Darcy and Deception

by Victoria Kincaid

  “I would readily send her back to Hertfordshire in my own carriage,” Darcy said. “But she must agree to such a journey—which she would only do with a good reason. And that requires an explanation given in a private conversation.” Damn the rules of propriety! They even made it difficult to save a woman’s life. “It will not be easy to find her alone.”

  Richard quirked a grin at his cousin. “Perhaps you could arrange a private conversation tonight.”

  Darcy shook his head. “I will have no opportunity to dine with the colonel.”

  “I was thinking about later in the night.”

  Darcy regarded him blankly.

  “Come, Darce, surely you have— Don’t tell me you have never climbed into a lady’s bedchamber?”

  “I have not,” Darcy said stiffly. Many men of his acquaintance believed such activities to be good sport, relishing the danger, but Darcy had never counted himself among their number.

  His cousin smirked. “Well, I have—more than once. I can give you some advice.”

  Was Richard serious? “Pray tell, did you ever climb into a lady’s bedchamber when she did not anticipate your arrival and had expressed a distaste for your company?”

  “Ah, no. I take your point.” Richard frowned. “Those are different circumstances.” They were both silent until his cousin spoke again. “Still, we dare not delay; tomorrow could be too late. A bedchamber is an excellent place for a private conversation.”

  Darcy was mildly scandalized. “Richard!”

  “I will accompany you to the house and keep watch from below,” Richard promised.

  The very thought of discovery made Darcy shudder. “How reassuring.”

  “I have been professionally trained in detecting enemy combatants.” When Darcy did not respond, Richard said, “I will happily listen to other ideas.”

  No doubt there were fifty far superior plans, but none came to mind. Finally, Darcy sighed. “If I do not have a better idea by this evening, we will try your plan. Heaven help me.”

  ***

  Darcy surveyed the back of Colonel Forster’s house. It was a simple two-story brick structure with windows overlooking the garden. With the aid of a bright moon, he and Richard had observed the house for an hour and had seen no flickers of candlelight or signs of movement. They could reasonably assume everyone in the house was asleep.

  Somewhere to their left a dog barked. Both Darcy and his cousin froze, but no one seemed to be inclined to investigate the cause.

  “She mentioned that her window overlooks the garden,” Darcy said in a low voice.

  Richard peered at the two windows on the upper floor. “But which one is hers?”

  Darcy took a deep breath. “I will simply have to guess.” His cousin’s eyes widened in alarm. “This was your idea,” he reminded Richard.

  “I am realizing how much simpler such a scheme is when the lady in question is eagerly awaiting your arrival.” He fiddled with a button on his cuff, seeming uncertain about their plan for the first time since they had devised it.

  Darcy did not respond. Despite his initial reluctance, he had concluded this was the best and fastest way to alert Elizabeth to the danger. Indeed, it might be the only way to ensure a private conversation; however, it was far from being the least risky plan available. Hopefully he could quickly convince Elizabeth not to scream. Or the night might end with him being arrested for trespassing—or perhaps being shot by Colonel Forster.

  “I cannot decide who is a bigger fool: you for concocting this plan or me for acquiescing to it,” he muttered to Richard.

  “You are not foolish, just desperate to save Elizabeth’s life.”

  “Desperate men are often fools,” Darcy said, but Richard’s reminder stiffened his resolve. This risk was necessary for the sake of Elizabeth’s safety.

  “I shall hoot like an owl if anyone approaches,” Richard said in a low voice.

  Darcy clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “If you ever need assistance eloping to Gretna Green, I will provide you with the same service.”

  Richard snorted. “This is a lot of trouble for someone who is not even eloping. While you are up there, ask if she would like to accompany you on a journey to Scotland. Kill two birds with one stone.”

  Darcy chuckled softly.

  Then he returned his attention to the dark and silent house. The longer he waited, the more reasons he would find to abandon the venture. “I will go now.” Creeping closer to the house, he examined the wall for convenient hand- and footholds, thankful that the garden fence would shield him from the street.

