A/N: Thanks again for all the support for this story. I'm uploading chapters six and seven today, mostly because my goal is to have this story finished by the end of January, but also because together they function as a sort of breather before we ramp up again for the ending. Also, on a side note, can I just express my gratitude for those of you who catch the details I miss? Professional authors have teams of editors, including some who focus solely on consistency within the text, but it is pretty tough to notice all of that myself. So thanks for doing what I can't.

Disclaimer: As one persnickety reviewer (you know who you are-you made me laugh) pointed out, if I were Jane Austen, I would have referred to her as Elizabeth instead of Lizzy in the narration.

Chapter Six

Lizzy gazed out the carriage window as she leaned against the door, her eyes catching listlessly on each lighted lamppost as they passed, and tried not to focus on the pounding in her head or the relentless ache in her shoulder. Her memories of the last two days were jumbled and hazy: a long time in a quiet, plain room; Mr. Darcy's and the colonel's faces hovering worriedly over her and attempting to speak soothing words; entering a post coach over and over; and the constant, sharp discomfort in her shoulder along with dull soreness everywhere else. She also seemed to remember being repeatedly convinced to take a few swallows from a flask in Mr. Darcy's jacket, which was always followed by long periods of darkness.

Now, though, it had been hours since her last drink, and although her pain had grown severe almost to the point of flaming, her mind was finally beginning to clear. The lampposts meant they were entering London.

She recalled having attempted, during her more lucid moments the previous day, to question her two companions. They had spoken of Lady Catherine's connection to Lord Geoffrey Smythe, the purported lord of an imaginary earldom called Aberforth. They had explained why they were going to London rather than returning to Kent, something about being reluctant to return her to her family before knowing whether Lord Smythe would make an attempt to recapture them. They had told her that they had been forced to remain in hiding in Dover through Sunday, as no post would travel until Monday morning. There had been something mentioned, too, about a plan to approach an old connection of Mr. Darcy's for tonight's shelter rather than risking being noticed at another inn.

That was, however, essentially all she remembered, and she knew she had the laudanum in Mr. Darcy's flask to thank for her confusion. She could not blame the gentlemen for continuing to administer it, given that spending an entire day having her injury jostled in a post coach would have bordered on nightmarish without it, but she knew they were close to their destination now, and she was ready for her mind to clear.

Lizzy had never handled laudanum well, but as far as she knew, she had not begun moaning or talking in her sleep, as she had during her childhood. She was fairly certain she had spent most of the day at the inn and today's carriage ride dozing or staring blankly at the wall, only speaking when they asked her a question.

That was a miracle for which she was immensely thankful now that the effects of the laudanum were finally wearing off, since the most likely thing to emerge from her mouth would have been a request for Mr. Darcy to sit by her. He had seemed very far away all day on the opposite bench of the carriage.

She would never have been able to look him in the eye again, however, if she had spoken the words aloud.

She perked up slightly as the roads upon which they traveled became more familiar, and after several minutes, as they finished crossing a bridge she recognized, she scooted gingerly to the other end of her bench and looked out the opposite window.

"Is something amiss, Miss Bennet?" Mr. Darcy asked, watching her with concern. She had felt his eyes on her for most of the trip, but it had never been with the friendly warmth to which she had grown so attached. He was tense and worried, and as he watched her, the furrow in his brow never smoothed, not even for a moment.

"No, sir. 'Tis only that…" She trailed off, and after another moment, the familiar sight of Number Eighty-Six Gracechurch Street greeted her. Despite the lateness of the hour, the top story of the narrow house was entirely lit, indicating that her loved ones had probably just returned from an evening's engagement. She felt both immensely comforted by her aunt and uncle's nearness, not to mention her own dear Jane's, and deeply bereft by her inability to go to them.

That, it would seem, was another thing she could recall from earlier discussions. They would not, as yet, even contact their families, not until they decided how to do so without putting them in harm's way. They had no way to know whether Lord Geoffrey would approach her father or Miss Darcy with ransom demands, but if their families had no idea where Lizzy and Mr. Darcy were hiding, they might be safer. They hoped.

And besides, she realized with equal parts sorrow and relief, their families did not even know they were missing yet. Everything, according to the colonel, had been kept a secret for the sake of both Lady Catherine's reputation and Lizzy's own.

