the cipher she cannot crack.
Outside the Longbourn house, Elizabeth Bennet is an ordinary country miss. But in secret, she and her father crack codes to foil Napoleon’s schemes against England. More than anything, Elizabeth wants to be loved for herself, but how can she when she lives a double life?
For Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, a coded letter hides the key to his heart.
After Fitzwilliam Darcy’s brother is killed in France, a coded letter carries his final words and a dangerous secret. Mr. Darcy brings the letter to the Bennets for answers. But soon the code is the least of Mr. Darcy’s conundrums as he finds himself falling for Elizabeth Bennet. Caught between an assassin and an old enemy, can Mr. Darcy accept his feelings and win Miss Elizabeth’s heart before it is too late?
Find out in Mr. Darcy’s Cipher, Book 1 of the Spies and Prejudice series. Mr. Darcy’s Cipher is a Pride and Prejudice variation novel of 65,000 words with heaps of romance, humor, suspense, code-cracking, and two sometimes bullheaded but lovable leads who struggle to save a nation while falling in love.
If you love Pride and Prejudice variations with a twist of espionage, start reading Mr. Darcy’s Cipher now!
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
First, I give thanks to God and my mom for supporting me even on my grumpiest writing days. I am also grateful to my editor Jersey Devil Editing who fixed all of the problems in the manuscript I couldn’t see. I wrote this dedication after the edit was done, so if you see errors here, they are mine.
Next, a HUGE THANK YOU to author Elizabeth Ann West who encouraged me to try my hand at writing a novel in the world of Pride and Prejudice. And so much love and gratitude to the whole writing productivity gang, including Pat, Mr. Sparkle, Bella, Susannah, Dana and Echo who kept me getting words on the page at least five days a week!
I am also indebted to the wonderful readers and reviewers on FFnet , including but not limited to Gaskellian, MerytonMiss, EightYearsandaHalf, Twilight Reader Too, Liysyl, Wermeth, Lynned13, EnglishLitLover, Ashiana and countless others who encouraged me and let me know when my Regency (and overall story) went awry. You have my heartfelt gratitude.
And a massive thank you to Sonya, Steph, Kenny B, Gretchen, and the other fine folks at Rueban’s Rockin’ Roof Deck Weekly Salon this past summer who listened to me read out the first five chapters of this book said they wanted more. You rock!
Lastly, for everyone who may not be mentioned by name in this dedication, that is my fault. Know I hold you in my heart.
1
It was a truth universally acknowledged within the Longbourn House that of Mr. Bennet’s five daughters, Lizzie was the only one who had inherited her father’s love of puzzles.
At first, humoring Elizabeth was a matter of pride. One autumn afternoon when Elizabeth was nine years of age, she slipped beside him on the chaise and pointed at a large stack of papers from a missive he had received that morning from London.
“What an odd script!” Elizabeth exclaimed at the seemingly nonsensical symbols. “Is it Greek?”
“It is a cipher.” Mr. Bennet leaned closer to his daughter, and the ghost of a smile teased his lips. “A secret.”
“What kind of secret?”
“To discover that, one must unwind the code.”
Lizzie nodded, her dark eyes shining. “Show me!”
Mr. Bennet put in front of her a sheet of paper and explained to her how to go about decoding a simple Caesar cipher. He expected Lizzie to grow weary of the exercise, as her older sister Jane had done a year before, but Elizabeth was tenacious. Before half an hour had passed, she handed back the code, deciphered in small, precise script.
And so father and daughter began a lifelong pattern of instruction. And as Mr. Bennet’s eyesight failed him, it was Lizzie who read the missives sent from the prime minister’s office to foil Bonaparte’s designs on conquering England.
Had Elizabeth been born a man, Mr. Bennet might have informed others of her skills, but codebreaking wasn’t an appropriate vocation for a young lady. Worse, he had grown dependent on her abilities as his eyesight rendered the world around him a cipher that became increasingly difficult to navigate. So he kept Lizzie’s abilities, and his own deficiencies, from being discovered outside the walls of his own home.
The relationship between father and daughter at points quite irritated Mrs. Bennet, who had no interest in puzzles nor the faculties for solving them. But she humored her husband while at the same time entreating her daughter to stay silent with potential suitors about her oddities. And Lizzie, being a good-natured, lighthearted, and dutiful young woman of twenty years, yielded to her mother in this, not wanting her own eccentricities to stand in the way of her finding a loving match.
Father and daughter sat, head bowed over what appeared to be a Caesar cipher when Mrs. Bennet noisily entered her husband’s study.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said the lady to him. She bustled across the room to the window and flung it open. “How long have the pair of you been cooped up in this room without even the slightest hint of a breeze to liven the air?” The papers on Mr. Bennet’s desk fluttered beneath twin paperweights as a damp autumn breeze blew over the room.
Mr. Bennet leaned back in his chair. The clock said half three, too early for luncheon or tea. His wife rarely ventured into his domain at this point of the day. “It is half three,” returned Mr. Bennet. “What is the matter?”