  Hmm. If he climbed onto the portico over the back door, he could reach either upper-floor window and peer into the rooms. The sashes above the ground-floor windows would provide meager but adequate footholds to then climb into one of those rooms. As boys, he and Richard had delighted in climbing the outside of Pemberley, entering random rooms through unsecured windows. His mother had chastised them for startling the maids, but his father had been quietly amused.

  Richard cupped his hands to give Darcy a boost up to the roof of the portico. Standing there and peering up at the windows, Darcy felt absurdly like the lover in some tawdry novel. Except that he had no romantic intentions—well, that was not the purpose of this visit. He only wanted to talk with Elizabeth, which somehow took the endeavor to new levels of absurdity.

  Standing on the portico, Darcy peeked through one window, hoping to identify something through the glass. Fortunately, the curtains had not been drawn, revealing a bed draped in white. There appeared to be only one slumbering form, so the room did not belong to the colonel and his wife. But it could be Lydia’s. If Darcy entered her room, he could be accused of compromising her and might be forced to make an offer of marriage. That thought was nearly enough to make him swear off the entire enterprise.

  He examined the room for several minutes, but he could conceive of no way to ascertain the identity of the room’s occupant without actually entering it. He would simply have to take his chances.

  After saying a silent prayer, Darcy transferred his feet to the barely adequate foothold provided by the sash over the ground-floor window before carefully pushing open the upper window. Fortunately, it was not latched, and the pane swung inward noiselessly. It would be a tight squeeze, but there was sufficient space for him to enter the room. Darcy’s feet pushed off the lower-level window sash as he simultaneously heaved himself up into the open window. Seconds later he was through the window, crouching on the worn carpet covering the floor and praying that nobody had heard his entrance.

  Chapter Ten

  The creaking of a floorboard roused Elizabeth to wakefulness. In the fog of sleep, she initially supposed the noise to be made by the colonel’s maid, but why would the girl be by the window?

  Opening her eyelids a crack, Elizabeth could see that the window was open and a dark figure was standing in front of it, silhouetted against the gray night sky. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and sweat dampened her palms. A man was in her room!

  Closing her eyes again, she feigned sleep. Elizabeth was the only one who could stop him and alert the household to this threat. Frantically she recalled the objects on the table beside her bed. Could any be of use as a weapon?

  Another creak of the floorboard announced the man’s location: a few feet from the bed. The time to act was now. Simultaneously opening her eyes and thrusting out her arm, she grabbed the heavy brass candle holder from the table and hurled it at the dark figure.

  The candle holder found its mark, striking him above the eye. He grunted and flinched away but did not fall. Elizabeth opened her mouth, preparing to cry out.

  “Elizabeth, I pray you, do not scream!” the figure said in a familiar—albeit hushed—voice.

  Shocked, she froze in the bed, taking a moment to recognize the voice. “Mr. Darcy?” Hurriedly she pulled the covers up to hide her chest; her modest nightrail was completely inadequate to shield her from his gaze.

  What was happeni
ng? Surely this was a dream! Of all the men of her acquaintance, Mr. Darcy was the least likely to appear unexpectedly in a woman’s bedchamber. But by the same token, he was unlikely to be here for some nefarious reason. Had the figure revealed itself to be Mr. Wickham, her screams would have awoken the entire town of Brighton.

  “Eliz—Miss Bennet. Do not be alarmed,” he urged in a low voice. “I wish you no harm.”

  She licked dry lips. “What do you wish with me?” After all, his idea of harm and hers could be quite different. If he were discovered in her bedchamber, it could do great damage to her reputation. Were he a different man, she might believe him to be executing an underhanded scheme to force her to marry him, but surely Mr. Darcy would not resort to such machinations.

  “I merely wished to converse with you—in private.”

  She could not stifle a chuckle. “Surely there are less drastic ways to obtain a private audience.”

  “The subject is rather urgent.”

  “Urgent?” she echoed acidly. “Then by all means, welcome to my bedchamber.”

