“There is nothing to forgive, sir,” she said.
He pressed a fist to his lips. “You do not know…” His eyes squeezed closed. “I am still a stranger to you.”
“A bit less of a stranger than five minutes ago,” she said with a smile. He did not return the grin, and hers quickly melted away.
“I cannot take advantage.”
“You are my husband. There is no impropriety.”
“If you only knew…” The words were uttered under his breath.
“Knew what, William?”
He did not respond. After a moment he shook his head and said, “I cannot impose myself.”
“You did not. I requested—”
“I— Please forgive me.” Without meeting her eyes, he turned on his heel and stumbled toward the house, leaving Elizabeth standing alone in the sunny garden.
***
Darcy knew it was cowardly to abandon Elizabeth in the garden, but he feared that he would never stop kissing her once he started—and that he would go beyond kisses. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he did not realize the doctor had a visitor until he passed the open drawing room door. By then it was too late to escape notice. Damnation! He had been so careful and now—
He continued walking, hoping the other man would ignore his presence.
“You there! Stop!” The man’s voice held a note of command. Darcy froze outside the door. “Come here.”
With no good reason to refuse, Darcy shuffled closer but stopped in the doorway. He had no desire to get any closer to the stranger. The man was medium height, with a beaky nose and receding hairline. But his clothes were well made, and he appeared quite prosperous.
“Guillaume,” Martin said slowly. “This is Sub-Prefect Roget.”
Chapter Eight
Blast! Fighting to keep his dismay from his face, Darcy gave the man a cautious bow. At least Martin was using his alias; that was a hopeful sign.
Still, Darcy’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. The sub-prefect had nearly unlimited power in his assigned territory. He could order Darcy arrested on little more than a suspicion—and then what would become of Elizabeth?
The doctor evinced no anxiety over the secrets they both concealed. “You said the neighbors had seen a stranger enter the house,” he said in a level tone. “Guillaume is my wife’s cousin from Toulon, here for a short visit.”
The official leaned back in his chair, the expression on his face assessing rather than suspicious as he scrutinized Darcy. “He looks healthy enough. Why is he not a soldier?” Darcy held his breath; conscription into the French army would be little better than being arrested. “I need thirty-three men to meet my quota this month.” The sub-prefect’s voice rose querulously. “You know how difficult it is nowadays to find able-bodied candidates. But they do not understand this in Paris; they only demand more recruits each month.”
Darcy suppressed a shudder; a man this desperate could do a lot of harm if they did not cooperate.
Seemingly unconcerned, Martin barked a laugh. “You do not want him. His body is healthy enough, aye. But his mind…” The doctor shook his head sadly. “He is quite insane. I tell his mother to put him in an asylum, but she refuses.”
Oh, Good Lord.
The sub-prefect examined Darcy carefully. At least his encounter with Elizabeth had left his hair disordered, and his clothing was suitably disreputable. Were he dressed like Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, it would be almost impossible to play the fool.
Even so, his heart quailed. Darcy had no pretentions to thespian talent. Disguise of any kind had always been his abhorrence. But Martin had declared Darcy’s insanity, and now his life—and Elizabeth’s—relied on convincingly acting the part.
Darcy did not have extensive experience with madmen, but there had been a young man—the son of a tenant—whose parents often were advised to place him in an asylum. They had been horrified at the thought and, knowing what such places were like, Darcy had supported their decision, ensuring that the family always had enough to make ends meet.
Now he did his best to recall Robert’s outrageous behavior so it could serve as a guide for his own. Letting his mouth go slack, Darcy searched distractedly about the room. “Lucinda?” he mumbled, staring at nothing in particular. “Lucinda? Where is the hedgehog? I need it, you know. I need the hedgehog—and a bucket.”
The sub-prefect’s eyes went wide with alarm, but Martin’s startled grin nearly provoked Darcy’s laughter. Recovering quickly, the doctor twisted his lips into a scowl of disapproval. “I do not know what you mean. Go to your room.”
