by Jennifer Joy
Mr. Jolly looked around and dropped his voice. “We could not tell you before we saw to your basic needs, Miss Elizabeth. He made us promise. Allow me to say I do not believe Mr. Darcy did what they accuse him of doing.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “Of what is Mr. Darcy accused?”
“The murder of Marquess Malbrooke.”
Chapter 21
“It cannot be!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
The innkeeper pulled a newspaper out from under his bar. “It is all over the papers,” he said.
Elizabeth looked at the date at the top of the newspaper. Three days ago.
He pushed the paper toward her, saying, “That came yesterday. Marquess Malbrooke was a close friend of the Prince Regent and, unfortunately for Mr. Darcy, his grandfather’s estate owns most of this village.”
That news boded ill for Mr. Darcy.
She asked, “Did the marquess grow up here?”
Mr. Jolly shook his head. “His mother, Lady Honoria, did. Her father passed away many years ago, and her brother, Lord Chadwell, inherited. He is the magistrate.”
That explained the harsh looks. It was a miracle they had not hanged Mr. Darcy.
The driver added, “They are fiercely loyal to the family on whom their livelihood depends. Pray do not blame them, miss. Mr. Jolly convinced them to hold Mr. Darcy as a prisoner until Lord Chadwell returns from London.”
Elizabeth’s heart hammered against her ribs. “When is Lord Chadwell expected to return?”
The innkeeper said, “Any moment. I sent a messenger to alert him we had captured Mr. Darcy and are keeping him here until he could see to him. It was the only way we could prevent the villagers from hanging Mr. Darcy yesterday.”
Elizabeth’s breath trembled as she exhaled. Pulling the newspaper closer to her, she skimmed over the article. It did nothing to calm her. Not when the damning word “treason” was used liberally throughout the writing. She shoved the paper away from her. “They call him a traitor. He is no such thing. We were stranded on the road when this was said to have happened.”
Mr. Jolly pressed his thick finger against the paper and shoved it back to her. “Keep reading,” he ordered.
Her fingers shook as she pulled the paper closer. The little Elizabeth had read was horrible. It could not possibly get worse, could it? She read the rest of the article more carefully, reading once again when she thought her eyes had betrayed her.
A wave of nausea overwhelmed her. A personal effect of Mr. Darcy’s was found lying beside the body of the slain marquess. It did not say what the article was, but everything in their possession had been stolen the morning of the marquess' murder.
This was the work of Mr. Wickham.
Worry turned to anger in a heartbeat as the pieces of the puzzle fell together. “Did you not see a carriage with four black horses pass through here the same day the crime is said to have transpired?” she demanded. “There were two horses tied to the back. A bay and a sorrel. It would have been difficult to miss.”
The driver frowned. “The stable has two new horses — a sorrel and a bay. Lord Chadwell’s steward purchased them. But I do not recall seeing a carriage.”
“He must have sold the horses for the money, then continued in the carriage to London,” Elizabeth mumbled through clenched teeth.
The men regarded her in silence as she pondered. She had known Mr. Wickham was up to something. Why else had he left them alive? But she would never have suspected this.
Mr. Darcy would be tried as a traitor to his country. He would be publicly humiliated for a crime of which he was innocent. A hanging would be merciful compared to what awaited him. At least it was quick. But, no. Mr. Darcy would be shown no compassion. His would be the slow, agonizing, torturous death of a man accused of treason. He would be drawn and quartered before a bloodthirsty crowd.
Elizabeth could not allow that to happen. Mr. Wickham must not get away with it.
She needed to help Mr. Darcy, but she did not know how to do it alone. Looking at the driver and Mr. Jolly, she asked, “Why did you help Mr. Darcy? Do you not stand to lose favor among your peers for assisting a man they believe to be a traitor?”
Mr. Jolly stood taller, puffing out his thick chest. “My second son, Robert, is under the command of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam — a fine man I am proud to call a friend.”
Elizabeth recognized the name. “He is Mr. Darcy’s cousin.”
