After Miss Baxter's departure, Darcy stood in the hall some minutes contemplating the ensuing encounter with a man who shared distinction with a select few of the most disruptive lot to have ever invaded his existence. It was an unkind but irrefutable truth, that at one time or another he had wished away every member of this circle, these intrusive individuals who delivered the sort of turmoil he so rigorously sought to avoid. But in a company comprised also of Wickham, Lydia, his esteemed brother-in-law, and own dearest Elizabeth, none were more discomposing than the man having a nice, leisurely game with himself in the next room.
Marquess Thornhaugh of the illustrious House of Russell had lived as a most notable standout among rakes and rogues belonging to the peerage, his infamy in its heyday impelling scandalmongers to dub him "the Black Sheep of Bedfordshire" for how deeply and consistently he embarrassed his father, the Duke of Bedford, with his open displays of unconscionably ill-bred behavior. Bedford's absolute contempt for his own heir throughout this long and gleeful spree of dissipation was a favorite feature in the sort of columns Darcy would never deign to peruse at the breakfast table, nor were the duke's endeavors to have Thornhaugh cast into Bedlam for the good of his health, and then lawfully renounced for the good of England.
Bedford's aspirations were never to be achieved, however, due to Thornhaugh's alliances formed over several years of observing enough latent corruption among the noble ranks to fill six journals, and possessing enough cleverness and charm to win favor among every rung of Society, from the commonest peasant to the Prince Regent himself.
Thornhaugh's secrets would remain so until the arrest attempt which led to his presumed drowning, down the slippery slope to the journals' whereabouts and straight on to his father's very public disgrace. As one of few names in the diaries not given the benefit of a pseudonym, Bedford's own evils were detrimentally exposed; and upon his ultimate humiliation the duke, unable to bear the low opinion of those with whom he had once enjoyed the utmost respect and reverence, then threw himself into Napoleonic exile. Thusly he had lived for close to ten years now, estranged from Society, his marriage, two daughters, and even his favorite son John, who had wed Georgiana in concurrence with the trial in which Thornhaugh was posthumously cleared of murdering the similarly disreputable Earl of Somerset over an unremitted debt, though speculation, particularly among Bedford's few remaining devotees, endured to this very day.
Good John Russell, caught in the middle of the whole wretched ordeal, had managed it all with absolute dignity partly owing the love and devotion of those he considered his true family, and with Georgie by his side was now perfectly content to let his brother's memory rest with his corpse at the bottom of the Thames, never to trouble him again.
Until now, it would seem.
But the Darcys' own connection to the notorious Black Sheep (or Blackbeard, as his nephew decided) had not all to do with Georgiana's ingenuous but inconvenient choice of suitor. Rather, the circumstances which placed such a man directly into their path began well before dear Georgie took a liking to John Russell, circumstances finally ending in tragedy for all parties concerned.
Darcy strove to clear his mind of such thoughts before entering the billiard room, where this living image of memories long suppressed was lining his next shot.
"Care for a game, ol' man?" he said airily.
Darcy ignored the invitation as he found the nearest table to lean upon, gaze levelled at this figure who truly looked as if he had resided at the river bottom all this time before sculling up to the surface for a bit of sport. Just how he'd escaped, where he'd been, and what he'd been doing all this time was the question at the top of his mind and the tip of his tongue, but it was far too soon to delve into so deep a subject at such a moment. As Darcy further considered where to begin, the subject of his intense study ere long became visibly irate. "Did no one ever teach you not to stare?"
The sharp reproof annoyed him just enough to make the following reply: "You might overlook so minor an impertinence in light of a rather severe and most recent occurrence in and around the premises. Perhaps you've heard?"
"No idea," he said dryly.
Gaze unfaltering, Darcy's expression softened into one of concern as he asked, "Were you harmed at all?"
"Do I look harmed?" A shot was made, knocking two balls into adjacent pockets.
"You have certainly looked better."
"I have also looked worse." He bent and cracked another perfect shot, ball banked off the cushion to fall into the side pocket. "Your nephew," he then said, "how long was he unaccounted for?"
"This night was the third."
