Prince Darcy

by Allison Smith

  Elizabeth had not looked nor sounded ridiculous, however. Instead, she reminded him of himself on many of the occasions he had rehearsed an argument before presenting it to his council. Darcy ruled Derbyshire from Pemberley, but his family’s rule was not absolute. Long ago, they had taken a council to themselves to check what might have been too much power in the hands of one family. Once, long ago, the power of the Darcy women had been such that choosing the council from among the people had averted an uprising. Their blood was diminished these days, the power in it all but gone, but their wealth and influence remained.

  Along with the few treasures left to them. He would retrieve his mother’s ring no matter the cost. And before him stood an unexpected ally.

  “The enemy of my enemy,” he murmured and watched Elizabeth’s eyes sharpen on him.

  The maid set tea down on the table and closed the door behind her. Darcy rose to pour. It was one of the few menial tasks his staff allowed him to perform for himself. Some days he struggled to even cut his own meat, but fortunately, his housekeeper had long ago decided that it would tarnish the dignity of the house were he seen being fed dinner.

  Thank god.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said in her grave, contralto tones.

  He would never admit to her how much he enjoyed listening to her speak. There were many women of faultless breeding, women with education and well-developed intellects. But there were few women who carried themselves with the bearing of a queen but not the arrogance of one. He had already admitted to himself how she fascinated him. Now it was time to pick apart why.

  She sipped her tea, then set the cup down. “I am unclear on the nature of aid you might provide me, as well as the nature of aid I might provide you. We should be certain our alliance is fruitful for both parties and terms well defined before giving our word.”

  “I agree.”

  “But first, I would like to know something more of this family heirloom, and the nature of your bad blood with Wickham.”

  She placed her hands on the table, expression cool and direct. For a moment, the table, the drawing room, disappeared and the woman in front of him stood before a backdrop of stones, tribal markings on her face and a spear in her hand, a long surcoat over worn leather armour. The vision vanished, and he blinked.

  Who was Elizabeth Bennet descended from? The mystery would likely never be solved, but what little magic remained in his veins gave him at least one small clue. Could she be a descended from one of the same lines that had birthed the Darcys? He pushed aside the thoughts to focus on the present.

  “The bad blood, as you put it, between Wickham and I is a familiar story. He coveted what belongs to my family, was not content with—” he almost said, with serving us, but he was not yet ready to reveal his identity. Not that he did not trust her. Surprisingly, he did. But he found he enjoyed doing battle with a woman who saw him merely as a man of equal station. “He wanted more than my family could offer him. He was free to leave and seek his fortune elsewhere, but his jealousy turned in on itself.”

  “He stole the heirloom.”

  “Yes.”

  “So I see my instincts were correct.”

  Darcy smiled grimly. “More than you know, and you are a rare person not to be immediately fooled by his charm.”

  “I have had cause to learn to seek the truth beneath a man’s outward appearance. In my position, a woman can never be too careful.”

  He searched her closed expression for some hint of her meaning, but he feared he took it all too well. A beautiful woman with no father to protect her and with little fortune. . .how many times had some cad attempted to trick her into a dishonourable position, coming in the disguise of a true gentleman?

  It took him a long moment to speak around his anger. “I understand. Even with the influence of my family, my sister is often vulnerable.”

  “You said you grew up together. She must have trusted him.”

  “She did. I did. It is not a mistake I will ever make again.” He could not bring himself to tell her more, tell her that Wickham was a distant cousin. It made the sting of betrayal all the more galling.

  Elizabeth dark gaze remained intent. “Our shared goal demands some level of trust, surely. We both have something to lose. Your enemy is my enemy.”

  “Indeed.”

  “It is a start.”

  He did not pretend to mistake her meaning. “It is.”

  Elizabeth lifted her teacup, took another sip. “So. Let us discuss particulars.”

  His expression shifted. Elizabeth wondered if she was still talking to Mr Williams, because the eyes of the man in front of her did not belong to a simple gentleman, no matter how wealthy. They belonged to a general at a negotiation table.

  She smiled and mentally donned her own armour.

  “You must first give your word that whatever we discuss and whatever actions we undertake together, you will never speak a word of them, not even to your family.”

  Did he think her a blabbermouth? “As long as you do not intend we pursue our goals by criminal means, Mr Williams, I see no reason to divulge the particulars of our alliance.”

  “You may become privy to information I do not want known.”

  “I have no desire to bandy gossip regarding your association with Wickham all over town.” He was beginning to irritate her. Did he imagine her a silly woman? Or was it that he planned to regain his family heirloom by less than acceptable means?

  “Good,” he said. “I would have you speak a vow by blood.”

  Elizabeth almost rolled her eyes. Almost. “Is that necessary, sir?”

  “Yes. Were it to become known that it was so easy for one man to steal from my family, we would soon face other threats.”

  She was not a stupid woman. “You have not been honest with me regarding your family, Mr Williams. The more you speak and the more I observe you, the rather more convinced I am that you are no more a Williams than I am a Hapsburg.”

  Instead of responding, he slipped a hand into his jacket and withdrew a long, silver pin. The same oathing needle from before.