The innkeeper continued, “Mr. Darcy was so cold and weak when he arrived at the village, his words were incoherent when he was found and brought here. Once the villagers heard his name, they would not listen to him. They knew what he was accused of from the recently arrived papers. Word had spread like fire in a dry hayfield about the marquess’ murder.”
“But you did not believe the papers?” she asked.
“Given Mr. Darcy’s state, and he being a relation of Colonel Fitzwilliam, I did not believe he could have had anything to do with the murder. You see, I received a letter months ago from my Robert describing a fine dinner he had enjoyed at Darcy House with Colonel Fitzwilliam. He said Mr. Darcy served them the finest brandy he had ever tasted.”
Elizabeth waited for more proof beyond the quality of Mr. Darcy’s brandy and the reputation of his cousin, but there was none. The brandy must have been truly extraordinary.
Mr. Jolly shifted his weight. “Acting on my presumption, I also sent my youngest son. He rode our fastest horse to Robert, so he could communicate with the colonel regarding his cousin.”
“Is the colonel on his way?” Elizabeth gripped the edge of the counter.
“My son returned late last night. It is in God’s hands now.”
Elizabeth was not content with his answer. She asked, “Did Mr. Darcy say nothing of the abandoned cottage? We traveled with him, and our presence is proof of his innocence.”
The driver looked down at his rough hands, speaking slowly. “The man who found Mr. Darcy at the edge of the village was none other than the brother of Lord Chadwell’s land steward. Once Mr. Darcy identified himself, he did not have a chance of defending himself or offering proof of any kind.”
Mr. Jolly said, “Mr. Darcy was in a bad state when he was found. He mumbled insistently, like he had something of import to say, but his words were unintelligible. He was half frozen to death.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and pressed her hand over her mouth to contain her sorrow.
She heard Mr. Jolly say, “I did not want the blood of a good man on my hands, miss. I tried to buy him some time by convincing my neighbors to wait for the magistrate, reminding them how they stood to benefit from pleasing him and allowing for the colonel to come to Mr. Darcy’s aid.”
Elizabeth lowered her hand and opened her eyes. One thing was clear to her: if help came, it would arrive too late.
With clarity came purpose and the calm she needed to think clearly. She said, “It was wise of you to appeal to their pride like that. The villagers stand to look better before the magistrate if they hand Mr. Darcy over to him rather than deal with him themselves.”
He nodded. “After a while, when things had calmed down some, I took a plate of food to Mr. Darcy. It was near dark by then. I told the blacksmith, who has a storage room we use as a prison cell on occasion, that it would not do for the man to die of hunger before the magistrate saw him.”
“You were allowed to see him? How was he?” Elizabeth held her breath.
Mr. Jolly would not look her in the eye, nor did he answer her question. “The smithy took the silverware away. Mr. Darcy had to eat with his hands. I daresay he is better today than he was yesterday and will improve all the more when I send another plate over.”
Elizabeth felt numb, her active imagination supposing the worst. In her mind’s eye, she saw Mr. Darcy laying broken and battered on a bed of moldy straw in a dark prison cell.
The innkeeper continued, “By then, he knew the gravity of his situation. His pleas on your behalf had been ignored, and it was
not until I mentioned his cousin that Mr. Darcy trusted me enough to mention you once again. He begged me to seek help for you. He was insistent. But by then the hour was late, and I was being watched.”
The driver said, “This morning, we convinced some men to come with us to see if Mr. Darcy’s claim of walking along the roadway was true. We saw his footprints as clear as day, but the men were convinced he had murdered Marquess Malbrooke, then hid away at the abandoned cabin. They explained your presence by claiming you had helped him establish an alibi. We were on our way to the cabin when we saw you.”
Elizabeth felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs. “Despite all that proof, they still do not believe him?”
The driver shook his head, saying, “And now you are under suspicion too, miss. They are bent on punishing Mr. Darcy out of misplaced loyalty, and they are convinced you helped him.”
