The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery

by Regina Jeffers

  Elizabeth nearly jumped in excitement when Mr. Jacks returned with the news that one of the workers had recognized the building in her sketch. “Oh, Mr. Jacks,” she said in a gush. “Please send the gentleman to see me, and ask the stable to hitch up a gig or a phaeton.”

  “You do not plan to be goin’ out, Mrs. Darcy? Himself will not like it if ye be having trouble like his sister,” Jacks warned.

  Elizabeth granted, “I do not plan to make Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s mistake. Yet, I must investigate. If Mr. Darcy’s sister is at the cottage, we must find her.”

  “But Mr. Darcy takes our strongest men with him,” Jacks protested.

  Elizabeth frowned deeply. “I do not need one of Alpin’s best men, I simply require a vehicle, someone who is competent to escort me, and a confirmation of the cottage’s location,” she said in her best Mistress of Pemberley voice.

  Her tone must have served well because Mr. Jacks bowed. “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll see to it immediately.”

  “I want my sister found this day,” she announced for good measure, but as she watched Jacks make his way to the stable, Elizabeth wondered if her instincts were accurate. The Major General and Darcy believed Georgiana was at Normanna Hall. Was she setting out on a wild goose chase? I must see this through. If there is the slightest chance that Georgiana is not at Normanna, I must know the right of it.

  Domhnall rushed through the halls circling Normanna’s turret. Earlier, he had climbed the spiral staircase to the parapet’s watch post. Even when he hated his life under Coll MacBethan, he had always loved to peer out over the land’s wildness, and for the first time in many years, he had known the comfort in doing so. He had met his demons and had dealt with them. He had decided to send each of the seven prisoners housed below to a different part of Scotland and to start anew. He would present each man with a bag of gold and demand that he not return to Ayrshire. He could think of no other solution. He would not have another lose his life because of Dolina MacBethan, but he could not bring himself to place his mother in the local magistrate’s hands. After the prisoners were freed and the estate set aright, he and Lady Esme would take an extended holiday in Europe while awaiting any repercussions.

  The thought of Lady Esme brought a smile to Domhnall’s countenance. He had found a woman who might return his affections. He had long hungered for a soft touch—to know the feel of someone else’s care. “God only knows that my mother offered no such tenderness to any but Aulay,” he had murmured. He would assist Lady Esme in raising her child, and they would have children of their own. For the past few nights, he had dreamed of making love to the woman. He imagined her hair spread across his pillow and her lissom form pressed to his. Just the thought of it brought a tightening of his groin and a quickness to his breathing. He would delay his urge to know the woman, but he prayed that her resistance would not be of a long duration. “At least, in Scotland, one must not wait for the calling of the banns,” he told himself.

  Deep in the images of the lady’s sweetness, at first, Domhnall had not heard his valet’s racing panic. “My Laird,” the man gasped for breath. “There be a skirmish below. Yer mother holds Lady Esme prisoner, and intruders have entered the cellars.”

  Domhnall swayed and silently swore. For a moment, he considered pitching himself over the cap house to the ground below. To end it all before his dream could crumble. But that would brand him as a coward. Also, he held no doubt that his mother would want no witnesses to her crimes. She would kill Lady Esme. Only he could save the woman.

  With a deep sigh of resignation, he turned toward the stairs. Over his shoulder, he shouted at the man following him, “Where is Lady Wotherspoon?”

  Stumbling after his master, the elderly dresser rasped, “In the main hall.”

  With his heart pounding in his ears, Domhnall left the man behind as he raced toward impending doom. Finally, he burst into the open hall. Skidding to a stop on the raised dais, he coldly uttered, “Let her go, Mother.” He leveled his pistol at the woman who had given birth to him.

  When she had exited her room, the girl had anticipated encountering someone who would force her to return to her quarters or even to the cells below, but she could not have predicted being held at knifepoint by Lady Wotherspoon. Crossing the Lord’s Hall by clinging tightly to the masonry and timber walls, she had watched the portal, which led to the family’s private quarters, but the attack had come from the direction of the small chapel.

