A/N: Thanks to everyone for the reviews this week. They were... interesting. It's funny how much opinions vary about different aspects of the story, my favorite obviously being the Charlotte/Fitzwilliam arc. "Oh, they're so great together!" "Ugh... super boring. Stick to Lizzy and Darcy." "Collins needs to die!" "Um, you do know Charlotte's married, right? What is the point of this?" It was strange to watch their story weave as I typed. All I knew when I started was that Lizzy and Fitz would be my storytellers. And here's the thing: I'm really sorry if you don't like them, but this is as much Fitz's story as Lizzy's. Feel free to skip their sections, as long as you don't mind missing stuff.

Also, I have a special request this week regarding reviews. I always appreciate encouragement, so feel free to throw any of that my way, but also use your powers of observation to help me pull all my threads together. The bigger a plot gets, the easier it is to miss things, and I've read over these chapters so many times now that I've totally lost faith in my ability to notice missing pieces. So, if you don't notice anything amiss, let me know. If you do notice questions I haven't answered and should have by now or details I've skipped over, please send them my way. I'd appreciate, however, if you'd save the more general story criticisms until after the last chapter. This story is already sucking my soul chapter by chapter, and I can't spend any more weeks pouring over the remainder frantically trying to make it "better." Thanks in advance.

Disclaimer: I may look like Jane Austen (dark haired, sort of plain, flat-chested), but I'm pretty sure I have better teeth than she did

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Chapter Eight

"This rain is wretched!" Lizzy growled from her chair near the front window of the Tanner's parlor. "It has not even paused to draw its breath!"

"I do not see why it upsets you so," Mrs. Tanner giggled from the seat across from Lizzy's, her eyes still trained on the pile of mending in her lap. "You agreed to your captivity only two days ago, and it's not as if the downpour is what prevents you from going out."

"But it feels as if it is. Even if I were willing to risk Mr. Welton's disapproval and slip outside for a few moments, I could not do so without being soaked to my skin."

"You would not really do it, would you?" Mrs. Tanner looked up worriedly.

"I might!" Lizzy answered imperiously, raising her nose in the air. When Mrs. Tanner did not laugh, Lizzy slumped back and gave her a comforting smile. "No, of course I would not. I do realize he is right, and that he has my best interests at heart, and I have no wish to put myself in danger."

"Or to risk his disapproval," Mrs. Tanner muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" Lizzy asked, offended. "What care I for anyone's approval, especially his?"

Mrs. Tanner just looked at her, a single eyebrow raised.

"Oh, very well," Lizzy sighed. "I care very much for his approval, bothersome man that he is."

"I am still not certain why you are so reluctant to admit it," Mrs. Tanner laughed. "He is clearly very fond of you, so you needn't fear that he doesn't return your affections."

"My affections! Laura! You are clearly functioning under some sort of misapprehension. I feel admiration for Mr. Welton, and certainly respect, but… Wait. You believe he is fond of me?" Lizzy asked far too eagerly. Something suspiciously like hope leapt inside her before she could suppress it.

Mrs. Tanner was still chuckling. "Oh, Heavens, Olivia. Must you even ask?"

Lizzy blushed at the superiority in Mrs. Tanner's voice. "The situation between myself and Mr. Welton is rather… unique, and not only because of our recent troubles. I find it quite difficult to understand him—I always have, apparently—and it is more than difficult to trust my own impressions of his feelings."

"What is so hard to understand? You clearly mean a great deal to him."

"I know. That is, I know he felt strongly for me not so very long ago, or believed he did, but he has been so aloof these past two days. Sometimes I find him watching me still, as he used to do, but he is so stiff again, so formal and distant, that I find myself wondering whether I only imagined the tender, caring man I had come to… appreciate during our abduction. Perhaps he only feels that I am a responsibility now, a burden even."

"You, my dear friend, are very silly."

Lizzy glared at the young woman. "If you only knew how things have been between us, Laura, you might understand my confusion better."

"Then tell me. I promise to keep every word to myself."

"It is a long story."

"We have all afternoon."