"Has he been examined?" On Darcy's affirmative response, he added, "Thoroughly?"
Darcy knit his brow—"Thoroughly?"—and was instantly met with a fierce look and a hard SLAM of his stick against the table.
"Three whole days!" he shouted furiously. "Found parched and dazed in a grown man's grasp! I ask again—was the boy examined thoroughly?"
Darcy winced in horror at the insinuation which had not for an instant crossed his mind, nor anyone else's to his knowledge. "If not, he will be. I shall see to it."
He mumbled something of the "bloody ton" and their boundless stupidity before calming enough to resume his game.
On further, enraging contemplation, Darcy was moved to say, with grave sincerity, "You have my lifelong gratitude for ending Cullen's life. May he rot in whatever gorge he was dropped into."
He smirked at this. "And what of your wife's contribution? Have I your gratitude for that, as well?"
Darcy's eyes narrowed. "Though my wife may suffer the sting of conscience for some time, her virtue in my eyes remains impeccable, now and forever. None of your influence shall alter that."
"Ah, I see," he chuckled. "'Twas not her own free will that guided your good angel's actions, but rather my devilish influence."
"I deny not her free will and admire her courage all the more, which must be a disappointment to you. You have always taken pleasure in the corruption of others; but, alas! no such gratification is to be had under this roof."
"Indeed? Care to wager that assertion?"
Darcy's temper flared. "Do not trifle with me, Malcolm. This is my home, do you understand? My family. My life."
"From which I am ready to depart directly, now and forever," he snapped back. "Just have my brother come and remove me to his manor, this Summerhill, and I shall darken your house no longer," adding with a low growl, "not that I bloody asked to be welcomed here in the first place."
"No," said Darcy.
He paused in mid-play to look at him squarely. "No what?"
"John shan't be coming for you. Not today, and not tomorrow."
"He has refused to see me?"
"He has yet to know you are here, and at present believes the established narrative, that George was delivered in cryptic fashion by a standard gig that then stole away inexplicably. Few witnesses were present. Driver has yet to be identified, the descriptions of him regrettably insubstantial and conflicting. My butler swears he had but one leg and a shock of brownish-colored hair, while the footmen claim he had both legs and was red-haired, with very large ears. We are left rather baffled at the moment, but remain hopeful a lead to his whereabouts shall turn up by and by."
Darcy quirked a smile, returned with a severe stare and brusque retort: "Now you are trifling with me, Darcy. My request to your missus was made very plainly—"
"My wife acts not in your personal interest, but in what she feels is the correct course at the consequent moment. You might relate to that, sir, as you might understand your brother is—as we all are—utterly exhausted! I'll not have him bear the shock or burden of knowing you still live—not now. I can barely hold up myself! You know nothing of what we have endured of late!"
"You know nothing of what I know. Apart from my first inkling that something was amiss in the Darcy household, I caught upon arrival a whiff of soot in the air. Seems I missed quite the party. Oh that I may be invited to the next one!"
He paused to cough at length into his shirtsleeve. Darcy observed the guttural spasms in silence, upholding an aloof expression as that same sleeve was used also to wipe his mouth, leaving a stain of red on white linen.
"You are welcome at Pemberley," said Darcy quietly, "whether you wish it or not. Should you be agreeable to staying here, I shall send for John when we are all rested and replenished."
He looked around with marked disinterest. "Here? In this place?"
"What, is my manor not fine enough for you?"
"Not as fine as Woburn."
"That is purely subjective."
"Oh, I don't know. Have you a structure styled in the authentic Chinoiserie design for the mere housing of your finest oriental crockery?"
"I have not."
"Well, there you are. The Russells win. Ah, but wait…no, we have not won at everything, have we? You bested me once. Yes, you did. And I do believe I was promised a rematch." He went to a pair of crossed swords mounted upon the wall. Unsheathing one, he took an en garde stance, arm quivering for the sheer weight of the steel. "Have at you!"
Darcy scoffed at the challenge. "You've not the strength to hold pen to paper, far less that steel."
