Darcy and Diamonds

by Caitlin Marie Carrington

  “Are you not a man, then?” Her green eyes widened, and she stared up at him, far beyond propriety now. “Do you not have the same impulses and urges that the rest of your rutting sex does?”

  Darcy drew himself up to his full height. “I will leave you now and when we see each other on the morrow, I shall act as if none of this happened. You are obviously not thinking clearly. You are not yourself.”

  She laughed quietly. “Or perhaps I am more myself than ever. We don’t have to pretend now, do we? I have shown you my worst self. I have begged you to sleep with me.”

  “Caroline—”

  “Not because I desire you, Mr. Darcy. Does that shock you? I see that it does! You expect every woman to want you, or to want something from you. But what I wanted, I could get from anyone. Of course, you did seem ideal. But—” she began to laugh hysterically again. “I have found another source!”

  “Quiet,” Darcy said, confused by her nonsensical words but panicked by the wild look in her eyes. He stepped forward and placed his hands on her upper arms to steady her. She was irrational, her eyes violent, her voice too loud. “Whatever you are talking about, we don’t want anyone else to hear. I do not proclaim to understand this madness, but you are Bingley’s sister. As such, I care for you still and do not want the maids and footmen to gossip.”

  She collapsed, weeping, into his arms.

  19

  Elizabeth

  “Please, do not be frightened!”

  Elizabeth took three quick steps back, before realizing that the man on the stairs had a head of unruly yellow curls and was holding his hands up, as if to show he meant no offense.

  “Mr. Gladwell!” Elizabeth cried, placing her hand over her heart. “I did not expect to find you here on the stairs!”

  In fact, Elizabeth realized with a start, he should not be on the stairs. As a last-minute guest, he’d been placed in one of the smaller rooms in the west wing. What was he doing on the main stairwell? Only family had been given bedrooms in this area of the house.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Allerton. The last thing I would wish in this world would be to cause you distress.” He descended the stairs and walked into the candle’s pale circle of light.

  He held up his own, unlit candle. “I lost my flame. But how happy I am to see you up and walking. We were all so terribly distraught over dinner, to hear of your fall. I know some blamed the horse, but I imagine it was the rain, was it not? A terrible rain to make everything muddy and slippery, I imagine.”

  Elizabeth was undeterred. “Mr. Gladwell, what are you doing here? Now?”

  He stepped closer to the lantern she held, his eyes wide and reflecting the light. “Why, Mrs. Allerton, I was looking for you.”

  “For me?” Elizabeth involuntarily took a step backwards. But his gaze was not desirous, and he did not move to touch her. “Whyever for, in the middle of the night?”

  “I wanted to protect you—I would never have bothered you, but I wasn’t sure whom to reach out to. A maid told me you were not in your rooms, and I was waiting here on the stairs to speak with you when you returned.”

  “I was in the kitchens,” Elizabeth said, trying to make sense of it all. What maid would have seen her, and why wouldn’t Mr. Gladwell have sent the maid to fetch her? “What is the emergency?”

  “You must come and see for yourself,” Mr. Gladwell said, pointing not up the stairs but down the hallway—toward the front parlor and the library. For once, he did not simper or smile to appease her. He seemed dreadfully serious.

  “Mr. Gladwell, this is beyond inappropriate. I will speak to you in the morning. Goodnight, Sir.”

  Elizabeth turned and began to walk up the stairs but Mr. Gladwell cried, “But they shall be gone by morning!”

  Elizabeth couldn’t stop herself. Blasted curiosity. She turned and looked down at the man in the shadows. “Who?”

  “Mr. Darcy—and Mrs. Doughton.”

  Elizabeth froze, hoping that the dim light concealed her shock. “I cannot see how Mr. Darcy or Mrs. Doughton have anything to do with me. Or you, for that matter.”

  Mr. Gladwell grimaced. “I truly do not wish to upset you, Mrs. Allerton. But I am not blind. Mr. Darcy is pursuing you, and what woman would not be flattered? But I know men like him. He is all gentlemanly good looks and charm, but he has a seedy underside I would endeavor to protect you from. You remind me—you remind me too much of the girl I once loved.”