Somehow, through the two days of her stay in Islington, through long mornings and afternoons sharing conversation with Mrs. Tanner, Lizzy had managed to keep the story of her connection to Mr. Darcy to herself. She was uncertain why she had not spoken of it—it was not as if she feared Mrs. Tanner would tell anyone who mattered—but something about the idea of sharing their history made her uncomfortable. Perhaps it was simply that she had realized how very foolish, how very judgmental, she had been from the first moment of their acquaintance, and she feared that in the retelling, she would be even more clearly confronted with her own prejudice.

"Well," she began most reluctantly, "I suppose I could give you the shortened version, as the story is long but not terribly interesting to anyone besides myself."

"You may start with the shortened version," Mrs. Tanner smiled, "but I am sure to ask all sorts of questions if you leave out too much."

"Ha ha, Laura. You are so terribly charming."

Mrs. Tanner just grinned.

Then, with another dramatic sigh, Lizzy began, "Mr. Darcy…er, Mr. Welton and I met at an assembly. He was a visitor to our neighborhood, and he and his friend attended, along with his friend's sisters. Only Mr. Welton's friend—we shall call him Mr. Beauregard—was pleased to be there. He was immediately drawn to my elder sister, Janet, who is wonderfully sweet and beautiful, and they spent much of the evening together in company. Mr. Welton, however, was especially displeased by the evening and the gathered company, and he made his disapproval quite clear.

"General attempts were made to engage him, but he handily rebuffed all overtures of friendship. At one point, I was sitting off to the side somewhat near to where Mr. Welton was glowering out over the room, and Mr. Beauregard approached his friend to encourage him to dance. Mr. Welton was unimpressed by the request, and when Mr. Beauregard attempted to convince him by pointing me out as a prospective dance partner, his response was…"

Lizzy was interrupted by a sharp, irregular knocking at the kitchen door.

"Don't forget where you are," Mrs. Tanner said, pointing at her and attempting to look intimidating as she stood and crossed into the kitchen. "I have the feeling things were just about to become interesting."

From Lizzy's seat, she could just see the kitchen door, so she stood and moved to the side, out of sight from the doorway. Mrs. Tanner had several friends on the street, and at least one of them had knocked at the door each day, coming to gossip or chat. So far, Mrs. Tanner had managed to keep them all out with the excuse that her cousin was not feeling well, but that excuse would not hold the nosey ladies of Islington for much longer.

She heard the sound of the door swinging open, but instead of offering her usual cheerful greeting, Mrs. Tanner breathed in sharply. Her voice was anxious as she asked, "What are you doing here?"

A tenor voice very similar to Young Mr. Tanner's answered, although it was obvious that the speaker was not Mrs. Tanner's husband by the gruffness with which he spoke. "Haven't I a right to come visit my own dear family every now and again?"

"Um… well…" Mrs. Tanner hedged, "if you'll remember, the last time you visited, Grandfather did specifically request that you not come by for some time…"

Lizzy stepped back where she could see the doorway just in time to watch the door swing open, the handle pulling right out of Mrs. Tanner's grip, and slam against the back wall. A dripping-wet man strode in, a man who was so obviously related to the Mr. Tanners by his stature and the shape of his face that Lizzy needed no introducing to recognize Mr. Roland Tanner, the well-known gambler and general troublemaker.

Lizzy jerked back out of sight. Mr. Darcy had made it clear that he wanted Mr. Roland Tanner to have as little information as possible regarding their circumstances, and he had intended to keep Lizzy a secret entirely. She began to edge around the room, avoiding the view from the kitchen. If she could just dart around the corner when he was not looking her way, she could reach the bedrooms and disappear. She knew that was what Mr. Darcy would want her to do.

However, just as she was preparing to peek around the corner and check his position, she refocused her attention on what the two in the kitchen were saying.

"No," Mrs. Tanner said, her voice high-pitched, "of course, there is nothing wrong with making a cup of tea for my father-in-law, but I am certain you are a busy man, and as neither your son nor your father is here for you to visit just now, I cannot imagine you have any desire to stay."

"On the contrary, my dear, I am perfectly content to wait until they return, as long as I can enjoy your cheerful company." The sound of a chair squeaking told her that he had sat down.