  She held out her hand palm up, and Mr Williams placed the head of the needle against the tip of her finger, holding her gaze as he did so.

  “I swear I will not reveal to any living soul any truths imparted to me regarding Wickham, your family or your family heirloom, or the particulars of our association.”

  It was not a particularly well-worded oath, any fae could find a dozen loopholes, but it should do for their purposes. After a pause, he pricked her finger and a single drop of blood welled into a bead.

  He handed her the pin, and she pricked his fingertip after he also spoke the vow. They joined skin where the tiny wounds lay, and the needle flared, sealing their oath with blood and magic.

  She was a fool. “What is the particular consequence this needle extracts if one breaks the vow?”

  Mr Williams smile was not pleasant. “I have no doubt you will never discover it, Miss Elizabeth.”

  Not pleasant at all. “Very well.”

  He put the needle away and then pushed aside his teacup. “This is what I propose.”

  Mr Williams insisted on escorting her home after their discussion concluded.

  “It is a kind offer, sir,” she replied, “but I prefer to walk.”

  “Then we will walk.”

  There was an air about him, an unconscious belief that his every word was a command. He spoke and expected to be obeyed.

  She stared at him, a hand on her hip, but shrugged. “Very well.”

  They walked for some time in silence, before he spoke. “Tell me. What would you do if you could do anything, without restraint?”

  Her lips pursed. It was a fascinating question. “I? I would simply travel and see the world. I have no great ambitious other than to improve my mind and expand my knowledge. I should also like to somehow make my mark in the world for good.”

  He glanced down at her. “By doing what? Charitable works? P
olitical campaigning? Championing the poor?”

  “All of those things would be worthy endeavours. What I desire above all else, Mr Williams, is freedom from my sex.”

  “Ah.”

  “You do not sound surprised.”

  He stared up at the sky as they walked. “My sister has said such things in the past. She has more and less freedom than many ladies. It is the curse of being a—”

  There it was. Another pause in which he cut off his thoughts to edit his words. “Mr Williams. We agreed to a course of action. I will serve as a distraction in a public place, providing you with ample time to ransack—”

  “Search.”

  She suppressed laughter at how stiff he sounded. “Search Wickham’s belongings. We have determined our signals and an alternate plan should the first go awry. In return you will, after your heirloom is safe in your hands and Wickham has no leverage over you, use your influence with him—in a way you did not detail—to convince him to never speak to my sisters again. Do I have the gist of our discussion correct?”

  “You do.” He looked down at her again, eyes wary.

  “Then tell me, please. Who are you?” Again, the subtle shift in his demeanour. She held up her hand, palm up, gaze on the fingertip where the invisible wound sat. “Or is our oath worth nothing?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “You know who I am. Do I not deserve to know the identity of the man with whom I conspire?”

  Williams stopped walking, turned towards her, hands clasped behind his back.

  She faced him squarely. They were allies, not adversaries. “Stop treating me like an enemy.”

  “I do not treat you like an enemy, Elizabeth.” A weight in his words that almost hinted at danger. “Very well. My true name is Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  It took a moment, and then the truth of his words struck her like a blow to the stomach. Elizabeth took a step back, then mentally grabbed her knees, locking them to avoid further retreat. “You are the Prince of Pemberley.” She looked back towards Netherfield. “Mr Bingley is—”

  “Charles Bingley. A close friend.”

  She took a deep breath, processed her shock and then decided to move past it. “Now I know. Thank you.”

  Elizabeth resumed walking, her hands wrapped in her skirts. Their trembling would betray her else. She was almost ashamed of herself for her reaction. Surely she should be more practical than this, but she could not blame herself. It was not every day a woman of small means was the co-conspirator of a prince.

  “You are not discomfited?” he asked.

  “I have some small complaint about the state of the roads in Lambton,” was the crisp reply. She‘d rather eat her bonnet then let him think her in awe of him now, simply because of his rank.

  There was a startled pause, and then Mr Williams—no, Darcy—laughed. “I will inform my seneschal when I return. The matter will be looked into immediately.”

  “Good.”

  “Elizabeth.”

  He spoke her name in almost a caress. Warmth, underlaid with amusement and something else she could not name.

  “Your Highness.”

  That displeased him. She saw the tightening around his eyes when she glanced at him.

  “I wish to be Mr Williams. Your new knowledge changes nothing.”

  “It changes the stakes of our arrangement. Don’t be foolish.”

  “Are you saying you would have broken your word to Mr Williams, but not to Fitzwilliam Darcy?”

  Oh, but his voice cut. Her temper sparked in return. “No, it does not, and you insult me. It simply means the cost of failure is higher than I thought. You did me a disservice, not revealing your true identity before the bargain was struck.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” He withdrew the needle again, ignoring her muttering and sealed his words with blood. So handy, an oathing needle. . .one of the few tools to effectively silence a woman. “If any hurt comes to you because of it, I will pay recompense.”

  “I want neither hurt nor recompense. I simply want Wickham to leave my family be, and the return of your. . .dear god. What heirloom could he have possibly stolen from the Darcys?”

  Again, his hard, grim smile. “One that if not returned, will spell disaster on my line. No Darcy has wed without it in a hundred generations.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You have been in an odd mood,” Mary said.