  The turmoil below had signaled trouble, and she had broken into a run, but she had taken no more than a dozen steps before slamming hard into Aulay’s shoulders. The man had, literally, stepped into her path, and the girl had stumbled backwards from the impact. Before she could recover, Lady Wotherspoon had caught her from behind.

  With a strong forearm across the girl’s throat, Lady Wotherspoon placed a knife to the soft spot at the base of her neck before the woman hissed, “Plan on goin’ somewhere special, m’Lady?”

  The girl would have denied the woman’s words, but even capturing a breath had proved impossible. Instead, she concentrated on Lady Wotherspoon’s ominous tone and the strength of the woman’s hold.

  Aulay stood nearby, mouth agape. He fell away from the horror. “Mam?” he protested weakly, then turned on his heels and ran from the scene.

  Biting her lip to quell the desperate sob that strangled her, the girl’s eyes followed his retreat. She had foolishly hoped that Aulay might sway his mother from Lady Wotherspoon’s intended punishment, but the boy-man’s nature remained too weak to oppose his strong-willed mother.

  “Did ye think the boy wud be yer savior?” Lady Wotherspoon whispered menacingly into the girl’s ear. “Silly gel. Aulay only does my biddin’.”

  The girl’s fingers clawed at the arm cutting off her breath. She felt herself swooning from the effort. In moments, she would die, and no one would be the wiser. But, a familiar voice brought an end to her struggle.

  “Let her go, Mother.” Lord Wotherspoon’s voice boomed through the open hall. The girl felt the woman stiffen, and Lady Wotherspoon’s grip minutely relaxed. With the change, the girl sucked in a quick breath, and her vision cleared.

  “Don’t ye see, boy? The gel be sneakin’ off. Lady Esme chose another. Yer not who she be wantin’.”

  The girl wanted to defend herself, but a further opening of the pinpoint cut on her neck left her speechless. All she could do was to speak to Lord Wotherspoon of her regret with her eyes.

  Domhnall took another step closer. For a long, painful moment, his gaze lingered on her. The man had asked her to be his life’s partner. “That is between Lady Esme and me,” he said threateningly. “I repeat. Release Lady Esme and walk away.” The girl slid her fingertips under Lady Wotherspoon’s grasp. She had a chance if she could break the woman’s hold on her.

  “I think not. The gel be me warrant. The intruders come for her,” Lady Wotherspoon reasoned.

  Yet, before Domhnall could respond, two men burst through the door: the same two English gentlemen the girl had spied from her window earlier in the day. They truly had come for her, and her hopes soared. Yet, her troubles had not come to an end. Using her as a shield, Dolina MacBethan pulled her closer. The intruders slid to a halt. The one in the uniform trained his pistol on Lady Wotherspoon, while the gentleman in the waistcoat took aim at the woman’s son.

  Edward had hoped to find his wife under Lord Wotherspoon’s roof, but the scene enfolding before him shattered those dreams. He had fought his way through three levels to find a girl who resembled Georgiana, but was most assuredly a stranger.

  “Mr. Darcy. Major General,” Lord Wotherspoon said coldly, but his eyes remained on the two women. “I suppose the trouble below is of your making,” he accused.

  Darcy took a half step to the side. Edward realized his cousin would kill Lord Wotherspoon rather than allow Normanna’s master to harm the girl. She might not be Georgiana, but the woman was, obviously, in trouble. Neither he nor Darcy would turn away. The gi
rl ceased her struggling and waited for the next moment. “As you did not see fit to make us your guests for the evening, my Lord, we invited ourselves,” Darcy said tersely.

  Wotherspoon flashed Darcy an indignant expression. “As you have made yourself at home without a care for my approval, you will excuse me if I am less than welcoming at the moment.”

  Edward recognized his cousin’s anger before Darcy masked it. “Perhaps, if you had not tolerated evil under your watch, we would not have had to take matters into our own hands.”

  Something flared in Lord Wotherspoon, but he squared his shoulders and continued to take an account of the older of the two women. “You have no idea, Mr. Darcy, what your neighbor conceals behind his doors nor how he plans to reconcile the horrors he encounters,” the man said sadly.