Lizzy felt gooseflesh rise on her arms at the tone in his voice as he said cheerful company. There was nothing overtly wrong with his words, but she could immediately sense at least one of the reasons why Mrs. Tanner was so unhappy in his presence.

"I am sorry," Mrs. Tanner answered shrilly, "but I have much to do today, and I was just going out to the market myself. I have a long day of shopping ahead. I shall be happy to walk you out."

Mrs. Tanner moved across the kitchen, and Lizzy recognized the sounds of fabric swishing, probably her taking off her apron and beginning to tie on her bonnet. Then chair legs scraped, and Lizzy heard another gasp.

"You needn't go just yet," said Mr. Tanner. "Come sit with me for a spell."

His words were terribly polite, but Lizzy heard a threat beneath them.

She could not stay out of sight, no matter what Mr. Darcy would advise, not when her presence might aid Mrs. Tanner.

She moved to the doorway, stepping with confidence despite her anxiety, and entered the kitchen, looking down at the forgotten sewing in her hands. "Laura, would you mind showing me that knot again? I just cannot quite… Oh! I did not realize you had a visitor! Good afternoon."

Lizzy caught sight of Mr. Tanner's hand wrapped tightly around Mrs. Tanner's upper arm, working to drag her toward the table, before he reacted to Lizzy's presence and released his hold. He was suddenly all charm, a wide, ingratiating smile on his face. He was obviously not young—at least in his mid-forties—but his face was still well-shaped like his son's. He was a handsome enough man, if you could ignore the somewhat bedraggled state of his sopping apparel, and his grin was quite boyish and friendly.

"Why, Laura," he said, stepping forward and sweeping Lizzy a jaunty bow, "you didn't tell me you already had company. How lovely."

He was so cordial that Lizzy beamed back at him automatically for a moment before noticing the way Mrs. Tanner was rubbing at her upper arm, just on the spot where he had gripped her so tightly. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and she could not stop staring at the man from behind.

"I'm Roland Tanner, Laura's father-in-law."

It was nearly three o'clock, the time that Old Mr. Tanner and Mr. Darcy had returned the previous day after waiting at The Iron Ox. All she had to do was keep the man away from Mrs. Tanner for a few more minutes. As no one else was there, it was her job to help her friend.

Lizzy did not even hesitate. During her journey with Lord Smythe and the others, she had been reminded of her penchant for playacting, and she knew now was the time to put it to good use.

"Oh, Mr. Tanner," Lizzy said, keeping her eyes wide and innocent, "I would never have believed you were Laura's father-in-law if you hadn't told me. You look much more like her Jacob's brother!"

The man's grin grew wider, and he came toward Lizzy, reaching out to take her hand. He held it familiarly between both of his. "You are too kind, Miss…"

"Oh! Olivia Beatty, Mr. Tanner. But…" She imagined herself as Lydia, as if Lydia's soul had entered her body. She pointed her face down at the ground but raised her eyes and batted her eyelashes a few times. "But you may call me Olivia."

"Olivia," he said with relish, "it is an absolute pleasure to meet you."

Then he drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it fervently. He was perfectly gentlemanly—surprisingly so, for a groomsman's son—but Lizzy felt somehow violated by the kiss. She kept her expression eager.

"Did you come to visit Laura and Mr. Tanner?" Lizzy asked. "Forgive me for being in the way, but I am visiting from Shropshire, so I cannot leave, especially with all this rain."

"'Tis no problem at all," he assured her, squeezing her hand again once before finally releasing it. Lizzy wanted to wipe it on the side of her dress, but she did not dare. "I received a message to come and see my father, so I am here until he arrives, which, I will admit, I begin to hope will not be for some time. After all, the presence of two lovely ladies is enough to keep a man anywhere."

Mrs. Tanner smiled weakly, but Mr. Tanner was too busy enjoying Lizzy's coy smiles to notice. "I believe that Grandfather meant for you to visit him elsewhere. If you hurry, perhaps you could still meet him in time."

