Darcy's Quest

by Marianne Lewis

  Chapter Eleven

  Elizabeth lay in Darcy's arms, content to rest with her ear on his chest, listening to the thud of his heart. One of his hands curled in her hair, the other about her waist. That she could find such sheer pleasure in his touch awed her. She recalled seeing his bedchamber at Netherfield Park, and the alarm that had skittered through her at the thought of being in just such a position as this with him. But now, amazingly enough, she found it a warm and wonderful haven, especially with the pouring rain battering on the roof and against the window panes.

  Lovemaking, she mused, was more than merely pleasurable...it was quite wonderful, actually, if she were truthful. Darcy was so sensitive, so gentle, but so passionate. The memory of his tenderness made her stomach constrict in a pleasant fashion. She did, however, know some guilt in that she had truly betrayed her love for Wickham. It wasn't just that she'd married another man, and did her duty by him, but that she liked it.

  Her thoughts rarely turned to Wickham now, and that unsettled her. How could she love one man so much and forget him so quickly in the arms of another? Could it be that she didn't truly love Wickham? The thought was too vexing, so she shut her eyes and concentrated on the regular rhythm of Darcy's heartbeat.

  A scratching at the door interrupted her sleepy trance. Darcy woke with a slight jerk, and gently eased away from her. Sad to have her warmth and pillow go, she curled into a tired ball and pretended to be asleep. He seized his robe and padded to the door.

  Bexley's low mumble met her ears, but she couldn't understand what he said. Darcy grunted, shut the door and returned to the bed. She waited, hoping he'd crawl back in, but he didn't; instead he whispered, "Are you asleep, Elizabeth?"

  Her fatigue dissipated in an instant. She was sure he was up to something, and tonight would be her night to discover what it was. She decided not to answer, lying as still as possible, breathing deeply and slowly. She must have satisfied him, because without another sound, he turned and slipped silently out the door.

  The door latch clicked shut. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and crossed to the wardrobe to find a quilted robe. The task was a trifle difficult in the dark, but within a minute, she wrapped the thick folds around her and shoved her feet into her slippers.

  Peering out the door, she tiptoed down the hall, and slipped into Lydia's room. Padding to the bed, she shook her sister. "Lydia!" she whispered. "Wake up!"

  "Hmm?" Lydia mumbled sleepily. She sat up, coming alert. "Lizzy, what is it?"

  "Darcy sneaked out of the room tonight." She lifted Lydia's robe off the end of the bed and tossed it to her. "Hurry, put this on! Tonight's our chance to find out what he's up to!"

  "Lizzy, what if he catches us spying on him? Won't he be angry?" Lydia asked, thrusting her arms into the robe and reaching for her slippers.

  "He won't catch us. And if he does, well, I'm not afraid. He has no right to keep his nefarious goings-on from me. Bexley's in on this. It is he who aroused Darcy from his bed."

  "Ooh, this grows more sinister by the moment. Your husband pays his servants to remain silent of his evil deeds. It must be something tremendous Lizzy," Lydia continued, resuming a serious tone, "if he would take them into his confidence. Perhaps it would be best if we didn't interfere."

  "Nonsense! If he can take a servant into his confidence, then why not his wife? I shan't tolerate such shabby treatment, Lydia, I vow I shall not."

  "You're right. I declare I'm beginning to dislike men more and more. They really are the most perfidious creatures. Unless, of course that's only true of the ones you attract."

  "Hush, Lydia," Elizabeth threatened in a whisper. Lydia giggled. They slipped out her door and moved swiftly down the hall on silent feet.

  "Where are we going?" Lydia asked after several moments. Elizabeth halted. "I don't know. Let's look for lights inside the house, and should we find none, we'll try the cave."

  "Face the spiesin their den?" Lydia gave a delicate shudder.

  Elizabeth smiled and poked her sister in the ribs. Putting a finger to her lips, she slipped her arm through Lydia's. They tiptoed down the stairs.

  The house was perfectly still. No light burned in the library, none in any of the rooms on the upper level. They scuttled down the hall, but Lydia's grip on her arm made Elizabeth halt suddenly. She followed the direction in which Lydia pointed, and saw a light coming from the scullery. Nodding, she held faster to her sister's arm, and they started off again. After descending the stairs in silence, they arranged themselves in a strategic position by the door, harking to the conversation within.