"'I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked,'" he quoted regally, stubbornly willing his spindly arm to hold steady, his face red from the effort and forehead beaded with sweat. A few seconds more and he could not but let the blade drop to the floor. "Bollocks," he muttered, and then shouted at a stone-faced Darcy, "Do not laugh!"
Darcy flatly replied that nothing was found to be humorous, to which he said angrily, "But you do pity me," as he slid the sword back in place. "That much is certain. Beneath that blank stare of yours, I see it."
"I pity only that which I deem to be a hopeless case. Yours does not qualify. There are remedies; and Dr. Fitzwilliam has volunteered his services, should you accept them."
"Your cousin cannot cure me. Indeed there is no cure, according to a succession of very costly physicians."
"Matthew is different, in terms of brilliance at the very top of his profession. What have you to lose?"
"What have you to gain, Darcy?"
Darcy bit back a curse-laden rebuke, well remembering the man's unyielding lack of faith in humanity. So be it, he thought, and then coolly replied: "My nephew expressed concern for your welfare, and was assured every attempt would be made to try and help. You did save his life, after all. Do we not owe you a substantial debt?"
"Aye, I suppose you do." His grin spread wide, inducing Darcy to add:
"But that hardly means I must oblige your every quirk and fancy. My home, my rules."
His smile instantly dropped. "I care not for rules."
"Take yourself to Summerhill then. 'Tis a good walk, about a mile west from here with a half-mile incline, not terribly steep, but—"
"Let me finish, Darcy! I care not for rules, but am open to negotiations, should your terms be reasonable."
"I think you will find them so.
"State them, and I shall deliberate."
"Your true identity must remain a secret to virtually everyone: the staff, the children, or any outsiders with whom you may cross paths. Only disaster could possibly come of it."
His expression darkened. "Not that I've shouted it from the rooftops, Darcy, but given my imminent fate, there is little need to protect my identity."
"'Tis for my nephew's protection—not yours! Little George cannot know who you really are."
"Little George? Young Mr. Wickham, you mean. And why can he not? Has the boy not a right to know who killed his father?"
Darcy stepped closer to him in a fit of agitation. "Lieutenant Wickham was killed in the war, do you hear? Fought and died in the peninsula, for King and Country, with bravery and honor!"
With perfect calm he replied, "Ah, now I see. And what of the lad's mother? Does he know her as a crackbrained minx, or Joan of Arc?"
Darcy thrust forward and shoved him hard to the floor, feeling an instant's shock at how effortlessly he went down before shouting, "She is dead, you black-hearted bastard!"
He went still and stared up at him, truly astonished. "When? How?"
"Two years ago. Illness. George has been with us ever since."
His expression changed dramatically, to something resembling grief, as he struggled to get to his feet, refusing Darcy's offer of assistance. "Very well. Your house, your rules. Who am I then?"
"We shall think of something, Mr. Blackbeard. Clearly you must be given a more respectable name."
"And a respectable history full of respectable deeds, what?" (he shook his head sadly) "I beg you, Darcy. Let the falsehoods end here, forever. Let your servants, your friends, family, let your children know me exactly as I am, as you and your missus know me, as your nephew knows me…as a murderer."
"George knows you as his champion," Darcy countered. "He says you were the answer to his prayers, sent by God to rescue him."
"Then he is still delirious, and, from what I gather, likely to remain so. But worry not, Darcy. I shall play along with your tales contrived and perpetuated with the best of intentions; for such methods, as we all know, can never go wrong. And your children, when they are grown, shall thank you, revere you, and go on to live as full of wisdom as you are of wishes."
"Spare me your sanctimonious sneering. I know far too much of your exploits to be moved."
"Fair enough point. Have you any more rules for me?"
"That will do for now."
"Then I agree to your terms, Mr. Darcy."
Darcy extended his hand to seal the agreement. At first he moved to take it, but then abruptly changed his mind, stepping farther away instead. "You must rely on my word, as I rely on yours to send for John."
"If it is money you need—"
"It is not," he said firmly, with a look warning him not to presume or inquire about his business. "Delay not too long, Darcy. I shall claw my way uphill to meet with him if I must."
"No need for that. Three days, no more, on my honor. And you will agree to see my cousin?"