Mr. Tanner turned to his daughter-in-law and very deliberately removed his greatcoat, pushing it into her hands. He kept tight rein on his voice as he asked with extreme politeness, "And do you happen to know anything about the particular favor he seeks, Laura? Having not spoken to my father for some time, I wasn't sure why he wanted to see me now."

So that was why he had come here. He wanted to intimidate Laura into talking to him before he was directly before Old Mr. Tanner.

"It is men's business, I suppose," Mrs. Tanner replied, going to hang Mr. Tanner's coat on one of the hooks and busying herself with the tea pot. "I know nothing of it."

"That's too bad," Mr. Tanner replied. His expression was light, but Lizzy thought she could still sense some danger under his tone. "I shall just have to wait here then for his return." He turned back to Lizzy, wide grin back in place, and gestured toward the table.

She took the seat he indicated on the long bench, and it required all of her courage not to lean away as he sat down rather nearer to her than she would prefer. "Tell me about yourself, Olivia, and why you are visiting our Laura."

"Oh, I am Laura's cousin! I was unable to come to her wedding, but I finally managed to talk Papa into letting me come visit her here, and I must say I think this is much better. Now we may spend all sorts of time together without all the bother and fuss of a wedding."

"And are you enjoying your stay in Islington? This part of town is rather… quiet."

"It has been wonderful, except for the rain!" Lizzy replied, full of enthusiasm. "Laura and I have ever so much fun together. I must admit that your father has been a touch gruff, and Laura's husband is rather more serious than I should like my own husband to be, but they've been more than welcoming."

"Yes, Father is a right old tyrant when he wants to be, and Jacob has turned out rather too much like him, but so long as they are being kind to you, I'll not quibble. Have you seen the sights of the town during your stay?"

Lizzy managed to keep up a light conversation with Mr. Tanner for several long minutes, all the while imagining herself as a more cheerful version of Lydia. They spoke of London primarily, and Lizzy had to dodge several offers of company from the man, given in various ways. She began to wish she had never flirted with him so openly, afraid that rebuffing him now would draw his ire, but at the time, she had only had a few seconds to act, and it had seemed the surest method of removing his attention from Mrs. Tanner.

"You give yourself too little credit, Olivia," Mr. Tanner was saying, lowering his voice and leaning in far too near. "I can imagine no greater privilege than escorting you and dear Laura to Hyde Park. You simply cannot return to Shropshire without at least walking for a few minutes with the upper crust of London's high society! And the flowers have just begun blooming. 'Twould be such a shame to miss it."

"But sir," Lizzy said, pretending to look down demurely while casting a glance toward Mrs. Tanner, who was standing at the window nearest the back door, staring hard through the rain. Lizzy knew she was hoping to catch sight of the men returning. Lizzy caught her eye and saw her pained, fearful expression. "I am not fit to walk with the rich folk. This is my best dress, but it's nothing like good enough for Hyde Park."

She was glad Mr. Darcy had thought to purchase her two ready-made dresses from a nearby shop that matched her claims of being Mrs. Tanner's cousin, a boot maker's daughter. She had borrowed one of Mrs. Tanner's gowns the first day, but it had felt like a terrible imposition. The new gowns were very rough compared to her own clothing back in Kent, but Mrs. Tanner had declared them very pretty, and she had been glad she had not begun to complain about them aloud.

"And besides," she added as he began to argue, "Laura has so much to do here, taking care of her own house and family, that there is no time for outings so far from home."

"My dear Olivia," Mr. Tanner said, leaning in ever closer and moving the hand he had been resting on the table across the rough wood next to hers, "your face and form are so pleasing to look upon that no one who sees you will care about your dress. And I believe you are correct—Laura is a busy little bee. But you should not be kept from enjoying yourself just because she has to get the supper on." He stretched out his index finger and, after catching her eyes, he ran the tip of his finger along the top of her closed fist and up onto her wrist. "I believe that you and I would enjoy the outing even more if it was just the two of us, don't you think?"