Mrs. Bennet glanced over at Elizabeth, who despite her best efforts had speckles of black ink on her fingers and speckling the dull walnut colored fabric of her linen mitts, as, lips moving, she tapped at a paper scrawled all over in code with the back of her pen.
“Lizzie! Your hands! My heavens, you must wash these immediately and change into something more suitable!”
Elizabeth looked up. “Mother?”
“Suitable for what?” Mr. Bennet asked. “She hasn’t any balls or visits planned at this time of the day, has she?”
“No! It is even better.” Mrs. Bennet brought her hands up to her chest with a delighted intake of breath. “Your guest, a young, handsome and unmarried gentleman by the name of Mr. Darcy is here in our parlor! Why did you not inform me he was calling? He is in every manner proper, from his waistcoat to his Hessians. I would have had the cook prepare a special lunch so he might feel more welcome and have a more pleasant opportunity to meet and converse with our daughters.”
“Mr. Darcy...” Mr. Bennet mused. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Yes. I had quite forgotten the date. Mr. Darcy is not here for lunch. His deceased brother sent a letter, presumably
in code, and he wished it deciphered. As the younger Mr. Darcy was stationed in France, I felt it imperative to assess the cipher myself to make certain it had nothing to do with our affairs abroad. Now, why have you abandoned the elder Mr. Darcy in our parlor?”
“For Lizzie’s sake!” Mrs. Bennet responded. “Elizabeth, my nerves cannot bear the thought of your bluestocking tendencies being revealed to such esteemed company. You may never marry! I fear I might faint. Mr. Bennet, how is it you allowed your daughter to come to such a state? Have you no eyes?”
“I fear I still am in possession of both, however poorly they serve me.”
“Well, my dear,” Mrs. Bennet said, skimming over the distasteful fact of her husband’s failing eyesight as it, to some extent, negated his periodic compliments of her remaining beauty. “It would behoove you both for Lizzie to scrub her hands at the very least. We may not have time to change her into a more flattering dress, but—”
“Lizzie, stay put,” Mr. Bennet said. “My dear,” he continued. “This gentleman is here to converse with me?”
“His manners are exquisite, and with such a serious air, and elder Mr. Darcy you say? Perhaps eldest,” Mrs. Bennet added hopefully. “He is certainly of fine breeding. I had thought he might be but a second or third son commissioned with the militia or army though he gave no rank and he does not wear regimentals—”
“Elder? Eldest? It does not answer the question of why he remains idling in our parlor.”
“Lizzie must be made suitable. It is wonderful news. First Mr. Bingley taking possession of Netherfield house, and now—”
“Mr. Bingley? What has any of this to do with Mr. Bingley?”
“You do not listen at all.” Mrs. Bennet let out a weary sigh. “How painful is your disregard! We discussed Mr. Bingley a week ago. He is likely arrived at this point. Oh! What if this Mr. Darcy is a guest of Mr. Bingley?”
“Suppose—”
“And Mr. Bingley has taken possession of Netherfield Park. Such a fine thing for our girls, or it would be if you called upon him before some other man’s daughter snaps the young gentleman up! If you were to tear your attention for one moment from the war to tend to your duties at home—”
“It will do no good to our daughters to be settled if Bonaparte storms over the breadth of England and seizes from them anything which they might have gained through marriage.”
“Again with Bonaparte!” Mrs. Bennet stomped her foot. “We are all doing as we ought to support our men on the front. Have not myself and the other ladies sewn blankets and knitted warm items to send to our fighting men?
“But one must also accept that the concerns of our lives amount to more than opposing that vile man of the Continent who declares himself an emperor. I could not wish to believe you, my dear Mr. Bennet, spared no care for your daughters beyond how our Lizzie’s keen eyes assist you in your deciphering.
“This Mr. Darcy, a handsome, young gentleman who is currently lacking a wife. I have no sense yet of his assets—”
“A difficult thing to determine in a few moments of conversation, though I do not doubt you gave a valiant effort,” Mr. Bennet said with no small amount of sarcasm in his tone.
Mrs. Bennet ignored it. “This Mr. Darcy might provide an excellent match for one of our daughters. You understand this is of greater import than mere scribblings, as amusing as you both may find them. Now Lizzie, scrub your hands. Your father will be able to engage in idle conversation until you return—”
It was the wrong thing to say. Mr. Bennet’s face flushed, and his voice was low and furious as he stated, “Bonaparte may invade at any moment, and you natter on about our daughter’s hands? This gentleman, whether or not he is wed, will leave post-haste as soon as his brother’s correspondence is deciphered; and in either case, if he cannot see past a pair of ink-dappled hands, he is of no use to us.”
“No use!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “In case you have forgotten, all five of your daughters are as yet unwed. And at the moment of your death, our house and all we own is entailed to your cousin.”