But oh, how she longed suddenly to feel her father's arms around her. Were he beside her now, he would put his arm around her shoulders carefully and, with a bland expression, say something that would make her laugh. Well, my dear Lizzy, things could always be worse. Just imagine if you had been kidnapped with Lydia as your companion.

Mr. Darcy knelt down on the carriage floor and peered out the window, his eyes darting anxiously. "What is wrong? Did you see someone following us?"

"Nothing is wrong, sir," she assured him. She wanted to put her hand on his shoulder, to squeeze it comfortingly, but something about Colonel Fitzwilliam's presence and watchful gaze dampened all the closeness she had felt to Mr. Darcy only two mornings before. "That is my uncle's house. I was surprised to realize we were in Cheapside, but I suppose it makes sense."

"It looks to be a very comfortable home," he said with some surprise. "What does your uncle do?"

Lizzy smiled a little to herself, more pleased than she ought to be by his approval. "My uncle is in trade, sir. He owns a warehouse further down that road, and he has had some significant success in the textiles market, as a broker for foreign materials and products."

"That can be quite lucrative," Colonel Fitzwilliam offered, now leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the row of townhouses. "If he has a head for business, he could do very well in that line. My brother has been looking into several companies conducting such trade, seeking good opportunities for investment."

"Uncle Gardiner is a brilliant businessman, or at least that is how he seems to me, as little as I know of all that. He is very shrewd but never mean, which means that clients and partners fear him, like him, and trust him in equal measure. And my aunt is his perfect compliment. Where he is shrewd, she is witty. Where he is cautious, she is courageous. Where he is analytical, she is spontaneous. He always says that most of his success comes at her encouragement."

"You hold them in very high esteem," Mr. Darcy said, returning to his seat across the carriage. It was so dark inside now that she could hardly see his face.

"I do. I admire both of them greatly and love them even more."

"I assume your elder sister feels the same way, since it was to them she went after…" He trailed off awkwardly, realizing he had trodden upon uncertain ground, and returned to his seat across from her.

"After her heartbreak." Lizzy was surprised at her tone as she spoke. She had thought the statement would be a barb, a stinging reminder to Mr. Darcy of his part in it, but the words came out gently, as if she feared to wound him. "Yes, our aunt has always been of great comfort to us amidst disappointment or sorrow. She is wonderfully compassionate and, at the same time, eminently sensible. How I long for some of her sense and compassion right now."

"Indeed," the colonel agreed darkly.

Mr. Darcy did not reply, and Lizzy saw that he had turned to watch out the other window. She would have given twenty pounds to know what he was thinking in that moment. He was such a mystery to her.

"You seem to be feeling a bit better," the colonel said to her, sounding as if he was trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

Just at that moment, they crossed over a deep rut in the road, and the coach jarred, sending Lizzy slamming against the spare back cushions. Normally the jolt would have barely bothered her, but her shoulder screamed in protest at the blow, and she could not contain a hiss of pain as she clutched it.

Mr. Darcy jumped across the divide between them, steadying her against a further onslaught of jerks and bumps as they traversed the rough section of road. His arm wrapped around her, bracing her shoulder and keeping her in place with his greater weight. Finally, the road seemed to smooth again, at least back to the normal shaking of a carriage, and Lizzy was able to catch her breath and relax against his shoulder.

"Perhaps more laudanum would be wise…"

"No!" she cried, shaking her head fiercely. "It dulls my mind far more than it dulls my pain. I despise the stuff, and I shall only take it again if it is forced upon me while unconscious. It is wearing off now, and although my arm aches more, my head is significantly less muddled."

"Very well," Mr. Darcy replied doubtfully, stuffing the hated flask back into his jacket pocket. "But you may wish to take some to help you sleep once we arrive."

"How much further must we go?"

"We must change to a private cab at the next stop. The man we go to see lives in Islington."

"Islington?" Lizzy asked. She had never been in the northern section of the city. "And he is a former servant of yours?"

"Yes. He worked in Pemberley's stable for sixty years." He sounded nostalgic. "He was offered the position of head groomsman five different times over the years, but he always refused, saying he had no desire to manage anyone other than himself and the horses. He taught me to ride as a lad, and to care for my mount with gentle firmness and respect."

"When he became too old to keep working," the colonel put in, "Darcy gave him not only a traditional pension but also a very generous parting gift, enough that he purchased a flat in Islington for himself and his son's family."