Lizzy wanted to scream, to cry out and jump away in offense and distaste. There was nothing appealing about this touch, about the open evaluation in his eyes as he raked them down her figure and back up. Lizzy had told herself that the feelings Mr. Darcy had evoked in her with his nearness during their abduction, with his gentle touch, had been the natural results of such closeness, that they would have occurred with anyone. But the deep revulsion engendered by Mr. Tanner's touch left Lizzy's conclusions as formless as smoke.

She blushed fiercely and looked away from him, praying that he would interpret her reaction as bashfulness instead of disgust, and it was incredibly difficult to leave her hand where it was instead of recoiling.

"Well, what do you say?" Mr. Tanner whispered, his breath making gooseflesh on her neck.

She opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by the sound of the kitchen door swinging open. Mr. Darcy dashed in, tossing a sopping newspaper, which had apparently been his only shelter from the downpour, back onto the stoop before moving to hold the door open for Old Mr. Tanner to follow him in. He looked around the room as he stood there, and the moment he noticed Lizzy and Mr. Roland Tanner sitting so closely, the haughty, indifferent mask that she so hated rolled into place.

"Roland!" Old Mr. Tanner barked, slamming the door with such force that a pot hanging on the wall rattled off its hook. "Get away from that girl! What are you doing here?"

"Good afternoon to you, too, Father."

Slowly, almost lazily, Mr. Roland Tanner ran his finger once more across Lizzy's hand before sighing, stretching, and standing.

"In the parlor! Now!" Old Mr. Tanner's face was as red as a cherry, and he motioned toward the room with his cane so sharply that Lizzy wondered whether the man thought he was holding a sword.

With even more pronounced slowness, Mr. Roland Tanner leaned back down over Lizzy. She felt the tiny, sharp hairs on his jaw brush against her cheek as he whispered into her ear, "Do not worry, love. We'll manage that little outing, whether my father likes it or not. I'm not a man to have his pleasures denied."

Lizzy knew she should look up, should wink or blow him a kiss, but she was perfectly unable to do it. She had reached the limit of her playacting ability, and any hope she had of being able to accept more of this man's attentions had flown the coop the moment Mr. Darcy had walked in. That look on his face! She kept her gaze down, knowing she was still blushing, and prayed that he thought she was being coy.

A few more seconds passed as Mr. Roland Tanner strode into the parlor like a rooster and Old Mr. Tanner followed him in grim, angry silence, his wet shoes squelching all the way through the kitchen. Lizzy expected Mr. Darcy to follow them, but he did not. He remained standing motionless just in front of the door.

"What on earth…?" Mr. Darcy finally began as the parlor door closed, his voice as taut as a bowstring.

"Oh, Livvy!" Mrs. Tanner whispered suddenly, rushing across the room and flinging herself down beside Lizzy, throwing her arms around her. "You are incredible! You saved me, I am sure of it!"

"Nonsense," Lizzy replied quietly. "I only did what any friend would have done under the circumstances."

"I shan't have that! Most friends would have marched into the room and stood guard, an act that would surely have ruined everything for your and Mr. Welton's plans. But you! You not only kept him from treating me so villainously, but you have now made it far more likely for him to agree to give aid. Making him angry would have made everything so much worse, for you and for me! Oh, you were brilliant!"

"Wait," Mr. Darcy said, finally stepping closer. "I do not understand. Olivia was… helping you?" His boots squelched and he looked down, realized that he was dripping all over the kitchen floor, and backed up to hang his greatcoat. Then he approached and sat across the table from them, leaning forward. "Tell me what happened."

Lizzy risked a quick glance at Mr. Darcy's face, but when she saw the thick mask still in place, she began a focused study of her own hands. Mrs. Tanner launched into a retelling of the events of the past twenty or thirty minutes, although to Lizzy they had felt like sixteen years, and hearing it told so starkly surprised her.

"And so Livvy sat there, apparently as brainless as a bird, keeping his attention easily just by batting her eyelashes a few times. But when he became so bold, Livvy, oh, I thought I might be able to cross the room and kick him after all. What on earth was he whispering to you?"

Lizzy could not quite suppress a shudder. "Your father-in-law pretends to be a gentleman, Laura, but he is most definitely not one. He was… he wanted me to accompany him on an outing alone, and he made very clear implications regarding the nature of what would occupy us."