“During a snowstorm with a feverish gentleman? It makes no sense,” Elizabeth gasped, resting her forehead against her palm, feeling weighed down.
The driver agreed. “Few things do when emotions are riled. In their eyes, Mr. Darcy killed the nephew of their employer. Plus, it is on the front of most of the newspapers, so they argue it must be fact. Men have died for much less.”
Mr. Jolly added, “Mr. Darcy’s best defense is to be handed over to the magistrate, who will see he is fairly tried in London. Mr. Darcy’s family will ensure he is justly treated.”
Elizabeth’s heart raced. “No! If they hand Mr. Darcy over to the courts, he will be tried as a traitor. It would go far worse for him. Not only will he die a horrible death, but his name will be dragged through the mire. His whole family will be made to suffer for a crime he did not commit.” Panic choked her throat as she thought of young Miss Darcy. She had already suffered enough at the hand of Mr. Wickham.
Elizabeth would never forgive herself if she allowed this fate to befall a man she knew was innocent.
She had to do something.
An idea took hold of Elizabeth, and she latched onto it. “You said Mr. Darcy was at the blacksmith’s?”
Her question was met with silence.
“I must go and see him,” she said, turning toward the door, her shoulders set and her head high with determination.
The innkeeper called after her, “You must be cautious, miss. If you are seen sympathizing with Mr. Darcy, you are putting your life in danger.”
Elizabeth answered, “I only wish to see him as you have done.”
“I am not suspected of assisting a murderous traitor. You are. As are your sister and Mr. Bingley. You must think of them.”
Elizabeth’s steps slowed, but she did not stop. She could not.
Jane would never allow a gentleman to suffer when it was in her power to prove his innocence. And Mr. Bingley was Mr. Darcy’s friend. If he could have stood without someone to hold him up, Mr. Bingley would march to the blacksmith’s along with her.
Ignoring the warnings called after her, Elizabeth stepped out of doors, inquiring about the location of the blacksmith shop once she was away from the inn. She was pointed to a brick building at the edge of the village square.
A sinewy man stood over an anvil, forging a horseshoe with a large hammer. There was a paddock to one side of his work area. Inside, were two horses — the bay and the sorrel.
Elizabeth watched him, examining the surroundings for any hint which might help her approach him.
He looked up and nodded politely, wiping his forehead against his shirtsleeve. He seemed kind enough.
Two men emerged from the shadows of his forge. A chain dangled from the hand of one of the men. They both wore satisfied grins. “That will teach him not to tangle with Chadwell’s kin,” said the man with the chain.
The blacksmith’s eyes flickered worriedly over to Elizabeth in a silent plea for the men not to speak so roughly before a lady.
Elizabeth’s blood boiled. She wished to wipe the self-satisfied sneers off of their faces, but logic prevailed over emotion. The blacksmith’s reaction presented the perfect opportunity for her.
Stiffening her spine and putting on her haughtiest expression, Elizabeth addressed the smithy. “You have allowed a man — nay, a gentleman of the highest circles — to be beaten before your magistrate has heard his case? What will Lord Chadwell say?”
The two men escaped as quickly as they could, leaving before she could direct her ire at them like the cowards they were. Elizabeth wanted to spit at them as they passed, but she was a lady. And she would make sure the blacksmith knew it.
Before he could reply, she said, “I demand to see your prisoner. Take me to him.”
He blustered. “I apologize, miss, but the prisoner is in no state to be seen.”
She took a step forward, raising her chin and glaring at him. “And whose fault is that?”
He looked down, probably wishing the earth would swallow him whole so he could get away from her.
She pressed on mercilessly. “I will see how you treat your prisoners, so I may make a full report to Lord Chadwell when he arrives.”
She entered the forge with every intention of walking past the blacksmith to the room where Mr. Darcy was held. The shop was not large. It would not be difficult to find him.
“Miss, I beg of you to go no further. It is not a sight for a lady to see.” The blacksmith stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“Who is the constable in this village? I wish to speak with him directly.”
