by Jennifer Joy
Darcy was stunned. Now he was the one thinking irrationally?
Richard was no help. He grinned open-mouthed at Miss Lucas.
How could Darcy make them see? He did not doubt Elizabeth’s ability to ride against the best jockeys in the nation in the Derby, but the risk was too great. If anything went wrong — if her cap slipped, or the silk shirt clung to her form, or the breeches … Dear Lord, the breeches. Darcy swallowed hard. Elizabeth was slight, but she was unquestionably a woman. Her ruin would be public, and nothing he could do would shield her from the harshness of Society’s rebuke. Her sisters’ prospects would be ruined, and her mother would never let her forget it. While Bingley’s attachment to Miss Bennet seemed genuine, Darcy did not know if Bingley could withstand the pressure his sisters would place upon him. Elizabeth would shoulder all the blame, and Darcy would always wonder if he could have come up with a better solution. Why could he not fix this?
“There is no time. We must act now,” Richard stopped ogling at Miss Lucas long enough to say.
Fitzwilliam stepped closer to Elizabeth. She nodded, her chin firm and determined. For him. For his freedom. Well, he cared for her freedom, too. His gain should not be her loss.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, her closeness grounding him while his head spun. “Do you not understand that it would kill me if you were hurt … or killed? I will not lose you. I love you, Elizabeth. I love you so much it hurts.”
Her eyes met his, their clarity blurred with tears. She smiled, and he felt her hands at his cravat, her fingers trailing up his lapel to his collar. Darcy sucked in his breath, his body trembling with the restraint it took not to pull her into his arms.
A finger brushed against the bandage at his neck, her eyes widening and a tear spilling down her cheek. He pulled her hands away, enveloping them in his own, his heart wrenching in agony as the clock ticked away the minutes and he had no better solution to offer.
Mr. Bennet appeared at their side, placing one hand on Darcy’s shoulder and the other on Elizabeth’s. “My Lizzy can do it.” He wiped his cheeks, his voice strong. “I have tried to shield my girl from harm, and yet, without knowing it, I am the one responsible for dragging her into the middle of this dangerous web. We cannot always protect the ones we love, but if we let our fears guide us, then we miss out on living. On loving. Do not make the same mistake I have made, Mr. Darcy. Let her help you. Let her ride in the race.”
“Oh, Papa,” Elizabeth cried, burying her face in her father’s chest and wrapping her arms around his middle.
Bingley sniffed at his side, dabbing at his eyes. “It is a beautiful moment.”
Richard cleared his throat excessively. “Beautiful.”
Miss Lucas kept looking up and down the corridor. “I hate to interrupt a tender scene, but if I am to help Lizzy get ready for the race, you gentlemen must leave.”
Croft helped the jockey into the box stall, draping the silks over the wall as he removed them.
Oakley ran inside, holding up another change of silks in the same color and handing them to Croft. “I apologize for the odor, but we cannot leave our man naked. I stripped these from the other jockey in the privy. He has no use for them right now.”
Elizabeth’s heart jumped wildly in her chest.
The men got ready to leave, but Fitzwilliam held back. Turning to her, leaning close and speaking in a low voice, he said, “The Prince Regent presents the award to the winning rider and his owner. You cannot merely run the race. You must win. Whatever you do, stay away from the podium. You must stay out of the line of fire, if it comes to that.”
Elizabeth took her role seriously, but she was so full of joy, she had little room for failure in her mind. “You really are a spy. I knew you were not trying to get out of a debt.” She stopped, the words striking her like a bolt of lightning.
There never had been a debt. What were the words? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember. Something about putting a price on life … settling debts … people being betrayed by those they trusted.
Oh no.
She reached out blindly, latching on to Fitzwilliam’s coat lapels. “Wait. Wait, I have it. The only reason I even considered your story might be true was because of what John said to me outside Lucas Lodge. I thought he spoke of you, but he could not have been.” Her vision cleared, and she sought out Charlotte. “His strange behavior. His warning not to trust anyone. The horse and this race. It is not your father at all. It is your brother. It is John.”