Mr. Darcy slid back his chair and shot to his feet, his face thunderous. He turned toward the parlor door, but before he could move away, Lizzy reached out urgently and caught his hand. It was surprisingly cold.

"No, sir!" she hissed, tugging him back down into his seat. "You cannot go in there and call him out! I spent the longest half-hour of my life trying to keep us on his good side so that he will help us. If you go in there bellowing at him, it will all have been for naught!"

"But he was so familiar! He treated you like a tavern wench!"

"That cannot matter," Mrs. Tanner said quietly from her seat beside Lizzy. "If you anger him, he will not help you."

Mr. Darcy sat in quiet thought for a few more moments, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the tabletop. Only in noticing that did Lizzy realize that she was still holding his other, their fingers resting comfortably together at the center of the table. Her middle suddenly felt gooey, and she found herself unable to look away. Apparently it was only Mr. Darcy who could have such an effect on her.

"Very well," he said gravely. "I will not undo your work. If we lose his aid, I have no idea where else we will turn for the information we seek. But Olivia, we must be extraordinarily careful now. You must not allow yourself to be alone with him—not ever—and you must both lock the doors here at all times when we are gone. A memory of flirtation will keep him cheerful long enough for what we need, but he may take all sorts of liberties without your permission if any further private contact is allowed."

"I know," Lizzy answered, trying to hide the slight tremble in her voice. She felt how near she had come to danger today. She still did not know what she would have said earlier to put him off but keep him interested. She laughed, trying to brush off her nerves. "My experience in these matters extends only as far as watching my youngest sister entertain her crowds of admirers. I have no idea how to dangle the bait yet keep it fully out of reach."

Mr. Darcy stared at her intently for only a second or two before his horrible, haughty mask crumbled and he smiled at her, squeezing her hand. "You have not, have you? You are not a flirt, nor a temptress. You do not wear masks to draw men in. You are simply yourself. That philanderer has no idea that he saw absolutely nothing of the truth of who you are, that he is attracted to only a shallow façade and left ignorant of the radiance underneath."

Lizzy could not prevent a slow, awed smile from sliding onto her face. It was terribly ironic that a man who relied so much on a public mask to shield himself from the world should claim that he despised pretense and find himself drawn to a lady who rarely tried to hide the truth of her mind or her heart from the people around her, even when she should. But she found that she did not mind the irony.

Every day, despite the disconcerting distance between them of late, Lizzy was coming to know him better, this man who had first seemed such an open book and then become such a mystery. He hid himself behind that mask, she decided, because the truth of his real self was so stark, so earnest, that he had to protect it quite aggressively from the arrows of society. He was a man of deep feeling, but whereas most gentleman of society had learned to deaden themselves to emotion, he simply covered it up—and thereby, remained wholly himself under that disguise.

"Ahem," Mrs. Tanner said pointedly, drawing her attention. Lizzy colored, realizing that she had been grinning foolishly at Mr. Darcy for several seconds. "You were going to join the men in the parlor, Mr. Welton?"

"Of course." He only then realized her fingers were still clutched in his, and he released her as if he had been burned. All the warmth in Lizzy's chest flickered out, like a fire doused by a bucket. He stood, his expression indifferent once again. "It would be best for the both of you to be out of sight when Mr. Tanner is ready to leave."

Lizzy and Mrs. Tanner nodded as one and began to gather the sewing things they would need to occupy themselves productively in the back bedrooms. "That is all right. Olivia and I have a conversation to finish anyway."

Lizzy tried to smile at her friend, but she did not quite manage it. Mr. Darcy raised an eyebrow but did not ask for an explanation.

"Be careful, sir," Lizzy said suddenly, turning to him before passing by. "He will recognize you once you are speaking together. He will not be miserly with information of your whereabouts, should someone ask."

"Yes." He leaned in and spoke quietly. "This reliance on such a fellow may have disastrous consequences. But we have thought of no other way, so we must trust that all will work out as it is meant to do."

"I know. But still… just be careful."

"I always am."