  “I—I cannot begin to comprehend how all this has come about,” Elizabeth said, flustered beyond measure.

  I could not sleep and was walking by the library, when I heard Mrs. Doughton shout. At first I thought she was in distress and needed help, so I walked closer to the slightly open doorway. That is when I heard Mr. Darcy’s voice. If you do not wish to investigate for yourself, as you are a gentlewoman, I completely understand. I myself lack this finer breeding, much to my dismay. But they are still there—and they are sharing a most heated conversation. I simply wished to spare you from harm, or hope—for Mr. Darcy is not to be trusted.”

  Elizabeth had not meant to, but she found herself now on the bottom stair, having walked closer to Mr. Gladwell as he spoke. He bowed suddenly, low and serious, and when he met her eyes briefly he looked pained.

  Truly upset.

  “I will leave you now. Of course, it is up to you—I simply don’t want a good gentlewoman to place her hopes, or her heart, in an untrustworthy man’s hands.”

  And with that, Mr. Gladwell bowed once more and disappeared into the shadows.

  “Goodness,” Elizabeth whispered to herself. She should walk directly back upstairs to her bedroom—but what a speech! A strangely impassioned one. Mr. Gladwell’s genial persona had disappeared and the way he had stared at her had been almost disturbing.

  Surely, he was distraught over a lost love—perhaps she was still alive, Elizabeth realized for the first time. Perhaps Mr. Gladwell had not lost her to death, but to another man?

  A man like…Mr. Darcy.

  But he does not truly know Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth thought.

  Some inky, shadowy part of herself whispered back: Do you?

  And so Elizabeth blew out her candle and walked slowly and silently toward the library…and Caroline and Mr. Darcy.

  It did not take her long to reach them. To Elizabeth’s surprise, the doorway was slightly open, a slanted rectangle of yellow light falling from the library into the darkened hall. She slowed her footsteps and her breathing, placing her left hand against the wall to steady herself.

  Had Mr. Gladwell been telling the truth?

  She took one step, then another, thankful for her soft, silent slippers. And then she was but a few paces from the slightly open door and she could hear two people talking. A man and a woman.

  Her stomach dropped. It was Mr. Darcy and Caroline. She heard Caroline’s laughter, and then the low, thunderous rumble of Mr. Darcy’s words, though she could not make them out.

  She moved a pace closer then froze, listening intently in the silent night.

  “I care for you,” Mr. Darcy said. Elizabeth could not help the gasp that escaped from her lips. She placed her hand over her open mouth, and realized her fingers were shaking.

  “—do not want the maids and footmen to gossip.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. She would not do this. She would not skulk in the dark. But she could not help but take one more step—very well, two. And then she could just peek in through the slightly open doorway. There was Caroline, in Mr. Darcy’s arms.

  Weeping.

  Elizabeth turned, whirled, and began to walk away from them. But no—this was too slow. She had to get away. Fast. Faster. She began to run, heedless through the black halls. She flew up the stairs, her heart beating—or breaking.

  Only when she was safely back in her chambers did she allow hot tears to fall.

  How could he? All day, how could he have looked at with her those blasted, burning blue eyes? How could he have made her think—made he
r hope—for, for something? When this entire time, he and Caroline…

  Elizabeth buried her face in her pillows so that her sobs would not wake anyone. But she only allowed herself five minutes, perhaps ten, to cry. Then she sat up, wiped her wet cheeks, and stared out at the low-hanging moon.

  She had been right to fear marriage—to fear being controlled. If not by a domineering husband, then by her weak, foolish heart. Knowing sleep was impossible, she stood and lit a candle and began to gather her things. She would have the maids finalize her packing in the morning, and leave this place—and Mr. Darcy.

  She never wanted to see him again.

  Thank goodness for Mr. Gladwell—and for Caroline’s honesty. If not for them, Elizabeth feared she would have made the most horrible mistake: giving her heart and soul to Mr. Darcy.

  20

  Darcy

  “Darcy, are you awake, man?” Bingley’s frantic voice was accompanied by a great banging on the chamber’s door.