"As you say, ol' man, what have I to lose? But once his methods prove ineffective, I shall be on my merry way."
"Have you the means to travel?"
"Who are you, my dead mother?"
"God rest the poor woman who birthed you. What of clothes?"
He glanced off rather sheepishly. "I may need a shirt or two. A pair of pants, perhaps."
"Whatever you need. I shall arrange for a fitting directly."
He murmured something resembling a thank you, and then asked, "Have you a bedchamber to spare, perchance? I really don't mind the little parlor or the sofa, if it is all you can furnish—"
"We have a superb assortment of guest quarters."
"In that case, I should like a balcony view facing west and, at your earliest convenience, a tour of your very adequate home."
"I shall arrange it with Miss Baxter."
"Miss Baxter? Ah, the governess! Now that came as a surprise, Darcy. I should have thought you well above the employment of those shrewish old maids. How many have you gone through?"
"She is our first."
"The devil you say! I was on my third by age seven."
"I suppose we have been lucky. Miss Baxter is also to serve as your principal attendant."
"You've appointed your governess to nurse me?"
"Nurse?" Darcy replied innocently. "Why, I had imagined her duties as rather administrative than medicinal, but if you are in need of a nurse, as well—"
"Never mind. Your Miss Baxter will do. She could use a bit of tweaking."
"She will show you as much courtesy and respect you show her. No more, no less. You shall be supplied with a valet, as well."
"That shan't be necessary. I do well enough on my own, appearance-wise."
Darcy raised an eyebrow, "That is plain enough."
"However.." he scratched at his beard. "I should be most obliged to your man for a haircut."
"As you wish. Fleming is an excellent barber."
He peered at Darcy's messy bob of dark curls. "If you say so."
"Well, with that settled, I shall dispense the orders, and then retire. "Shall I have a tray sent to your room?" He declined; Darcy pressed. "A little broth, perhaps? or a crust of bread? Your strength stands no chance at all of being restored unless—"
"I shall have a tray when I ring for one, and shall eat when I am hungry." His tone brooked no further argument.
"Very well. Then I bid you good evening…morning…farewell, for now. Wait here, if you please. A servant shall come round directly to escort you to your apartment."
"Sleep well, Mr. Darcy," he drawled.
"And you, Lord Thornhaugh. This shall be the last time you are thusly addressed."
Darcy made a short bow which Thornhaugh returned. The former then quit the room, outwardly composed but inwardly fraught with concern on further reflection of the blood coughed up on the latter's sleeve.
He crept into the bedroom quiet as a mouse, only to find Elizabeth wide awake, arms wrapped about her knees, face flushed and fretful. "Dearest…" he said, forwarding to her every drop of disquiet as he went to embrace her. "Why are you up, sweetheart?"
"I had a nightmare."
"What about, darling?"
"I've forgotten most of it, but there was fire, so much fire." She swept tears from her face.
Darcy quickly undressed and joined her in bed, instantly taking her into his arms and holding tight. "Go back to sleep, love," he whispered, "lest you become ill."
"I remember Mary's voice in my dream, upbraiding me, condemning me."
"When has your sister ever approved of anything?"
"But she would not be wrong in this case. For the first time in my life, William, I feel I've committed an egregious sin. What is more frightening is that I don't regret it. Dear God, what does that make me? Am I no different than him?"
"Shhhh," he said as he caressed her back with soothing strokes. "Of the souls under this roof, my dear, you needn't fear for your own, I assure you."
"Perhaps I might save my own in helping to save his."
"I think the laudanum has made you feverish. You are in no danger. Sleep for me, darling. There's a good girl."
She closed her eyes, whispering, "Perhaps we are not to meet in the next world, beloved. I may end in purgatory, or even hell. How awful! I should miss you so!"
He shushed her again, continuing his gentle massage up and down her spine until she finally fell asleep in his arms. "Damn him!" he cursed. Holding her close, he slowly drifted off to sleep in solemn prayer: Whatever your design, dear Lord, please spare my family. If someone is to suffer, let it be me; and if he is truly meant to die, let him die quickly.