He moved as if to reach out to her, perhaps to comfort her, but he hesitated then simply bowed and strode into the parlor. Lizzy wanted to call after him that he ought to get out of his wet things before entering, but she knew it was wisest to address the issues Mr. Roland Tanner presented as soon as possible, so she said nothing. But she and Mrs. Tanner would make sure there was a warm pot of tea available when they were finished. And perhaps she could lay out clothes for Mr. Darcy and Old Mr. Tanner next to the fire, so they would be warm when they were ready to change. And she could…

"Come along, Livvy," Mrs. Tanner said, tugging her arm as she moved toward the back bedrooms. "No more gazing after Mr. Welton. You have a story that you absolutely must finish telling."

Colonel Fitzwilliam stretched his broad shoulders underneath the restrictive stitching on the shoulders of Mr. Nelson's coat. He despised the narrow shoulders currently in fashion, but as Nelson's clothing fit well enough otherwise, he knew he should not complain. He directed his mount to the right, and they turned off Coxton's main thoroughfare into the small side street where lay the entrance to The Blue Hound.

He had spent the previous two days preparing for this evening, surreptitiously interviewing a few of the neighborhood gentry with whom he was acquainted (which had yielded little), going through Lady Catherine's accounts with Nelson (which had yielded even less), and badgering Lady Catherine for more information (which had yielded absolutely nothing).

He ticked off in his mind the whole sum of new knowledge he had gained from his two days of hunting. One, he knew that in the last two years, Lady Catherine had not made any large payments to Lord Smythe. The only truly outrageous expenditures had been for various medicines for Anne, most of which were prescribed by that charlatan Doctor Spencer. Lady Catherine's pin money, the only expense not listed out in detail, was of a surprisingly modest amount, a result, Mr. Nelson thought, of the slowing of the estate's income over the past decade. Lady Catherine had hired a series of stewards in those years who had cheated her or otherwise mismanaged the estate, which was apparently why Darcy had stepped in and hired Nelson himself a twelve-month or so ago. It had taken the man all that time to reconcile the estate books.

Two, he knew that while Rosings' neighbors all had strong opinions about Lady Catherine's role in the county and officious personal mannerisms, none of them knew anything truly bad of her. She was simultaneously revered and despised, as were many of the Ton in their home counties, but she was not a source of scandal or gossip, nor was she feared or hated. Even her tenants and the local villagers saw her as more an irritant than anything else. There were no stories among them of being pressed beyond their means or disproportionately increased rents.

And three, he knew that… well, unfortunately there was no number three. That was all he had managed to learn. Thus, he had come to The Blue Hound tonight absolutely determined to discover something of use regarding their investigation of Lord Smythe and his associates.

Fitzwilliam blew out one last irritated gust of air before pasting on his most humble-yet-charming expression and greeting the innkeeper's wife. It was only a matter of seconds before he was being ushered into the dim back room with a sloshing tankard in his hand.

The company seemed much the same as before. Although some of the faces had changed, they all wore that same hungry expression, and their eyes were fixed on the table, where three gentlemen and a lady were playing whist. It was almost jarring to Fitzwilliam to recognize the game they played. He was used to seeing several small tables arranged around the room, either during a soiree or at a gentlemen's club, where all those who wished to play could be accommodated, but here there was a single game with at least a dozen observers around the outside. The only conversation between the players was related to the game, and although there was some chatter between the spectators, most of the attention remained on the game and the notes changing hands with each turn.

Fitzwilliam moved close enough to see that the game was nearly at an end, and he decided to take the opportunity to more particularly observe the company rather than interrupt by jostling in for a better view or attempting to take a seat at the table.

Both of the gentlemen to whom he had spoken during his previous visit were players in the game, and the lady with the revealing bodice and biblically "wanton eyes" was one of the spectators. Smythe's agent was there again, as Fitzwilliam suspected he was every night, but this time he seemed less intent on the happenings at the table and more intent on the dark-haired lady who was currently perched on his lap. Not that Fitzwilliam could really blame the man, given the length of her décolletage and the excessively friendly manner in which she was whispering in his ear.