  Edward caught the expression of bewilderment in the girl’s eyes. The elderly woman did not relinquish her hold on the younger female. “We know more than you may suspect, Wotherspoon: how you returned to claim your title to find your estate in financial straits and how your own family members explored heinous methods to correct those shortcomings.” He noted the increasing desperation of the family member in question. “I assume this would be your mother, Lady Wotherspoon, and the young lady who has piqued your interest, Lady Esme.”

  Wotherspoon growled, “It is as you have noted.”

  Edward continued, “What we do not know is what you plan to do to resolve this madness.”

  “What choices do I have?” Wotherspoon sneered.

  “Ye kin kill them all,” Lady Wotherspoon growled her anger. “Then we start anew. Surely ye donnae mean to turn on the woman who brought ye into this world.”

  Wotherspoon snorted his disgust. “And what a world you have carved for our family! We had the opportunity to leave Bean’s legacy behind, and, instead, you have resurrected it. You bring infamy to our doorstep!” He took an agitated step toward his mother. “Tell me, Madam, what actually occurred with Maighread and my child.”

  Rich in Scottish pride, Lady Wotherspoon responded. She said with careful formality, “I suspect somethin’ my wud-be successor ate dinnae agree with Maighread.”

  Indifferent to his surroundings, Wotherspoon accused, “You poisoned my wife? My child? Your own grandchild?”

  “Maighread shud ’ave followed ye as you asked. Instead, she sought yer own brother’s arms fer her cumfert. I love Islav, but it not be right. Maighread be yer wife, not Islav’s. The bairn be a MacBethan, but we know not whether the babe be the rightful heir. I protected yer line, my son.”

  His voice lowered to an intimidating rumble. “You protected your position as the mistress of this estate,” he snapped. “You care not for my feelings or my regard.”

  Edward had eased closer to Lady Wotherspoon during this exchange, but he still did not have a clear shot. He would not risk hurting the girl who had been caught in the middle of this madness. Her eyes never strayed from Wotherspoon’s countenance, and Edward recognized the familiarity that passed between the couple. The girl had engaged Wotherspoon’s heart.

  With the barest of nods, Edward directed Darcy’s attention to the Scot, and his cousin responded with a raised eyebrow. It had been a boyhood gesture, but Edward believed Darcy understood. When they had challenged each other to be the first to jump into the deepest part of the lake or to explore the darkest recesses of a cave or to sneak into the earl’s study for another piece of a brandy-soaked sugary treat, they would count down to one before they moved. Where their friends might recite, “We go on three,” he and Darcy had developed a silent count. The “challenger” would hold his hand loosely at his side. First, he would extend three fingers and then curl each digit back into his fist. When the hand closed, they would charge into whatever adventure awaited them. It gave neither of them an advantage, and he and his cousin often remarked how they had preferred it to other childhood teases.

  Now, as Wotherspoon faced off with his mother, Edward pointedly dropped his hand to alert Darcy of his intentions.

  “How kin ye think so ill of me?” Lady Wotherspoon pleaded.

  Wotherspoon glared at his mother. “Besides the chaos you created below, you hold a knife on the woman I would have replace you as this estate’s mistress.”

  His words brought an expected reaction from Lady Wotherspoon’s captive. As if His Lordship’s words had inspired the woman, she began to squirm and kick at her assailant.

  Edward seized the opportunity. Three—Two—One—Go, his fingers announced. As he launched himself at the two women, his cousin executed a sliding takedown of Wotherspoon. The Scot’s gun flew from his hand and crashed with a loud explosion against the polished hardwood floors as Darcy spun to straddle the man.

  Meanwhile, Edward made a similar move. He did not go for the hand holding the knife precariously close to the younger woman’s jugular. It was too dangerous. Instead, he dove for Lady Wotherspoon’s legs. Wrapping his arms about both women’s knees, he sent them tumbling sideways. He allowed the girl to roll away from him as he wrestled an infuriated Lady Wotherspoon to the floor. The woman clawed at his face, but Edward managed to avoid the worst of her efforts. Irritated at having to subdue a violent female, he pressed his weight harder. “I have never struck a woman,” he growled, “but it does not mean that I am above doing so.”