How would Robert behave when given such a command? He was never terribly cooperative. “No. I want to see the baby Jesus.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “My apologies, monsieur,” he addressed the sub-prefect. “Apparently today is not one of Guillaume’s good days.”
The sub-prefect narrowed his eyes as he stared at Darcy. “So I see.” Did he suspect? In such situations, the doctor’s interest in helping young Frenchmen avoid conscription would work against them.
Darcy needed to be more convincing. What had Robert done? Darcy wished he had paid closer attention. His eye was caught by a tea tray on the table, laden with an assortment of biscuits. Darcy pounced on a biscuit as if it were a mouse. “I caught it!” He held the biscuit up triumphantly. “Did you see?” he asked Martin.
“Indeed.” Martin was suppressing a smile. “No biscuit is safe from you.”
Darcy laughed maniacally. “Except the ones the birds have already eaten!”
Martin shook his head with a great show of chagrin. “Guillaume, perhaps you should retire to your room for a rest.”
“Will Baby Jesus be there?” Darcy asked, assuming an innocent expression.
“Perhaps,” Martin said with a sigh. “You should search your room thoroughly in case Baby Jesus is visiting.”
Edging toward the door, Darcy suppressed a desire to race from the drawing room; nothing could make the sub-prefect suspicious. Cradling the biscuit in his arms, Darcy began to sing a French lullaby to it.
He continued to sing—deliberately off key—as he slowly climbed the stairs and only ceased once he was inside the room he shared with Elizabeth. There, he sank onto the bed. Thank the Lord none of my friends in England observed that!
***
When Elizabeth returned to the room, she fell immediately into a deep sleep, and they never discussed his precipitous departure from the garden. But Darcy had no doubt it occupied her thoughts.
That evening she was well enough to join Darcy and the Martins for dinner in their formal dining room. The doctor regaled her with a description of Darcy’s mad act, and she laughed until tears leaked from her eyes. Darcy was so pleased to see her in good spirits that he could not even protest being the object of the joke.
Once the housekeeper had cleared away the dinner plates, the conversation turned to more somber subjects, particularly Elizabeth’s safety. Darcy had regarded Elizabeth carefully throughout the meal. Her movements were graceful and natural. Dark circles still lurked under her eyes, but her skin no longer had the grayish pallor he had found so alarming. Despite spending several hours outside, she did not seem particularly fatigued. He caught her eye as Elizabeth placed her napkin on the table. “Do you think you are well enough to travel, dear heart?”
She answered instantly. “Yes, if you deem it necessary.”
Darcy had arrived at a reluctant conclusion. “I believe Elizabeth and I should depart,” he told Martin.
The other man pressed his lips together. “Mrs. Darcy is not good enough to travel. Not with enough health.” His English was strongly accented but intelligible.
“I know you would prefer that we waited a full week, but I do not want to risk arrest. It would be difficult for Elizabeth to return to England alone.”
“It is probable the sub-prefect will not come back here,” Martin said.
Darcy sighed, trying to quiet the uneasiness in his stomach. “If
he talks again with someone in the market, he might learn that my description matches that of the stranger who injured his hand. And the longer we are here, the greater the risk of discovery—and the greater danger to you.”
Martin waved this away. “This is our risk.”
“No. William is right. We remain in danger while we are on French soil.” Darcy heard Elizabeth’s words with some surprise. Although they had not discussed the danger, she understood it very well.
“But your health—” Martin objected.
“Is mine,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Perfect health will not be of much assistance if my husband is imprisoned in France.”
Martin scowled, and his wife gave him a sympathetic look, covering his hand with hers. His shoulders relaxed, and he gave her a rueful smile. “Marguerite reminds that I wish to make everyone better all the time, but sometimes this is not possible. I often forget such things.”
“Where will you go?” Mrs. Martin asked in halting English.
“I was given the name of someone near Saint-Malo who should be able to find us safe passage.” Indeed, the original plan had been that Mr. Dreyfus would help Darcy escape France once he completed his mission. Richard had given him the names of other English agents if Dreyfus was not available. Surely one could help.