  Darcy’s valet was in the act of shaving his neck. At the sudden pounding on the door, they both froze and met each other’s eyes before Dawson quickly removed the blade from his master’s throat. Darcy stood, wiping his face down with a towel.

  Dawson opened the door and Bingley came barreling inside, his cravat only half-tied and his face unshaven. “Apologies,” Bingley said, beginning to pace.

  “What is it?” Darcy said. For a moment, he worried Caroline had done something foolish. After her hateful display in the library late last night, she had suddenly burst into tears, thrown herself in his arms, and then a few minutes later run from the room. “Is Caroline well?”

  “Caro?” Bingley stared at him blankly, before shaking his head. “You know she never wakes early if she can help it.”

  Darcy laughed. “Nor do you. It’s barely eight. Don’t tell me—what has happened?” His smile fell and he began to truly fear, for Bingley looked as if disaster had struck.

  “It’s over,” his old friend said, shoulders hunched. “I didn’t want to burden you with this Darcy, you’ve helped me so many times over the years, but I made some poor investments in the past two years. It’s—it’s bad.”

  “Charles.” Darcy motioned for him to take a seat but Bingley waved him off.

  “No, no, I can’t stay. But I met Mr. Potter and he was keen to invest. My factory’s been working on a new part for the rails. Mr. Potter and I had discussed well, nothing sort of revolutionizing the industry, really!”

  Darcy smiled faintly. His friend was ever the optimist but he still didn’t know what this morning’s emergency was. “That’s wonderful. But is that why you’ve come to my rooms at this hour?”

  “No,” Bingley said miserably. “But that’s the reason we invited the Potters. The house party was for Mary, of course, but I needed to impress Mr. Potter. Make him think I’m a man he can count on, you see? And then everything’s gone wrong for his wife. She’s a mess—and now, now it’s all over.”

  “What has happened?” Darcy demanded.

  “They just discovered her jewels are missing. Remember those rather theatrical earrings and necklace she wore the first night? I just assumed they were paste, you know? Who would wear a fortune to a house party?”

  “But they were real?” Darcy said grimly.

  “Quite,” Bingley said, shaking his head. “And now they’re gone. Missing. To say Mrs. Potter is agitated is—she’s lost her bloody mind, Darcy! She’s forced us to organize the staff, wants us to search rooms. I haven’t a clue what to do!”

  Darcy turned but didn’t even need to say a word to Dawson. The valet held up a jacket and dressed Darcy quickly, tying a serviceable cravat knot in three seconds.

  “I just thought, what with how you manage your vast estate, you could advise—oh, you’re dressed already,” Bingley said.

  “Come with me,” Darcy said tersely. “There’s no need to panic. We shall find this diamond thief, and salvage your relationship with the Potters.”

  But when Darcy and Bingley arrived in the kitchens, the situation was far worse than Darcy had expected. At least twenty maids, footmen and kitchen staff were lined up, their faces ranging from distressed to mutinous. Mrs. Potter was weeping loudly in the corner, stopping only to turn and shout directions at her husband and interrogations at the staff. Darcy distinctly heard her mention sending someone to Australia.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Bingley, there you are!” cried Mr. Potter. “No one claims to know anything!”

  Darcy recognized the butler, Mr. Roush, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Nicholls. They were standing together, glaring at Mrs. Potter. Before Charles could answer, Jane Bingley came rushing into the kitchen, her young daughter on her hip—and her sister trailing after her.

  Darcy froze for one moment, as he met Elizabeth’s eyes. He smiled kindly.

  She stared coolly at him, then turned away.

  Darcy frowned. What was this all about? Hadn’t they reached—if not an understanding yesterday—then at least some sort of friendship?

  Bingley, Jane and Mr. Potter began conversing. Darcy knew he should pay attention, but he could not help himself. He approached Elizabeth and bowed. “Mrs. Allerton, I did not wish to disturb you yesterday—”

  “Yes, I am sure you were busy,” she said curtly.

  Darcy inhaled and took a step back. “I wanted to ensure you were well-rested and recuperated, after your fall. Mr. Abernathy assured me you will be well.”