"It was no less than he deserved for so many years of faithful service," Mr. Darcy said almost defensively.

"I would never disagree. Tanner is the best sort of man."

Lizzy was surprised, although she knew that she ought not to be. The discovery of yet one more redeeming quality possessed by Mr. Darcy was becoming less and less remarkable. He was a generous man, at least to those he considered deserving. Why, then, had he treated Mr. Wickham so badly?

The thought of Mr. Wickham made Lizzy uncomfortable. The whole situation reflected so negatively on Mr. Darcy, displayed him in such an unquestionably abysmal light, that she could not reconcile it with the man before her now. When had she begun avoiding reminders of his failings?

Mr. Darcy seemed to suddenly realize his position, and after jerking his arm away and offering an embarrassed apology, he returned again to his seat, leaving Lizzy feeling chilled and equally uncomfortable, especially at the colonel's bemused expression.

It felt like years had passed by the time Mr. Darcy and the colonel finally helped Lizzy from the cab they had hired, and they found themselves at the end of a dark, quiet street in Islington. Her shoulder was screaming, and every other muscle in her body felt as if it might join in with shrieks at any moment. She was tired, in spite of spending most of the previous two days sleeping, and she leaned heavily against the colonel's arm as Mr. Darcy moved forward through the darkness and led them into the narrow alley behind the houses. At the third entrance, he climbed a short flight of stairs and knocked insistently on the door.

Lizzy looked around nervously, wondering how many of the neighbors would grow curious about the late-night visitors. How much was this neighborhood like her own? She knew that if her mother lived in such close quarters to her neighbors, she would be standing at the window at all hours to watch their comings and goings.

It took two more knockings before the door opened, casting the flickering light of a lamp out onto the stoop. A young man appeared, wearing a nightshirt and slippers. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Forgive me. I believed this to be the home of Isaac Tanner."

"You're here to see Grandfather?" he asked, lowering the lamp in his surprise. "Whatever for? And at this time of night?"

"I am so sorry—I know it is very late. But this is an emergency, and I seek your grandfather's help. Is he at home?"

"Aye. Aye. Wait here while I wake him."

The man began to close the door, but Mr. Darcy stopped him, motioning toward Lizzy. "Please, may we wait inside? Or at least the young… lad? He is injured and cold."

The young man's eyes squinted as he looked into the darkness toward Lizzy and the colonel. She had not realized she was shivering so hard, but now that Mr. Darcy had pointed it out, the cold night air seemed to bite at her.

"I… Well, I suppose so. But just the boy. I'll go…"

"What is it, Jacob?" asked a feminine voice inside. A head poked out the door, the lace on the edges of her cap bobbing with her sharp, eager movements.

He had only made it through half of an explanation before she gasped and darted out the door, running down the steps toward Lizzy. "Oh! Of course you must come in! All of you! You poor boy!"

She hustled and fussed all three of them inside, ignoring the young man's protests about safety and caution, and within only a few moments, they were seated in a small parlor. The man Jacob was muttering as he laid a fire, and the woman, also quite young in the light of the few candles, was fluttering in and out of the room, wrapping a blanket around Lizzy's shoulders and promising tea in a few moments then disappearing down a back hallway.

The parlor was small and not nearly as elegant as her uncle's home in Cheapside, but it was clean, and a tied rug and a small vase full of spring blooms made it feel cheery and welcoming. Much of the furniture was old but in good repair, and the wooden chair near the fire and the rocking chair in the corner appeared quite new. Lizzy sank into the wooden chair and released a grateful sigh. It was surprisingly comfortable.

The young man finished with the fire, and as the first wave of heat washed over Lizzy's trousers, he stood and turned to them, his expression doubtful and unhappy. "Now, I don't know why you're here bothering Grandfather in the middle of the night, but he's an old man, and I know he won't appreciate…"

"Who is it what's marching in here in the dead of night to disturb me?" called a gruff voice from the back hallway. "I know of no man who might need me so much as to keep me from my bed at such an hour!"

Lizzy frowned up at Mr. Darcy, but he was watching the parlor door eagerly. The colonel was smiling, and he caught Lizzy's eye and winked.

The door slammed open, and a gaunt old man, bent with age and labor, hobbled in leaning heavily on a short cane. He was dressed in only a nightshirt and cap, and Lizzy looked away politely, covering a small smile at the sight of the young woman flitting around him, attempting to force his arms into a dressing gown.