Charlotte pressed her eyes closed. “He sold his soul to pay our debts. I cannot deny the possibility. He was furious when we arrived here with Father. He did not want us here.”
Fitzwilliam asked, “The shot fired at my hat? Could that have been a warning from him?”
Charlotte blinked hard again. “John is an excellent shot. Mr. Darcy, if my brother is involved in this scheme, I beg of you to stop him before he does something for which we could never forgive him.”
In four long strides, Fitzwilliam had run the length of the corridor. “We will find him.” Bending over to Jim’s level, he said, “I am trusting you to keep Miss Elizabeth from being discovered. You will go with them to the stables and distract anyone from getting too close to her. She must make it to the starting gate.”
Jim nodded solemnly, placing one hand over his heart. “I swear on me life.”
Oakley and Jim stood guard at the open ends of the shed while Papa chased behind the pack of gentleman.
With Charlotte’s help, Elizabeth dressed in the breeches and silks in short time. The piece of wardrobe that proved most difficult was fitting the cap over Elizabeth’s hair. Charlotte removed several of her own pins to secure the cap to her head.
When that was done, Elizabeth walked between Charlotte and Jim on one side and Oakley on the other.
“Mr. Robson and Joe are the ones most likely to recognize you, Lizzy. Jim and I will keep them busy and away from you,” Charlotte said.
Oakley said, “Try not to sway when you walk, and keep your head down, Miss.”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt into her throat. “You had better not call me that.”
“Right, you are. I will not make the same mistake again. We all know what is at stake.”
“Disqualification and absolute ruin,” Elizabeth mumbled.
They walked in silence the rest of the way to the stables. To save the Prince Regent and put the bad men in prison, so Fitzwilliam was free to live without fear of their retaliation — Elizabeth’s reputation was the least of her worries.
True to his word, Jim chattered nonstop from the moment they entered the stables, and Joe was surprised to see his little brother there. He asked questions, always pointing away from Elizabeth. He was such a darling sport, Elizabeth was sorely tempted to kiss him on his freckled cheek.
She flung her leg over Trophonius, letting Jim help her feet into the stirrups. Trophonius sensed her nerves, growing as uneasy as she felt perched precariously atop the ebony giant.
Oakley disappeared, but with the ease with which Elizabeth made it to the starting line, she knew he had smoothed the way. It felt surreal, like a dream.
The track circled around a verdant field where a grand procession led by matching white horses pulled the Prince Regent’s carriage to a platform covered in red velvet and cluttered with enormous arrangements of flowers.
The other horses pressed around her, and she kept her head down to keep from being noticed.
Elizabeth wiped her palms against her breeches and tried to calm the fluttering in her stomach before she got sick. Taking a deep breath, she recalled the memory she most cherished. In a flash, she was racing Fitzwilliam over the fields. She laced her fingers through Trophonius’ black mane, pretending it was Tempest’s, the treasured memories turning her fear to unbridled joy, her nerves to excitement. She was ready.
The pistol cracked through the air. The race was on.
Trophonius leapt forward, and Elizabeth clung to his back with all he
r might. He was much bigger than Tempest. The jolt of his stride might have unseated her in a sidesaddle. But she straddled the stallion, holding herself up as the other riders did, clods of dirt and grass flinging into her face.
They flew down the field. Tears pulled from her eyes, blurring her competition. Her vision unreliable, she tried to listen, but between the roar of the crowd, the thunder of dozens of hooves, and her own galloping heart, Elizabeth heard nothing.
She was surrounded, deaf, and mostly blind. She needed to break away from the pack and get into the front. Blinking furiously, she tried again to look ahead.
A rail to her left, a horse to her right, and two horses blocking her from the front as best as she could tell. All she saw were the bright colors of the silks bobbing around her.