  "You've found him, then,” Darcy said, excitement in his voice. "And he's alive?"

  "Yes, but just barely, I understand," came a voice Elizabeth recognized but couldn't immediately identify. It was tired and scratchy, and an underlying hint of weakness inflected its tone.

  "Good," Darcy replied. "And the list?"

  "I couldn't obtain it. I wasn't able to get that close. The washerwoman swore she hadn't seen any man, be he alive or dead. But I knew she had—I was sure of it—so I gave her the coin, asking if she did see him to give it to him, saying that help was on its way. I told her she'd be greatly rewarded for her efforts. She came back the next day, informing me he wasn't strong enough to travel alone, but she didn't offer the list. I judged that Colonel Fitzwilliam would know best whether to trust her with it—if he has it, that is."

  Elizabeth exchanged a puzzled glance with Lydia, still unable to place the voice. She peered round the corner of the door. Her heart stopped. Could it be? Could that man, that dirty, unshaven, dark-haired, wet and bloody man, be her dashing George Wickham? A gasp escaped her lips. Wickham looked up, saw her and grimaced, sending a warning glance towards Darcy.

  Darcy whirled on his heel, muttering something beneath his breath. "Elizabeth!" His tone held distinct dismay. "What the devil are you doing here?"

  She straightened into a more dignified stance, blushing now at being caught spying in so unladylike a manner. Grasping Lydia's arm, she tugged her forward with her.

  “But we are in our robes!" Lydia whispered frantically.

  "Pretend we're not," was Elizabeth's low and urgent reply.

  "Mr. Wickham," she said, dismayed to hear the slight quaver in her voice. This would never do. She mustered her courage, clamping a firm hand on her unsettled emotions.

  Holding her head higher, she swept into the room, saying in composed and commanding tones, "I might ask the same of you. If you haven't noticed, Mr. Wickham is dripping blood and water all over Cook's polished floor. You haven't yet attended to his wound, but instead are blithering on about some man, some list and some washerwoman."

  She glanced at the third party in the room. "Bexley, fetch me some hot water and bandages. And I daresay we shall have a guest for at least a couple of nights, so do prepare him a room."

  Wickham glanced from Darcy to her, and back to Darcy. Fatigue and pained mockery lurked in his eyes. Elizabeth looked at Darcy, who spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.

  "Do as my lady bids, Bexley," he said, releasing the butler from his paralysis and sending him into motion. "I daresay Wickham would be gratified to rest in a real bed."

  The only response Wickham gave was a lopsided grin.

  "You might also ready a bath, Bexley, and some fresh clothes. I daresay a razor wouldn't go amiss, either."

  "Very good, Mrs. Darcy," Bexley said.

  "No razor, Bexley," interjected Darcy. "But a bath is a must."

  Elizabeth cast her husband a curious glance, intrigued as to why he'd want Wickham to save his beard.

  Bexley glanced from Darcy to Elizabeth. "Very good." He bustled from the room.

  A tense, strained silence fell. Darcy and Wickham exchanged a glance which indicated their mutual conclusion. Elizabeth watched them, wondering what she ought to do next.

  Lydia swept forward, breaking the heavy stillness. She moved towards the pot on the hearth, saying, "Well, one thing's certain
, we can't allow Wickham to bleed to death. I daresay that would set tongues to wagging, and we would be in a pretty mess, explaining it was his—and Darcy's—spying activities which landed him in his predicament."

  "Indeed," said Elizabeth, moving towards the larder and bringing forth cheese and a cured ham. Her brain whirled. She suspected Darcy and Wickham would try to wheedle out of making confessions—but she wasn't going to let them, not now that she'd progressed this far. She eyed Darcy.

  "Mr. Darcy, I rather think if you can't find your tongue, you might make yourself useful and find a bottle of wine. From the look of him, I would guess your visitor hasn't had a full meal in some days. You might utilize your time in the cellar to concoct a suitable tale for Lydia and me. I suggest you make it a good one, for I doubt we'll believe you otherwise."

  Darcy and Wickham groaned in unison, exchanging another glance and a grimace. Darcy lifted a candle from the candelabrum on the table, and turned towards the wine cellar. He was back almost immediately, bearing a dusted bottle.