"Who are you people?" the old man demanded, pointing a bony finger between the three of them and squinting menacingly. "And what could you possibly want of me?"

"'Tis I, Tanner," Mr. Darcy said, removing his hat and stepping quite close to the older man, even bending down so their faces were even. "Do you know anyone else bold enough to bother such a venerable fellow past midnight?"

"Young Master Darcy!" Mr. Tanner cried, his eyes widening. He reached out and grabbed Mr. Darcy's shoulder with his free hand, squeezing it. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

"Do not forget about me," the colonel laughed, stepping forward. "I knew you would not want to see Darcy without me along as well."

Mr. Tanner frowned disapprovingly toward Colonel Fitzwilliam. "You young scamp! Always around and getting the young master into trouble. I've no doubt whatever brings him here at this hour has to do with you!"

The colonel laughed and stuck his hand out, and after another moment of glowering, Mr. Tanner's face broke into a grin and he shook hands heartily, pulling the colonel into a one-armed hug.

"Now sit down, boys," Mr. Tanner commanded, "and tell me what brings you here and how a useless old man can possibly be of assistance." He motioned toward the chairs but stopped short at the sight of Lizzy. "But who is this young man?"

Lizzy realized belatedly that she should have stood at his entrance, but she found she was too weak to rise. Instead she offered a pained smile.

"That is a long story," Mr. Darcy replied, casting a concerned glance over her. "But the most urgent matter is that he is injured and exhausted. He saw a doctor and his wounded shoulder was stitched, but we have spent several hours in a carriage, and he is in quite a bit of pain. He refuses laudanum, so the only other answer is rest and warmth, but we can neither go home nor to an inn. We cannot risk being recognized. Is it possible he could rest in here for a few hours while we consult with you about our situation?"

"We can do better than that!" the young woman replied, rushing forward. "Right, Jacob?"

The young man approached more reluctantly, still eyeing all three of them with suspicion. "I suppose."

"This is Jacob Tanner, my grandson. He is apprenticed to a surgeon, one of the best in the city," Mr. Tanner explained. "He has been with him for nearly a year, and I am certain he can help your friend."

Lizzy kept her eyes down as the young Mr. Tanner knelt in front of her. "Which shoulder?"

"My right."

"Let's see then."

Lizzy pursed her lips and pulled back the blanket, raising her shirtsleeve above the area where she could feel the pulsing ache. She was surprised to see the large bandage tied around it and under her arm. She had not really considered what the doctor might have done to help her.

Jacob carefully removed the bandage, and Lizzy's eye caught on the long, swollen gash, probably three-full inches across the lower part of her shoulder. It was held together with more than a dozen black stitches, and although there was some blood on the bandage, the crusted scab along its length told her it had stopped bleeding a long time before. A dark bruise the size of her hand stretched out around the gash on all sides.

"Oh, my," said the young woman, leaning over to see. "What happened to you?"

Lizzy just shook her head, too tired to formulate an explanation.

"The stitches are tight and holding well. Assuming the doctor cleaned the wound, I would say it's best to let it alone for now. I will re-dress it tomorrow. It will be less painful once the swelling goes down." He reached out to press lightly against one of the sides.

Lizzy gasped at the sharpness of the pain, and Jacob pulled back, looking up at her face in surprise then back down the length of her arm. He stood suddenly, turning to stare at Mr. Darcy accusingly. "She's a woman!"

The young woman gasped, coming around to peer into her face. "Of course you are! How did we not see it before? Oh, you poor dear!"

"An explanation, Master Darcy?" Mr. Tanner asked, obviously displeased.

"I shall tell all, I promise," Mr. Darcy replied, unapologetic. "The disguise is quite necessary, I assure you, and I beg that, if anyone asks, you tell them that your visitors tonight were three men."

"Hmmm," Mr. Tanner replied.

"Please, she needs rest," the colonel said. "May we continue this discussion in the kitchen while she sleeps here, perhaps just on a blanket near the hearth?"

"Of course not!" the young woman protested, reaching down without a thought and helping Lizzy gingerly to her feet, supporting her with surprising strength for her small stature. "We've a perfectly good empty bedroom at the end of the hall, and she's welcome to it. Come along, dear."