  “I should thank you for sending for Mr. Abernathy,” she said coldly. She glanced at him once—was that pain in her eyes? Anger?

  Both?

  “It was nothing,” he said quietly. Before he could address her again, however, Bingley called his name.

  “Darcy, what say you?”

  Darcy turned to see that Mrs. Potter was now ordering the staff to line up in two rows, women on one side of the kitchen, men on the other.

  “We must interrogate them all!” she cried. She turned to her husband, whispering so loudly Darcy imagined the horses in the stables would be perking up their ears. “And don’t treat the ladies any more gently than the men. Someone here is a thief and a blackguard!”

  “How do you know the thief is one of the help?”

  Everyone turned and stared at Elizabeth, who now stood in a faint ray of sunshine near the windows. She had her arm around an older woman, who in turn was holding the hand of a young blond girl. The girl was crying softly.

  “Because,” Mrs. Potter said. “Be-because! Surely you are not suggesting one of your brother’s guests is the culprit?”

  Darcy saw Elizabeth falter for one moment, under the weight of so many stares. Then she raised her chin just slightly. “That is exactly what I am suggesting. Everyone Charles and Jane have hired is from Meryton. Why, Mrs. Greyson here has known Jane and me since we were babes in arms. These people are our friends, our neighbors.” Elizabeth looked from one face to another, imploringly—though she studiously avoided looking at Darcy. “I just can’t see them betraying Charles and Jane. Not like this.”

  “Sweet Mrs. Allerton, I am sure at your home, you know your maids—but you have no experience running a household of this size,” Mrs. Potter hissed. “Mr. Darcy, what say you? Should we gather the servants in the kitchens, or outside near the kitchen garden? And where do you keep your whips, Mr. Bingley?”

  “Neither,” Mr. Darcy said loudly. “I agree with Mrs. Allerton.”

  Elizabeth stared at him, shock sketched across her pretty face.

  “You do?” Mrs. Potter said, aghast.

  “You think it was one of the guests?” said Mr. Potter, frowning.

  “I can’t say who the thief is, or if there is more than one,” Mr. Darcy said, beginning to pace. He ran his hand through his hair as he walked. “But I see the logic in Mrs. Allerton's impassioned plea: I can tell that many of your servants consider this house their home, and the people here their family. This does not mean that one is not a thief, but we cannot imm
ediately conclude that it is only one of the lower classes that might do such a deed.”

  “Right!” Charles cried. “Exactly…er, so what do we do now?”

  Mr. Darcy stopped pacing and faced the group. “I would speak first to your butler and housekeeper and ask their opinions. They might have their own suspicions, but I would trust Mr. Roush and Mrs. Nicholls to manage their people. And as for the guests, Charles and I will interrogate everyone.”

  “Will that not cause panic?” Jane said. “I don’t want to spoil the house party or ruin Mary’s time here. But I can’t in good conscience say nothing, not if there is a thief prowling about. What if they ransack someone else’s room?”

  “Was the room ransacked?” Mr. Darcy said.

  “No,” Jane said. “It had just been cleaned by the maids and everything else was in order.”

  “Wait,” Elizabeth cried. It was as if she had to force herself to meet his eyes. “It could be a coincidence—but Mrs. Graham confided in me that she was missing a treasured necklace. She thought she had misplaced it, but—”

  “Perhaps she was the first victim,” Mr. Darcy said, completing Lizzy’s sentence.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said slowly.

  “I feel we must end the party a day early,” Jane said sadly. “I could not bear the weight on my conscience if anyone else's valuables were stolen.”

  Bingley began conferring with Mr. Roush and Mrs. Nicholls. Mrs. Potter glared at everyone then swept from the room, trailed by her husband. Darcy ventured toward Elizabeth, feeling as if he were stalking a wild deer.

  Or perhaps—as she turned to glare at him—a mythical dragon.

  One wrong word and she might flee—or burn him to ash.

  “Mrs. Allerton, I would like to speak with Mrs. Graham and learn more about her missing necklace,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

  Elizabeth paused, looking for her sister. Darcy watched Elizabeth study Jane, whose face was distraught and whose eyes were filling with tears.