Martin’s eyebrows rose. “English agents?”
Darcy fiddled with his fork, not meeting the doctor’s eyes. “I cannot say.” It was best for Martin if he knew few details. “If all else fails, we will travel to Calais and hire a boat.”
“Often for the sake for Mrs. Darcy’s health you must rest,” Martin said. “She cannot travel like she is healthy person.” Darcy nodded his understanding. “If her cough becomes worse or her breathing is very bad, you must find doctor at once.”
“Yes, of course,” Darcy murmured, saying a silent prayer. What if it was too early to leave? How would they obtain help if Elizabeth fell ill on the journey? But remaining in Saint-Malo risked discovery. He tried to push the doubts from his mind. “We will need a conveyance. Do you know of someone who would sell us a carriage?”
The doctor exchanged a look with his wife. “Even better. I will give you mine!”
After an hour of haggling, Darcy managed to get the doctor to accept a few coins in exchange for his curricle. Martin assured him that he rarely used the vehicle and was happy to be rid of it. Darcy would have been more pleased with a larger, enclosed vehicle, but a curricle at least would be fast. The doctor also promised to find a horse for hire, and Darcy went to bed tolerably pleased with the plan.
***
The next morning, the plan went smoothly—hopefully a good omen for their future success. He paid Martin for the curricle and for Elizabeth’s medical care, although the other man steadfastly refused any remuneration for food or shelter.
In the pre-dawn light, the streets were empty of all but a few men and women hurrying to work, so their departure was likely to go unnoticed. Elizabeth gave the Martins—and their housekeeper—each a hug and bade them a fond farewell in halting French.
Darcy noted Elizabeth’s stiff movements with some misgivings. Was he rushing her recovery? What if she fell ill along the journey? The strain of travel might add to the confusion and stress caused by her amnesia. He bit his lip against the desire to tell Martin that they would remain another few days after all.
The process was rendered more difficult by a chastising voice at the back of his mind reminding him that he should not be traveling with Elizabeth at all—at least not without a chaperone. Unfortunately, he could not voice those misgivings with anyone; he could only push them from his mind.
He took her hand to help her alight to the high curricle seat. Thank goodness he was not compelled to wear long skirts when performing such maneuvers. Clutching Darcy’s hand, Elizabeth put a foot on the curricle’s wheel, preparing to climb up. But her foot slipped, causing her to stumble forward. Darcy hastily grabbed her waist, pulling her back down to safety.
For a moment they stood frozen, clutched together with their faces only inches apart. His hands did not seem to want to relax their grip on her. Under his palms, he could feel her breath quicken. Was their nearness affecting her as well?
Her head was tilted back. Cool green eyes met his, as deep and inscrutable as a forest. Her lips, plump with a dark rose color. He could not help remembering how they tasted—or prevent himself from wanting another taste.
“William.” Her voice was a low, throaty murmur as she moved toward him, her head tilted back provocatively. He had no doubt about what was on her mind, and he wanted it. Badly.
Darcy closed his eyes, as if blocking the sight of Elizabeth could somehow prevent temptation. Instead his nose was filled with her faint rosewater scent. Concentrate on the facts, he told himself. She is not my wife. I have no right to kiss her. If I kiss her, it would be under false pretenses.
He repeated these phrases over and over in his mind until he had steeled himself against the onslaught of her beauty and had the strength to open his eyes. Forcing his hands to release his grip on her waist, he stepped away so they were no longer in such intimate proximity. Elizabeth regarded him with perplexity.
Only then did Darcy recall their audience; a glance at Martin showed the doctor was smirking. Elizabeth might not have recognized Darcy’s desire for what it was, but Martin did.
Darcy took a deep breath and returned his attention to Elizabeth. “Shall we try that again?”
This time he handed her into the seat with no mishap. As Elizabeth settled herself, Mrs. Martin handed up a blanket. Elizabeth good-naturedly wrapped it about her shoulders, although the day was already quite warm.