A bed! The thought was blissful. She was nearly across the room, leaning heavily against the woman, before she was able to consider anything else. She stopped and looked back. "But… Mr. Darcy…"

He was watching her with a strange expression, half relief and half uncertainty. He crossed and took the hand she was holding out toward him. "You must rest. You will be safe here."

"But…" The words she wanted to say died in her mouth. But I do not wish you to make decisions without me! I want to know what is happening! I do not wish to be so far from you! I am afraid to be alone! She could say none of those things, but she felt them all.

"Trust me," he said, patting her hand a little awkwardly. His eyes darted around, never meeting hers, and she noticed how closely everyone else was watching them. He released her hand and stepped back, straightening. "We can trust Tanner and his family. All will be well."

His words addressed the only issue of which she had already been certain. She knew he would not have brought them anyplace where her safety would be in question. He obviously trusted Mr. Tanner and had known him for his entire life. But the rest of the reassurance she sought was nowhere to be found. He turned away from her with a perfunctory goodnight and crossed back toward the colonel and Mr. Tanner.

She felt as if she had been slapped.

But she had no right to feel hurt, had she? She had grown used to Mr. Darcy's concern and comfort, but now that they were out of immediate danger, there was no need for it. It was reasonable that their relationship should return to greater formality.

Somehow, reason was having little effect on the burning humiliation she was feeling.

"Come along," the young woman repeated, leading her through the parlor door. "We'll find you a nice, comfortable place to rest, and you'll feel better in no time."

Lizzy nodded wordlessly, afraid that if she spoke, the tightness in her throat would choke her.

"I'm Laura, by the way," the woman said. Her tone was proud as she added, "Mrs. Laura Tanner, that is, Jacob's wife. We've been married for just a few months, and sometimes I forget. But please call me Laura."

Lizzy nodded again.

"What's your name?"

Lizzy closed her eyes, trusting Laura to lead her.

Laura did not attempt any further conversation. Instead she conducted Lizzy into a small, dark bedroom. Lizzy used the last of her energies to pull herself from Laura's hold and step toward the bed, and she was careful to fall gently onto her left shoulder before swinging her legs up and again firmly closing her eyes.

"Yes, you rest," Laura said gently. Lizzy felt a pile of thick blankets pulled over her, and she released a quiet sigh. "And sleep as long as you like. Goodnight, dear."

"Goodnight," Lizzy whispered just before she heard the bedroom door click shut.

She lay in the darkness, her muscles finally beginning to relax under the weight of the warm blankets, and refused to open her eyes. She had no wish to know where she was or whether there was any light to see the room. Instead she clenched her eyelids tightly shut and tried to keep her tears from spilling out onto her pillow.

She was tired. She needed to stop thinking, to stop feeling sorry for herself. She was in pain, she was exhausted, she was away from all her family and friends, and the person upon whose comfort she had come to rely had now made it quite clear he was giving up the role. So be it. She was strong, and she certainly did not need Mr. Darcy, of all people. He was too confusing.

And if she comforted herself to sleep by conjuring up an image of him lying in a bed just across from hers, by whispering, "Goodnight, Mr. Darcy," and pretending she heard a grave Goodnight, Miss Bennet, from across the aisle, no one else need ever know it.

Fitzwilliam gazed out the window, Darcy's and Tanner's words slipping around him, nearby but impossible to catch. They had been talking for hours, as was evidenced by his ability to see the outline of the doorway across the narrow alley in the purple, pre-dawn light. He rubbed his eyes and shook himself before gazing forlornly into his most recent cup of coffee. Even coffee was not going to be enough to sharpen him this morning. Once again, he was exhausted beyond reason. He had used their enforced day of rest yesterday to catch up on his sleep, but a day of rough travel followed by a night of circuitous discussion had sapped him.

He found himself smiling a little at the thought of what Mrs. Collins would say if she could see him now. He was certain she would frown disapprovingly, that little crinkle forming between her eyebrows, and say in her calm, decisive manner, "It is time for you to rest now. This will keep."

"But there is so much to do," he would argue tiredly, his head resting in his hands and lowering involuntarily toward the table before him.

"There always is," she would say with her gentle firmness. "It will all still need doing when you wake."

"No time," he would mumble.

Then he would feel her small, warm hands on his shoulders, softly kneading the muscles at the base of his neck. He would sigh and finish collapsing, his head pillowed on his arms. She would laugh in that low, melodious manner of hers and move around, taking his hands and tugging him to his feet. "Come along."