  "I see you took your time selecting your best, Darcy," Wickham mocked.

  “All my wine is good," was Darcy's curt reply.

  "The finest from France, I'm sure," was Lydia's tart interjection.

  "Perhaps, Wickham," Elizabeth said, "you might remove your shirt. It would be helpful if we could see the wound."

  "I'm not a spy," Darcy flatly denied.

  "Your bandages and whatnot, madam," Bexley said, depositing his offerings on the table, along with a decanter of brandy. He went to the fire, added two more pieces of wood and lifted a larger kettle of water to the hook. He bowed out of the scullery, mumbling something about preparing the room.

  "I daresay it wouldn't be improper for me to bare my chest to you, you being married and all," Wickham teased, "but I imagine your sister might be offended by the sight."

  "I rather think not," said Lydia, her tones just shy of a snap. "You puff up your consequence too much. Your chest is a matter of indifference to me, be it bare or be it clothed."

  Darcy made a noise which sounded suspiciously like a strangled chuckle.

  "Very well," Wickham rallied, shrugging out of the garment. "I was merely concerned for your sensibilities, but I see you have none."

  Lydia plopped a bowl of warm water on the table, mindless of the waves which splashed over the sides. "Have a care, Mr. Wickham," she warned. "I would take a certain satisfaction in giving you a well needed bath just now."

  "Well, I wouldn't deny myself the pleasure of a harem girl, if that's what you're offering," Wickham growled.

  Lydia picked up the bowl of water and dumped it over his head.

  "Oh, for pity's sake!" Elizabeth jumped back, liberally doused herself. She looked from a steaming Lydia to a drenched Wickham. The two glared daggers at each other. Darcy had the audacity to burst into laughter, and she couldn't help but join him.

  "He insults me," Lydia sputtered, glaring at Darcy, "and you can do nothing but laugh?"

  Darcy sobered, though a smile still lurked on his lips and in his eyes. "You've done a fine job handling him, Lydia. I see no reason why I should interfere."

  "In the meantime," muttered Wickham, lifting a towel from the table and dabbing at his face, "I stand in danger of dying before your eyes. Really, Darcy, I expected better treatment in your home. Or was it your intention to set this little girl upon me?"

  "My name is Lydia, sir," said Lydia, "and I will thank you to remember it."

  "Ah, but little girl suits you much better," Wickham said with a mocking grin.

  Lydia glared at him.

  "You might have a care for your hide, Wickham," Darcy drawled in an amused tone. "I believe Lydia will be helping to nurse you. I'd be sweeter to her, were I you."

  "You may have a point there, old man. Well, Miss Lydia, are you going to replace the water you dumped on my head, or are you going to stand there slaying me with your eyes? I'd like to eat something soon, if you don't mind."

  With a sniff, Lydia picked up the bowl and flounced to the hearth.

  "What are you up too?” Elizabeth said, "A wounded George Wickham is the last person I'd expect to grace your kitchen. Have you thought up a pretty story, or must I wait longer for an explanation?" She sounded sweet, even innocent, but within she seethed with curiosity. What the devil were they about?

  "Well, you see..." began Darcy, and stopped.

  "It's all very mundane..." began Wickham, and stopped. After a moment, when Darcy didn't speak, he said, "Darcy and I are chance acquai—"

  Even as Darcy said, "Wickham and I are old—"

  Both men clamped their lips together.

  "Rubbish!" Elizabeth snapped. She straightened from inspecting Wickham's wound and stared her husband full in the face. "I will not be fobbed off with tales. There is a reason, Darcy, why you have a secret passage running to the lake, a reason why Wickham knows of it, and a reason why he's now sitting here with a gash in his shoulder, which was made by a bullet, if I'm not mistaken. Now, if you are spying or smuggling illicit goods from France, pray tell, what are you doing?"

  Darcy sighed and availed himself of a chair. He exchanged another glance with Wickham, who shrugged unhelpfully. Lifting a piece of gauze bandaging, he rolled it round and round. The abstracted gesture reminded Elizabeth of how he'd twined her hair round his fingers the night they'd met at midnight. He was evidently thinking deeply.

  Lydia returned with the water, but Elizabeth made no move to tend the wound. She wasn't about to remove her pointed stare from Darcy. Lydia lifted a towel from Bexley's assortment and dipped it in the bowl.