Darcy settled his knapsack under the seat and then took a second bag from the doctor to stow beside it. The Martins had filled it with clothing for Elizabeth—and had refused to accept any payment. After shaking Martin’s hand and again giving Mrs. Martin his thanks, Darcy swung himself up into the seat, the springs bouncing slightly under his weight.
With a flick of the reins they were off. Darcy kept his eyes fixed on the road while Elizabeth turned to wave until the Martins’ house was out of sight. Carefully, Darcy navigated the rig down the narrow streets of Saint-Malo and through the old city gate. Past the gate, the roads were considerably wider, and Darcy was able to increase the pace.
As the sun rose in the sky, the heat began to affect Elizabeth, and Darcy kept a worried eye on her. She had stowed Mrs. Martin’s blanket under the seat, but the sun still beat down on her shoulders and shone in her eyes if she did not hold her bonnet at the proper angle. Sweat stained the neck of her gown and dripped down the side of her face. Aware of his scrutiny, she scowled. “I will be fine.” Unfortunately, her body chose that moment for a coughing fit.
Darcy watched, helpless, until it subsided. She clenched her hands together in her lap. “There is no need to be anxious on my account. A little water will set me to rights.” But Darcy could not prevent the return of his misgivings.
Fortunately, at that moment he recognized the dirt path to Dreyfus’s house and pulled on the reins, directing the horse. “Perhaps you should join me in the house to enjoy some of the cooler air.”
“Very well.” She frowned at him. “How will you make yourself known to Mr. Dreyfus? Surely you cannot simply alight from the carriage and declare, ‘I understand you are an agent of the English government.’”
Darcy chuckled. “My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, works for the War Office; he wrote to Dreyfus about my visit. He also gave me a token by which English agents make themselves known to one another.” Leaning to one side, he pulled the small slip of paper from the pocket of his worn jacket and handed it to her.
***
Elizabeth examined the scrap of paper. There were no words, just an ink drawing of a red flower. “Hmm, it looks like a pimpernel,” she mused.
“I believe it is supposed to be a rose.”
She returned the paper to him. “The War Office needs better artists.”
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“I do not believe aesthetics are their primary concern,” William said with a grin.
“But in such a business as espionage, surely the smallest mistake could lead to peril,” Elizabeth said archly. “What should we do if Mr. Dreyfus believes it to be a pimpernel and that is the War Office’s code for ‘shoot on sight?’”
He laughed heartily; at least she had made him forget his concerns about her health. “Or perhaps the pimpernel is the flower assigned to agents of the Dutch government. Mr. Dreyfus might expect us to arrive with tulip bulbs in our pockets.”
“That is a danger indeed.” William’s voice was warm with laughter. “I suppose espionage is fraught with all sorts of risks.”
He sobered as he pulled the horse to a halt in front of a warm stone house; the front entrance opened directly onto a circular drive. Vines climbed up the front façade, and a few bedraggled roses grew in a clump under one window.
All seemed well. But why did the sight give her a sense of uneasiness? Shivers ran from the nape of her neck down her spine, and her stomach roiled with tension. After a moment she realized there was none of the activity that she would expect from the kind of busy and prosperous house this appeared to be. No servants were fetching water. No grooms were exercising the master’s horses. No chickens wandered about searching for food. How odd.
Apparently happy to be at leisure, the horse, a young mare, immediately availed herself of the grass at the side of the drive. William alighted from his seat, crossed to Elizabeth’s side of the carriage, and offered her a hand. She looked down uncertainly; the curricle seat was very high. But William simply put both hands on her waist—as he had in front of the Martins’ house—and swung her to the drive. She again had a fluttery sensation in her stomach as her body thrilled to his touch; she longed to lean into his arms, feeling his body enclose hers.
A long moment passed while they stood in this attitude. Touching William was so pleasant that Elizabeth was loath to let go.
William released her so rapidly that he nearly tripped over his own feet. “Right, well, shall we see if Mr. Dreyfus is at home?” Turning toward the house, he offered her his arm, and they traversed the dirt drive toward the front door.
The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy Page 9