“I am well aware of our difficulties, more so because you see fit to remind me of them daily.”
“Already you refuse to call upon Mr. Bingley, stating now you do not remember the conversation we had on just this subject in this room a mere week ago. Oh, my nerves! It is as though a thousand spiders are skittering over my skin, and I cannot breathe for the fear. Oh Mr. Bennet!”
Mr. Bennet was unmoved.
“I can wash them,” Elizabeth said to mollify her mother. She hated it when her parents fought, especially when she was the cause. No matter the state of her hands though, Elizabeth doubted a talent for deciphering code would offer her entry into a young gentleman’s heart. It hardly mattered. If this Mr. Darcy was here about a code, he would depart quickly enough with his questions answered.
“No, Lizzie. We have kept Mr. Darcy waiting long enough. Send him in, Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Bennet ordered. “The quicker we handle it, the quicker he can be on his way.”
“The point of this discussion is not to send an available young gentleman on his way––”
“Either send him in, or you will force me to go myself to receive him.”
“No! Do not stir yourself on my behalf. I will have him brought here. Elizabeth, if you don’t wash that ink away, at least take care to hide your fingers.” Mrs. Bennet turned abruptly to the door, her skirts flaring out with the force of her spin as she strode with well-choreographed indignation from the room.
2
Mrs. Bennet, a middle-aged blonde woman, her hair threaded silver, features touched with a remembered handsomeness and clothes clinging to youthful frivolity, guided Mr. Darcy into a small, well-cared for if not extravagant parlor area. “And Mrs. Darcy, how is she enjoying our fair town?”
For a moment, Darcy considered telling a falsehood, but even if he had been inclined towards lying, which he decidedly was not, an imaginary wife would be quickly disproven as he intended to stay an extended time in Hertfordshire. Still, it irked him to see the pointed curiosity and catlike hunger in Mrs. Bennet’s gaze as she fished to find out if he was wed. “I am not as yet married,” Mr. Darcy said after a pause.
“Oh! A regretful state for a man such as yourself!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed with ill-hidden delight. “A wife brings tranquility and joy to a home. I trust you will be allowed leave enough to enjoy the hospitality of our town. There are many young ladies about who might capture your interest...”
Like her daughter, or however many daughters occupied this house, which now through acquaintanceship with their father he might be obligated to offer his attention. “If I might speak with Mr. Bennet,” Darcy interjected. “I wrote to arrange this visit. It is business of the utmost urgency.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Bennet said. “I will let him know you have arrived.” And with that, she swept out.
It was odd and not at all pleasant to be abandoned in the parlor of a stranger. Though compared to Mrs. Bennet’s inquiries, Darcy’s own dark thoughts were an improvement. His brother Reginald’s final correspondence, much of it pages and pages of nonsense Latin, some blurred by water, weighed on his heart.
Reginald Darcy had died in France five months ago. The letter, water-stained and crushed at the corners where the envelope had been battered about for some time, was a voice whispering from the grave. Not that Darcy had seen his brother’s actual resting place. Water and time had too ravaged his body for transport, especially considering the relations between England and France.
Reggie, lighthearted and at points irreverent Reggie, had lost his life not by an enemy bullet or sword, but instead to a knife in the dark. Murdered by a cutpurse, stripped of his valuables, and left putrefying in the sewer until only his watch remained to identify him.
Why the thief hadn’t stolen that and his purse was another mystery Darcy found himself ill-equipped to solve.
Darcy took the watch from his pocket and flipped it open. Half three. What was taking Mrs.
Bennet so long?
Darcy wondered again if accompanying Bingley to guest at his new estate was a good decision. Mr. Erasmus Bennet was reputed to be one of the finest codebreakers in England, though if that were the case, it made little sense for him to hole himself up so far from London.
It hardly mattered. The code would have been something Georgiana could decipher. It shouldn’t have required a master codebreaker, and it quite annoyed Darcy that he hadn’t worked it out on his own.
Of all the times for Reggie to be obscure in his presentation.
Reggie, like Wickham, possessed an easy charm, though unlike Wickham, Reggie’s interests lay beyond gambling and tupping unsuspecting young women. Reggie had been intelligent, kind, and daring to a fault.
He had also, apparently by the multiple pages of Latin in the letter, been eager to convince Georgiana he found solace in religion on the Continent. Or converted to Catholicism, heaven forbid! Knowing his younger brother, Darcy doubted a sudden turn towards the devout. Reggie had always been more inclined to the flesh than spirit, mischievous with an easy grin, even as a babe in swaddling clothes.
It was difficult to accept he would never see his brother smile, or frown, or throw himself with reckless abandon into the boxing ring again.
Reggie’s letter was addressed to Georgiana, but Darcy could not bear to give it to her without understanding it. First their father’s death, then Wickham’s betrayal, and now Reggie’s senseless murder. Darcy was not a man inclined towards light humor, and the crushing weight of tragedy and crisis had weighted his already serious nature.