He would tease her, wrap his arms around her shoulders and pretend to fall directly asleep with his chin on her head. She would laugh again. "You are incorrigible."

She would slip out from his hold and drag him by one hand down the hallway toward a darkened bedroom. He would not resist. In the room, she would sit him on the edge of the bed and help him remove his boots and jacket before pressing against his shoulders to lay him back on the pillow. He would roll to his side, stretching his legs under the counterpane. She would pull the blanket over him and press a kiss to his cheek.

He would turn his face and catch her lips. "Stay with me, my love," he would whisper against them, reaching out for her hands.

"I cannot," she would laugh, her breath warm on his face. "There is so much to do."

He would growl at her use of his words and tug more insistently, kissing her until she melted against him. She would sigh with cheerful longsuffering before sliding in beside him, and her hand would reach up to deftly loose his cravat…

Fitzwilliam jerked up in his seat, his wide-open eyes darting from Darcy to Tanner. He knew he was blushing like a maiden, but he could not help but be horrified at where his mind had taken him. It was one thing to fantasize about a woman, but a married woman, a good and virtuous woman who was as out of his reach as a star? That was pure foolishness, torturous stupidity.

Not to mention disrespectful, being as he had no desire to seduce her like a common strumpet. Even in his errant fantasies, he always found himself picturing her as his wife, the comforts of living and working beside her as enticing in their way as his imaginings regarding their passionate marital encounters. What was it about her that he found so tempting? He hardly knew her!

And why did the idea of settling down to a quiet, civilized life, which had formerly seemed so unimpressive, fill him with a sense of longing when he pictured her as part of it?

He growled internally and refocused his temporary return of energy on the men across from him.

"You are right," Tanner said darkly, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. "Roland will be the most helpful option if you can convince him to aid you. I have no doubt your money will be enticing, but I cannot vouch for his trustworthiness. My son will happily betray you if he finds it to his advantage."

"I recognize the risk—I know of his indiscretions in Lambton before he removed to London—but I still believe he is our best option. He is the only confessed and unashamed gambler of indeterminate status with whom I have any sort of personal connection. I need his help, whether he is trustworthy or not."

"And you are expecting him to have some knowledge of this Lord Smythe?" Tanner asked doubtfully. "The man you describe seems to run quite a lucrative business amongst the country gentry, but what cause have you to believe his schemes extend to London as well?"

"None," Darcy replied, leaning back heavily against the wall. They had begun their discussion in the parlor, bur their ongoing need for coffee once young Mr. and Mrs. Tanner had retired again had prompted them to adjourn to the kitchen. Now they sat on hard wooden benches at a rough-hewn table, the only light in the room coming from a single lamp between them. At least Tanner had kept the fire lit in the stove for some measure of warmth.

"I have no indication that Smythe functions here at all," Darcy continued. "Only a general impression that most crime in England connects to London somehow. And certainly, a part of me hopes that he has no connection or influence here—all the better in terms of keeping Miss… Olivia out of his grasp."

"But why do you fear that he will come for her, Darcy?" Fitzwilliam broke in. "From what you say, it seems much more as if she was brought along as motivation for your compliance rather than for her own value. Are you not in greater danger than she is?"

Darcy shook his head gravely. "If I am taken again, so be it. I do not believe he will harm me overmuch, given that I am only worth money to him if I can pay my own ransom and actively encourage Lady Catherine to pay off her enormous debts. Ninety-thousand pounds! Such an amount is flagrantly unbelievable. But if he abducts Olivia again, then not only will I be willing to pay far more for her release than my own, but her safety and virtue will almost certainly be forfeited. That is a price too heavy to bear."

"Forgive me for asking, sir," Tanner put in, eyeing Darcy uncertainly, "but you've not yet made clear the nature of your connection to the young lady."

"She is not… that is…"

"You wish us to call her Olivia, and so we will, but she is Miss Olivia to you, and therefore she is of quality. I know you're a man of honor, sir, and I cannot help but wonder how you came to this situation in her company."

"I hardly know myself," Darcy sighed, rubbing his blood-shot eyes. "Suffice it to say that although I prize her wellbeing and happiness far more highly than my own, there is… no connection between us… beyond friendship. I am her protector as long as we are involved in this mad situation, but I am no more." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

Tanner raised his eyebrows at Fitzwilliam, who rolled his eyes and mouthed, He loves her.