  "Have a care, sweetheart," Wickham drawled. "I am rather attached to my hide.”

  She gently dabbed the wound, rinsed the cloth and dabbed again.

  "The work Wickham and I are involved in is highly confidential," Darcy finally murmured, returning the direct challenge in Elizabeth's eyes.

  "Elizabeth and I won't tell," Lydia said. "We already know you're in league with Mr. Wickham. We also know it concerns a man, a coin, a washerwoman and a list. I'm sure we shouldn't breathe a word—not, that is, if we knew the truth of the matter."

  "Is that a threat, Miss Lydia?" Wickham asked. "What should you do if we didn't choose to tell the truth?"

  "Well, I daresay, as concerned citizens and loyal subjects of our King, we should have no recourse but to bring this matter before the proper authorities."

  "A woman can't testify against her husband," Wickham pointed out with silky assurance.

  Lydia made a grim smile. "I can testify against you."

  "Marry me, my dear?"

  She scrubbed his wound hard, and he howled.

  Elizabeth watched Darcy, a shard of fear piercing the soft peace she'd gained a short time ago, lying in his arms. Could he truly be a spy, and yet love her with such tenderness?

  "Darcy?" His name was a whispered plea.

  She gazed into his black eyes which were narrowed in thought. Darcy's features softened, his eyes lost their guarded look, and he shrugged. "Yes. We're spies."

  Elizabeth found herself bereft of words.

  "Good or bad?" Lydia asked noncommittally. "Do you work for England or France?"

  "England, of course," Wickham replied. Lydia probed deeper into the wound and he ground his teeth.

  "I think," Elizabeth murmured, only a trifle relieved, that you should pour the wine, Darcy. This may be a rather lengthy explanation."

  Wickham groaned through clenched teeth. “I'll take brandy, if it's all the same to you. Dash it all, my dear, are you yet satisfied that it's clean?"

  "Brandy would be good, Lizzy," Lydia said. "We need something to disinfect this wound. You'll have to bandage it, too, as I haven't a notion how to do so."

  Elizabeth placed a glass in Wickham's hand and soaked a cloth in the brew. Slowly she wrung it out over Wickham's wound. She remembered performing much the same operation on Darcy, and though she knew sympathy for Wickham's pain, somehow, in some way, she didn't e
xperience the same tug of emotion she had felt while attending Darcy—nor the horrible fear that he might have been killed.

  "So, Mr. Wickham," she said, "you were in France spying and almost caught a bullet for your efforts. Is that it?"

  "Something like that."

  She applied the bandage, conscious of Wickham's intense scrutiny. She didn't dare look at him, knowing Darcy watched them. She did notice, however, that though Wickham's physique was attractive, it wasn't nearly so handsome as Darcy's. Her husband's body seemed so much more warm and approachable. Precisely like Darcy himself, once you came to know him. The realization surprised her, and an involuntary warmth seeped through her. She dared not glance at her husband, so leaned closer in to her work.

  Darcy took up a knife and sliced the ham and cheese. "Have we any bread, Lydia? Elizabeth, are you quite done with that bandage? Wickham is sure to become tired of all this fussing."

  "Not at all," Wickham teased, flashing a sardonic grin, and flicking his blue eyes over Elizabeth's face. "I've never had such lovely angels to attend me. I shan't utter a word of complaint."

  Elizabeth ignored both Wickham's teasing and Darcy's fierce frown. After a final adjustment and pat to her work, she turned to her husband, her eyes snapping. "I'm quite done Now perhaps you might call halt to your delaying tactics and enlighten us."

  His gaze locked with hers, and she refused to shy away. He had no right to be short with her. He lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug and took a chair. Pushing some food towards Wickham, who gladly availed himself of the offering, he prepared himself a meal of cheese heaped on ham heaped on bread.

  Elizabeth rolled a piece of ham around a slice of cheese and waited. Lydia, sipping her wine, raised an inquiring brow.

  Darcy swallowed and drank from his wine. "Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, my cousin, is the man we spoke of." He made a quick recounting of a tale of traitors, the missing agent, and the all important list, finishing with: "Wickham has managed to locate Colonel Fitzwilliam, and now we must decide how best to bring him back to English soil, with his list of names—and his life—intact."