  Ignoring her sarcasm, he edged closer to the bed so he could lower his voice. “I believe Wickham presents a danger to you.”

  Elizabeth huffed out a breath. This again? He had risked her reputation to repeat a warning he had given that afternoon? She stifled an impulse to demand that he leave her room at once; no, the fastest way to be rid of him would be to let him speak his piece, refuse his entreaties to abandon Mr. Wickham, and then demand his departure.

  “I see,” she said slowly as she leaned toward the bedside table and lit the candle in the holder she had not thrown. The yellow glow revealed a small cut over one of Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows. Elizabeth refused to feel regret; if he chose to break into her bedchamber, he must accept the consequences, including projectile candlesticks.

  Still, it was most disconcerting having him loom over her while she crouched under the sheets. She slid to the far edge of the bed and gestured to the other side of the generously sized mattress. “This discussion may take a while. Why do you not seat yourself?”

  Mr. Darcy regarded the space she indicated as he might a pit of venomous snakes. Elizabeth supposed it was rather a bold offer. But he had climbed through her window; surely he had forfeited any right to be shocked.

  “Very well.” He perched himself so gingerly on the far edge of the bed that he was in danger of slipping off at any moment. She no longer entertained any doubts about whether he had inappropriate intentions. In fact, another woman might have been insulted at his eagerness to avoid her proximity.

  Once situated, however, Mr. Darcy appeared to be distracted. He stared at her face…no, her hair. It was unbound, a mass of dark curls spilling around her face and shoulders. He would only have seen her with her hair pinned into place; of course, he was staring. No doubt it was a mess of snarls. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment; this was another reason gentlemen should not enter ladies’ bedchambers unannounced.

  No, he was the one who should be ashamed here, not Elizabeth. Lifting her chin, she tried to present herself with the composure of a lady while also shielding the front of her nightrail with the coverlet. “You came to issue a warning?” she prompted.

  He started, colored, and quickly averted his eyes. “Yes, er”—he cleared his throat—“Wickham is dangerous. I am concerned about your continued association with him.”

  She sighed. “Mr. Darcy, I believe we have had this conversation previously.”

  His eyes returned to her, the flicker of the candlelight was reflected in their dark blue depths. “It has acquired new urgency with some news I received today. But first, you must tell me why you keep company with Wickham.”

  “You are not my commanding officer. I must do no such thing.”

  He flushed but did not desist. “Did he…force himself on you?”

  “No!” Good Lord, had he actually envisioned such a horrible fate? How much anxiety had she occasioned the man?

  His brows knitted together. “Then why do you seek his company?” His weight shifted, bringing him a little closer to her half of the bed. “You are too sensible, too clever to befriend a man you cannot respect.”

  Despite the uncomfortable situation, the compliments warmed her heart. Still, she did not reply; she could not give him the truth and did not want to dishonor him with a lie.

  “Elizabeth?” he prompted. “You cannot tell me you are in love with him.”

  Her lips twisted in a rueful smile. “I suppose I cannot.”

  After another long pause he took a gentler tone. “You may confide in me. I will keep your confidences.”

  After a moment’s consideration, she shook her head; they were not her confidences to share. While she did not believe Mr. Darcy had colluded with Mr. Wickham—otherwise he would hardly be in her bedchamber demanding answers—she knew the colonel would be particularly appalled if she shared the truth with this man.

  Mr. Darcy swore under his breath, his hands clenching into fists. “Elizabeth, you do not understand the danger! You must avoid the man!”

  “And I repeat that I do not take orders from you.”

  The man made a noise of frustration. “You do not know how dangerous he is!”

  Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. Was it possible he spoke of more than Mr. Wickham’s dissolute character? “You must be more specific, sir, if you wish to persuade me.”

  Mr. Darcy sighed, and his eyes roamed about the room as if the answers might hang on the walls. “Very well. The Home Office believes him to be an agent of Napoleon’s.”

  “How do you know that?” The words burst from Elizabeth, immediately dashing any hope of concealing her shock.