Her face stung from flying debris. Her legs quivered and burned. What if she did not win? What if they were too late? What if John could not be stopped? What if The Four Horsemen escaped capture again? What if Fitzwilliam was never free of them?
Elizabeth gritted her teeth together. She would not succumb to fear or doubt. Not when she had so much worth fighting for. Fitzwilliam loved her.
And she loved him.
The two horses blocking her vied for the lead, pushing against each other and creating a gap at the rail. If she squeezed between the rail and her competitor, he could easily dismount her. Riding astride required muscles she had never developed. It was a tremendous risk.
The gap widened.
She went for it.
Chapter 33
Darcy ran, shouting and pushing his way through the milling crowd, clearing a way for Mr. Bennet, Bingley, Croft, and Richard toward the row of stands spotted along the edge of the field.
“There they are,” panted Mr. Bennet, pointing two more stands down the length of the track.
Sir William saw them before they climbed up the steps to the stand. “Mr. Darcy! This is a surprise! You are just in time. The race is about to begin. Would you like to join me and my family, sir? Along with the rest of you? I daresay I had expected Mr. Bennet to be here already, but I do not see Miss Elizabeth or Charlotte.” He craned his neck on the chance the ladies were hiding behind the gentlemen.
Darcy held up a hand. “Where is Mr. Lucas?”
“John?” Sir William asked in surprise.
“Yes. Where is he?” Darcy pressed.
Richard mumbled something to Mr. Bennet in a low voice, causing the older gentleman to slip past Darcy. Bowing to Lady Lucas, he said, “Lady Lucas, I beg of you to return to the inn with your children.”
“And miss the race? It is about to start!” exclaimed Sir William, his face turning a purplish-red.
The shot of a pistol cracked, and Darcy’s cry was drowned out by the excited crowd. Calming his panic, for it was only the starting pistol, he shouted into Sir William’s ear, “Where is your son? It is urgent I find him!”
Not taking his eyes off his horse in the field, Sir William shouted back, “How am I to know? I supposed he was with another acquaintance or with George at the stables. Look how grand Trophonius looks on the field. He is a champion!”
Mr. Bennet stood at the other end of the platform, his hands gripping the railing, his focus intent on Elizabeth. Darcy could not ask him to leave his post to search for John Lucas when he feared for his daughter.
Darcy turned to Croft and Bingley. “Stay here with the Lucases and Mr. Bennet. Keep an eye out. We do not know if their lives are in danger.”
Croft nodded. Bingley looked as pale as a tablecloth, but he swallowed hard and went to stand on the other side of the platform by Mr. Bennet.
Darcy glanced out to the field. Staying to watch was a luxury he could not permit himself.
The crowd shouted and cheered, their fists pumping the air as they called the names of their favorite horses.
Richard was already at the bottom of the steps when Darcy joined him. Jutting his thumb over his shoulder, he said, “I will go this way. If we do not find him before the race ends, we must force our way to the center of the field.”
Darcy was already searching, pausing to look at each face in the sea of people clamoring and pushing their way for a closer look. It would not be easy to claw his way through them if it came to that.
Face after face, he examined until they all started to resemble each other, and he had to remind himself of Mr. Lucas’ light brown hair, straight nose, and pinched features.
The noise of the crowd rose to a deafening roar, a mix of dismay and pleasure.
The race was over.
John was nowhere in sight.
Darcy was too late.
Elizabeth dropped down to the saddle, her legs screaming and her limbs shaking. She had done it. She had won.
Hands trembling, she checked her cap. It felt loose, but her hair had not escaped.
Oakley appeared at her side. “If you will give me the reins, I will lead you to the winner’s circle.”
Of all the questions she wished to ask him, she would not waste the little time she had by asking, “How did you get here?” Instead, she asked, “Did they catch him?”
The grim look on Oakley’s face made her stomach plummet to the ground. She looked around from the vantage point of her tall perch atop Trophonius and was instantly disheartened. How could she possibly pick out one man from a vast multitude?