Tanner replied, And she?

Fitzwilliam answered with a shrug and a "maybe" gesture. Driven by his continuing concerns regarding the wisdom of Darcy's insistence on pursuing Miss Bennet, he had observed her closely through the past few days, but beyond finding obvious comfort in Darcy's presence, her drugged state had made it difficult to perform a deeper assessment. He still swung back and forth between approving of her personally, acknowledging the need to salvage her reputation, and being disgusted that Darcy would even entertain thoughts of such an unequal alliance.

Ah, Tanner replied knowingly.

"So what is your next step?" Tanner asked Darcy aloud. "I know my part—I will leave messages tomorrow at several taverns in the neighborhood my worthless son tends to favor asking him to meet me tomorrow night at that tavern I mentioned in Whitechapel. But what about the two of you?"

"I must discreetly visit my man of business," Darcy replied, "and have him begin the withdrawal of significant funds from my bank on my behalf without having to be present myself, in case a ransom is needed. We shall spend the next few days making some discreet inquiries, possibly engaging a private detective to assist in our efforts to discover more about Lord Smythe, and attempting to force more information from Lady Catherine and Smythe's agent in Coxton. I will do what I must, but I am convinced that the key to securing our safety lies not in paying the man, but in discovering his connections and making it most unpleasant somehow for him to continue to conduct such business."

"You plan to single-handedly bring down this man and his entire network?" Fitzwilliam asked, surprised. Had his missed this part of the plan somewhere? "That is… ambitious."

"There were whisperings amongst Smythe's men, mentions of Smythe leaving the business and his lieutenant taking it over. Now might be the perfect time to unravel the entire operation. And besides, Father always said that it was better to aim high than to hit the ground."

All three men chuckled—that had, indeed, been one of old Mr. Darcy's favorite sayings.

"And your Olivia will stay here with us," Tanner said, sliding the bench out and slowly standing, his bones creaking loudly. "We will care for her as one of our own."

Darcy stood, too, frowning deeply. "She is not mine, Tanner."

Tanner waved the comment off with a flick of his hand. "As you say."

Fitzwilliam kept his eye roll to himself this time as he rose to his feet.

Darcy moved on. "I shall never be able to thank you enough for your kindness, Tanner. You are an excellent fellow."

"Amen to that," Fitzwilliam said around a yawn. "And now if you will excuse us, it is time for us to retire to that empty flat you mentioned upstairs and sleep for a few hours before setting out."

Both gentlemen shook hands with the spry old man and exited as quietly as possible into the alley. It was still dark enough that they did not fear notice as they climbed the back stairs to the upstairs flat and unlocked the door with the key Tanner had offered them. Fitzwilliam was only mildly curious as he gazed around the rather basic apartment. Clean and spare, only a few pieces of necessary furniture, and a view out the front window of a section of Islington's High Street—it was a fair bit of luck that Tanner's last tenant had moved to Dorcestershire only a fortnight before and they had not yet rented the rooms.

Fitzwilliam turned to his cousin. "In case you wake and set out before me, cousin, good luck."

He and Darcy shook hands solemnly. "And you, Fitz."

"You mean Mr. Sydney Barker," Fitzwilliam replied with a wink. "And I assure you, Mr. William Welton, that I have no need of luck. Only sense."

Darcy offered a small smile. "Of course, Barker. Stay safe."

"Always."

Fitzwilliam made his way in the darkness to one of the two, small bedrooms and collapsed on the sturdy bed, only removing his boots after he had lain down. He closed his eyes and found himself again imagining Mrs. Collins' voice: "You should not sleep in your coat—you will wrinkle it beyond repair."

"But it will hide my inherent nobility better if it is wrinkled," he would reply.

Her eyebrows would raise. "Perhaps it is your 'inherent nobility' that is wrinkled. I suppose at least your coat will match it now."

He laughed to himself, even as he felt sleep tugging at him. Soon he would be back in Kent, seeing her again. He could not help smiling at the thought, and even the awareness that she would never be his, that she would spurn him if she knew the direction of his thoughts, was not enough to calm his eagerness. He was helping Darcy and Miss Bennet, after all. Was that not good-deed enough to atone for his increasingly inappropriate partiality for Mrs. Collins?

That idea comforted him, and he drifted, finally, to a peaceful sleep.