The blacksmith shuffled his feet. “I am the constable, miss.”
As she had supposed. She continued, “Had you seen to your duties properly, you would have ensured the safety of your prisoner. You would have seen to his basic needs. Have you allowed Mr. Darcy water to clean himself? Has he been given food to eat? Or would you have him fall ill and die under your watch?”
He continued shuffling, unable to give a reply.
She twirled on her heel and stepped toward the square, saying in a loud voice, “I will do what you refuse to do, and I will ensure Lord Chadwell hears of it. I will tell him how the sensibilities of a lady were tested to the limits, perhaps marring her for the rest of her life, when his constable allowed his prisoner to suffer violence at the hands of those who would sooner kill him than allow the gentleman a fair and just trial. Is that the kind of justice your magistrate stands for?”
Elizabeth had no time to doubt her arguments. She could only hope they hit their mark.
The blacksmith caught up with her, standing in front of her with his palms held up.
“Pray do not trouble yourself, miss. I will see to it myself. Pray make no mention of this to Lord Chadwell,” he begged.
Elizabeth pinched her lips together and arched her neck haughtily as she had often seen Miss Bingley do. “I will consider it.”
“I will get him a plate of food and a basin of water,” the blacksmith said, crossing the square in short time, heading in the direction of the inn.
In case anyone was looking, Elizabeth pretended to stand vigil at the entrance of the forge. When her impatience got the better of her, she grabbed the keys she had seen dangling by a hook near the anvil and raced through the shadows to the back of the shop.
A thick, wooden door with an opening covered in bars loomed before her. Mr. Darcy must be inside.
Fumbling the keys in her hands, her haste making her nervous, Elizabeth tried first one, then another.
She heard rustling on the other side of the door, but she did not stop to look through the bars or speak. Time was of the essence.
The fifth key clicked, and she pushed the door open with a loud creak.
Mr. Darcy stood in the center of the dark room. There was not even straw on the floor to soften the stone surface.
Elizabeth’s heart swelled as tears blurred her vision. She entered the prison cell to press her cold fingers gently over Mr. Darcy’s purple, swollen cheeks, careful not to touch the cuts where the blood had already dried against his skin.
; Chapter 22
Miss Elizabeth’s cool fingers against his burning skin were heaven. Darcy wanted to wrap his arms around her … after he shook some sense into her.
“Why are you here? Do you realize what you have done?” He stepped back, away from her comforting touch.
Her words were as sharp as his. “Some thanks for saving your life!”
Before he could expound on the folly of her thinking, she grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the dark room. Darcy followed blindly, the sunlight reflecting off the snow hurting his eyes when she flung open another door.
Blinking madly, Darcy realized he stood in the middle of a muddy paddock just as Miss Elizabeth shoved a bridle at his chest. Too slowly, he gained his bearings and the use of his senses. Miss Elizabeth led a horse out of the paddock and around to the back where they were not so easily seen.
She climbed to the top of the fence and hopped on the back of the sorrel gelding. He knew that gelding. It was his gelding.
Darcy should have told Miss Elizabeth she had chosen the horse that gave his stable boys the most grief. The ingrate liked to reach behind him and bite.
But Miss Elizabeth took off and there was no time to do anything except fling his leg over the back of Bingley’s bay to give her chase. The danger of what she had done sharpened Darcy’s senses.
Carriages and horsemen had trampled down the snow on the main road, but it was slippery, cold, and wet. They would make better time on the road, but they would draw more attention to themselves. However, if they went off of the main road, their trail would be easily followed in the fresh snow.
Darcy weighed their options as he caught up to Miss Elizabeth. The agonizingly pain he experienced with each jolting step of his horse darkened his vision, but Darcy gritted his teeth and pressed on.
“We are too conspicuous,” he grimaced, signaling they take a turn off of the main road.
Slowing to a canter, Miss Elizabeth smiled. “You mean ladies do not ride without a saddle in their morning dresses in this bitter cold?”