  Mr. Darcy’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “You knew!”

  There was no reason to dissemble now. Although she had betrayed her promise, she could not help experiencing a profound sense of relief. Lying to Mr. Darcy had been profoundly uncomfortable. Elizabeth nodded wearily. “Yes, Colonel Forster informed me in Meryton.”

  Understanding dawned on the man’s face. “The colonel asked you to observe Wickham and report on his activities.”

  “Indeed. He hoped I could collect information about the man’s operation.”

  Mr. Darcy blew out a long breath. “So you harbor no tender feelings for Wickham?”

  “No, I assure you that pretending friendship has been a chore indeed.”

  “Why did you not inform me? I would have gladly rendered assistance!”

  Her hands plucked at the coverlet. “I promised the colonel I would reveal the truth to no one.”

  “But—!”

  His attitude irked Elizabeth. “You are not entitled to such information, as you are neither my father nor an agent of the Home Office.”

  Mr. Darcy’s shoulders sagged. “You are correct…as usual, Miss Elizabeth. I wish to be concerned with your affairs, but I do not have that privilege.”

  Elizabeth immediately regretted the harshness of her words. “I do appreciate your concern for my wellbeing.”

  Leaning toward her, he clasped one of her hands in both of his. When had he come so near her on the bed? “‘Concerned’ does not adequately describe my disposition. I have been frantic with anxiety.”

  She could not help being touched by his devotion. “I did declare that I have no intention of eloping to Gretna Green with the scoundrel.”

  His warm hands squeezed her fingers. “If only that were my sole concern! But, Elizabeth, a man has been killed—perhaps by Wickham himself. And today Colonel Fitzwilliam arrived; the Home Office believes a French spy by the name of Archibald Harrison will contact Wickham about passage across the Channel. This is a very dangerous situation.”

  Elizabeth sobered. Here was grave news indeed, but it only reinforced the importance of her efforts. “I assure you that I will assume no untoward risks, and I am under Colonel Forster’s protection.”

  Mr. Darcy scoffed. “He cannot watch over you every hour of the day.”

  “I assu
re you that I am exerting every possible caution.”

  “It is not sufficient! I have a carriage in Brighton. I beg you, allow me to send you home to Longbourn.”

  She withdrew her hand from his grasp. “No.”

  “I could not bear to lose you.” His voice was rough with emotion.

  The anguish in his voice gave her pause, but Elizabeth reminded herself that many in the war took far greater risks than she did. “No doubt many a soldier’s wife has expressed such sentiments.”

  He frowned. “How is that relevant?”

  Elizabeth pushed strands of hair from her eyes and continued in a softer voice. “I-I cannot fight as a soldier; this is the only way I may oppose the threat Napoleon represents to my country.”

  “B-But women do not fight in wars!” Her eyes must have been blazing, for Mr. Darcy immediately averted his gaze. After a long pause, he swallowed. “But I can see that such an argument will not dissuade you.”

  “Wise man.” Her words were clipped with anger.

  He said nothing for a full minute. “You believe in your purpose very strongly.”

  “I do.”

  Finally, his posture collapsed. “I am not pleased that you are stationed at the front lines, but I suppose that is not my decision to make.”

  “No.” She softened her tone. “You are not responsible for me. If I am hurt, the fault is not yours.”

  He shook his head with a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I do not feel responsible.”

  “No?” Elizabeth took a minute to consider. His repeated intrusions had provoked such irritation that she had not devoted much thought to his motivations.

  “No.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “My feelings toward you are unchanged. I still love and admire you. Were something to happen to you, I would be…quite…bereft.”

  Elizabeth could not breathe. Somewhere in the back of her mind she must have guessed he was still in love with her, but her devotion to her mission made it easy to ignore. Or perhaps she had deliberately avoided any thoughts on the subject.

  Her countenance must have registered her shock. Mr. Darcy edged closer to her on the bed. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to learn you are not enthralled with Wickham.” His voice was low and soft.