  “Yer a pig!” The woman snarled as she spit into his face.

  Edward responded accordingly. A right cross caught the woman’s chin. Her head snapped to her right, and the lady fell silent. He struggled to bring his breathing under control. He pulled his handkerchief from an inside pocket and wiped the offending saliva from his cheek.

  A quick glance assured him that Darcy was assisting a bloody-nosed Wotherspoon to his feet. “Darcy?” Edward asked as he stumbled to right himself.

  His cousin smiled in amusement. “Easier than yours,” Darcy said as he spied the still-unconscious woman on the floor.

  Edward gestured to where the woman laid crumpled in a heap. “Next time you take the female.”

  Weir emerged from the lower level. “Mr. Darcy?” he asked as he surveyed the scene.

  “Everything secure below stairs?”

  “Aye, Sir. Found a young laird hidin’ in the cold pantry. They all be bound.”

  Edward suggested, “Find another length of rope for the lady. Secure her hands and feet and place someone to guard Lady Wotherspoon.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Darcy directed his remarks to Wotherspoon. “I will demand your honor as a gentleman, Sir.”

  His Lordship agreed with a nod, but he watched the younger woman push to a seated position. “See to Lady Esme’s safety, and I will agree to anything,” he said flatly.

  Edward automatically extended his hand to assist the woman to her feet. “I pray you have not suffered unfairly, my Lady,” he said in apology.

  Although her voice remained raspy, the woman said, “I am…I am well, Sir. How may I…speak my full gratitude?” She struggled to her feet as she straightened her gown. Pushing her hair into place, she stammered, “I owe…I owe you my life.”

  Edward braced her weight with his forearm and shoulder. “If you are well…” he began, but his words hung in the room like an icy rain. Watching her adjust her clothing and hair, her movements had led him to discover something he hoped never to see anywhere but about his wife’s neck. In the room’s utter silence, Edward reached for the chain entangled in the girl’s hair. “How did you receive my wife’s locket? And what do you know of Georgiana Fitzwilliam?”

  Georgiana had heard the disturbance outside the cottage. With a great effort, she had pushed herself to a seated position. Instinctively, her fingers smoothed the wrinkles of her dress before she realized how foolish that was. If someone had truly come to her rescue, he would understand her disheveled appearance. Escaping this dilemma was more important than regrets over a heavily soiled gown.

  Excited by the possibility of finally knowing her freedom, Georgiana struggled to stand. Sh
e could not support her weight fully on her right leg so she wobbled to balance on her left. Using the single chair as support, she stood tall as the door swung wide and a figure pitched forward, slamming against the floor. Shocked, Georgiana screamed.

  One moment, he had supported his weight with his shoulder and forearm against the doorframe, and the next, George Wickham reached for a door that was no longer there. He slammed face first into the cottage’s harden dirt floor. With a whoosh of air, his breath escaped into the small room before a sharp pain shot through his chest. He heard himself groan “Aarrggh,” but another voice drowned out his pain, that of a female in distress. With a gargantuan effort, Wickham rolled to his back to look up into the anxious face of Georgiana Fitzwilliam.

  “Cease!” he growled as her screams continued, and, miraculously, she went instantly silent. “It is I, Georgiana…George Wickham,” he said with distaste. With a deep grunt, he rose to his elbows.

  “Mr.…Mr. Wickham.” Her lips moved, but the sound remained weak. He could read her countenance easily: Staring blindly at him, Georgiana Fitzwilliam’s worst nightmare had come to life. The acknowledgment of that fact would play to his advantage.

  Wickham tightened his lips as he shifted his weight to come to his knees. Instinctively, he clutched at his chest. The pain announced that his ribs needed binding. “I am certain,” he said through clenched teeth, “that I am…the last person…you expected…to find in a cottage…in Scotland; yet…I am here.”

  “The prayer the Devil answers,” she said softly.