  Elizabeth wiped her hands on her apron and stood, picking up the basket full of freshly plucked root vegetables. “Have I? Perhaps it’s the moon.”

  Mary assessed her. “Perhaps.”

  It was so like her youngest sister to display such open skepticism but not follow it up. Lydia or Kitty, even Jane, would have badgered her find out what was wrong. Mary simply let it be.

  She could not reveal the reason for her mood, of course. She was sworn to silence, even if it had been her secret to tell, anyway.

  Mr Williams was not Mr Williams. He was Prince Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire.

  Everything made sense now, all the little tells that had added up to something not quite right about how he presented himself. So severe, so modest in plain tailored clothing. Clothing of exquisite tailoring and fine fabrics. Flawless, if aloof, manners and the detached bearing of a man used to both command and his own solitary counsel.

  Any thoughts she might have been harbouring she now would firmly quash. No matter how she had been coming to enjoy her verbal duels with Darcy, she would never fool herself into aiming to form an attachment so high. Perhaps if he had been plain Mr Williams, a wealthy but untitled gentleman of her social class, she might have. . .better not even think of it.

  “I think our sisters have returned,” Mary said instead. “They were gone a while. I was beginning to think. . .”

  Elizabeth turned. Jane and Lydia appeared in the distance, closing ground. Elizabeth took the basket to the kitchen and then returned outside to meet them.

  “Jane, what is wrong?” she asked. Jane’s complexion was the waxy pale of shock and the colour in Lydia’s cheeks spoke to temper. “Lydia! Tell me.”

  Lydia’s eyes flashed as a hand crept up to her waist. “It is that Mr Bingley. What a strange man.”

  Elizabeth forced calm in her voice. Jane stood there, silent, eyes on the ground. “What happened?”

  “Why, he spent the entire picnic flirting! With me!”

  “With. . .what?”

  “And you did nothing to encourage him,” Mary said, not bothering to disguise her sarcasm.

  Lydia lifted a hand as if she wanted to slap Mary. “How dare you! I would never steal another woman’s intended, not even for fun. There is no sport in winning a fickle man. I did nothing to encourage him.” She stopped, consternation crossing her face. “It was the oddest thing. It was as if he was drunk, but not a sip of wine passed his lips.”

  “Oh, Jane,” Elizabeth breathed, taking her sister’s arm. “I am certain there’s some explanation.”

  “What explanation could there be other than I mistook his character?” Jane pulled away, expression set. “I will go lie down for an hour and then help with the preparation of dinner.”

  Elizabeth watched Jane enter the house, knowing her sister desired to be alone. She turned to Lydia. “Tell me everything.”

  “You did what?” Darcy asked, staring at Charles.

  The man sat on a couch, head in hands, groaning. “I am a miserable cad. My head hurts terribly, Darcy.”

  “No, repeat what you said about flirting with Lydia Bennet.”

  Charles looked up, frowning, eyes unhappy. “I do not know what got into me. Everything was going fine. Jane packed a wonderful basket, and the fruit juice was so refreshing. There was a slightly herbal taste to it she said was her cook’s specialty. The last thing I remembered was a sudden desire to stare deeply into Lydia Bennet’s eyes and profess my love!”

  “Did she return your attentions?” He snapped his fingers in front of Bingley’s glassy gaze. The man jumped
. “Focus, man! Did she return your attentions?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, she seemed quite put out.”

  Darcy scowled. What mischief was this? If Lydia had returned Bingley’s attention, he would think the girl had paid an herb witch to hex his friend, perhaps to prank her sister. The woman had that kind of spirit, though he had never sensed true malice in her. Still, mischief was sometimes as harmful as malicious intent.

  There was a knock on the door and a footman entered. “Sir. A Miss Elizabeth Bennett to see you.”

  Charles lurched to his feet, grabbed his head with a groan, and sank back down on the couch.

  Elizabeth stormed into the room a moment later. “I know the way, thank you very much!”

  Darcy struggled not to wince as she appeared, eyes flashing and colour in her cheeks.

  “Mr Bingley. May I speak with you?” She ignored Darcy, and he did not know how he felt about that. Was he a man who was so easy to ignore?

  “Miss Elizabeth,” Charles said, voice faint. “How utterly delightful to see you.”

  He pushed to his feet, hands lowering to his sides, and squared his shoulders. Darcy had never seen a look so miserable on a man’s face, as if he were facing an executioner. He eyed Elizabeth. . .perhaps Bingley was facing the executioner.

  “May I inquire after your sister?”

  “Which one, Mr Bingley?” Scorn lashed through the room with the crack of a whip. Bingley paled, then reddened.

  “I do not know what came over me, I swear it.” Charles sank back down to the chaise. “My mind was muddled, and it was as if I was watching myself from a distance.“

  “Were you drinking?” she demanded. “It’s no excuse, but it is something I can tell my sister to help mend her heart.”

  “I’d had nothing but the spicy herbal fruit juice Jane—Miss Bennet—packed.”

  “Spicy? Jane avoids spicy flavours at all costs. Did she drink it?”