“Keep your head down,” Oakley said, walking as slowly as they dared toward the podium where the Prince waited.
Elizabeth peeked through her lashes at the opulent carriage. Only royalty could afford such luxury. Gleaming gold, sparkling stones, and creamy white with a red velvet carpet running from the top of the platform to the height of the conveyance’s first step. Vibrant flower arrangements perfumed the air and cluttered the stand. It all looked so serene.
Several guards dressed in livery surrounded the winner’s circle. Elizabeth prayed they would prove themselves fit for their duty.
“Whatever you do, do not step in front of the Prince. Stay out of the line of fire,” Oakley instructed, stepping to the side to allow her to dismount.
If The Four Horsemen had not yet been captured, Elizabeth did not know what other option she had. She could not allow the Prince to be murdered in front of her, nor could she allow the villains responsible to go free when she might stop them.
Slipping her foot out of the stirrups, she slid down Trophonius’ side and would have tumbled straight to the ground had Oakley not steadied her.
“Are you steady enough?” he asked.
She nodded, feeling like a toddler taking her first steps as Oakley let go of her elbow and led Trophonius off to the side where the Prince could admire him without getting trampled.
Slowly, precariously, Elizabeth advanced to the podium, her steps slowing the more she concentrated on the faces and shouts around her. Where was Fitzwilliam? Or Mr. Lucas?
“Stop!” she heard a deep voice exclaim behind her. Her heart skipping a beat, she turned.
Fitzwilliam jumped over the fence, crossing the beaten track and racing toward her, arms waving and shouting. Several guards ran toward him.
“The Prince is waiting for you,” another guard boomed in front of her. She nearly gave her sex away when she nearly took his extended arm. Men did not take each other’s arms to help each other navigate stairs. They did not have gowns to trip over or wobbly legs to contend with.
She nodded, intent on keeping silent, and continued to the top of the platform where the Prince waited to make a show of presenting her with an award.
At his signal, a hush fell over the crowd.
Elizabeth prayed Fitzwilliam had made it past the guards.
“Over there! The shooter!” rumbled a voice from the murmuring crowd.
Elizabeth looked behind her to the stand. Mr. Croft pointed. “Over there!”
Mr. Bingley and Father dropped to the floor of the stand.
“Get down!” Mr. Croft shouted again, pushing Sir William and Lady Lucas down just as the
wood railing in front of them burst into splinters. A puff of smoke lingered near them.
Screams and cries filled the air, the crowd seething.
Crack!
Crack!
The shooting had started. They were too late.
Elizabeth saw Fitzwilliam out of the corner of her eye and the Prince in the other. She had one chance, and she had to take it.
Stepping in front of the Prince Regent, she shoved him with all her strength, sending him tumbling backwards into his carriage.
Chapter 34
Elizabeth saw the shock on the Prince’s face. She would hang for what she had done, but he was out of immediate danger.
Just one more look at the crowd, then she would get off the platform. If the guards did not seize her first.
“No!”
Elizabeth turned in time to see Fitzwilliam jump in front of her.
Crack!
He stiffened in the air, and Elizabeth watched in horror as Fitzwilliam dropped with a deep thud to the platform. She screamed, but the Prince’s guards held her fast. She struggled and writhed, screaming for Fitzwilliam.
He lay there, just out of her reach. Limp. Lifeless.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared, and the next thing Elizabeth knew, the guards had released their hold on her, and she stumbled forward. To Fitzwilliam. Collapsing at his side, she ran her hands over the tear at his chest. There was no blood. Where was the blood? Why was there no blood?
A warm hand touched her fingers, and she cried when she heard Fitzwilliam groan.
“You are alive!” She showered his face with kisses, wiping her tears off his cheeks.
“I say!” a nasal voice protested from behind them, but she did not care. Fitzwilliam was alive, his hands were in her hair, and his lips were pressed against hers. Heaven surged through her, and she forgot their audience as his strong arms pulled her closer, his ragged breath teasing her skin and lighting her on fire.