He was uncertain whether the lady's attentions would make it more or less possible for him to extract any useful information from the agent, but he suspected that either way, he would wish to be placed near the man, so he waited patiently, analyzing the rest of the patrons until the game ended amidst groaning and laughter and the silent tension was finally diffused. As the game's most unfortunate player stood, accepted a written accounting from the agent, and took a rather subdued leave, Fitzwilliam slipped into his seat and accepted greetings from the other players.

"Mr. Barker," the agent said, finally dragging his attention away from his companion long enough to notice the newcomer, "I wondered whether we would be seeing you again on your journey home. Was your cross-country dash successful?"

"Indeed. I managed to arrive in Dover early the next morning with enough time to not only enjoy a short respite but also to win back enough at the tables to pay our mutual friend in full. If I ever doubted that miracles could happen, I am now a believer."

"You must be an impressive horseman, sir, to have navigated the roads so quickly on such a dark night. But I am pleased for you. The older a debt grows, the heavier it becomes."

"As well I know. But its payment signals the turning over of a new leaf for me, sir," Fitzwilliam said, trying to fill his tone with just the right of determined desperation. "No more credit at the tables—no more debts of honor."

The man nodded with only a slight expression of doubt then turned back to watch his companion exchanging funds with a disgruntled lady standing beside her. He comforted her after her loss, sliding his arms more tightly around her waist and murmuring something against her ear, an action that elicited a jaunty giggle.

"I can no longer afford to be so reckless." Fitzwilliam spoke with deep gravity, hoping he could catch the man's notice again.

"Any particular reason?" the agent asked absently, his gaze following the trail of his finger along the lady's collarbone.

"My wife—she is with child now. I cannot leave my progeny a legacy of debt."

The agent made a murmur of agreement but then leaned forward and whispered something else to his lady, his attention entirely lost.

Fitzwilliam cursed internally. Apparently the lady was going to prove more of a hindrance than he had suspected.

He played for nearly two hours, drawing as many of the other patrons into conversation as he could, hoping to ingratiate himself with them, wondering if perhaps they would prove informative, and hoping against hope that the lady would be called away and leave him to converse more freely with the agent. Unfortunately his efforts were useless. She was too enthralling. Fitzwilliam had not even gleaned enough knowledge of that man to discover how to choose a course of action, whether friendship or threat would be a more effective tool. He was willing to spend as many evenings as necessary in this manner, and he knew that the lady could not possibly be present every night, but it would not be long before his story of stopping in town to rest from his journey became suspect. His time was limited, as much for Darcy's sake as his own.

It was just past midnight when Fitzwilliam's opportunity finally came.

The agent and his companion had grown increasingly familiar with one another as the lady had imbibed far more than she ought, and they had moved away from the table some minutes before, their murmured conversation interrupted frequently by heated kisses and sighs, none of which seemed to bother anyone at the table besides himself. They seemed quite inured to it, in fact, a reality that probably meant such behavior was not entirely unheard of among their company. It made sense, really. Ladies muddled with drink and excitement were often easily persuaded to offer a man far more than they would in the light of day.

Fitzwilliam wondered who this lady was that she was willing to behave in such a questionable fashion so publically. She was dressed well, clearly of good birth, but her bets had been low and infrequent, her attention mostly on the agent, so he was uncertain whether she was a person of true means. He had tried to get a good look at her, to see whether he might recognize her from some of his visits to Lady Catherine's neighbors, but her face was often obscured by her proximity to the agent, and the lighting in the small room made it difficult to see details of anyone's countenance.

Eventually Fitzwilliam stood, making the excuse of stretching his legs for a round or two, and after refilling his mug at the side table and chatting for a moment with the gentlemen gathered around the racing forms, he positioned himself near enough to attempt to overhear the agent's conversation without seeming to intrude.

"But I must go," the lady whispered, her words slurred.

"You must stay," the agent replied, his voice silky. "Your great-aunt will not notice your absence until morning."

"She wakes so wretchedly early. If I go with you, I may not return home in time."

"Nonsense," he argued. "We will be cautious. And it is not as if we shall fall asleep, pet. We shall be far too busy for that."

Her reply was a lush giggle, followed by more kissing sounds. Fitzwilliam kept his head carefully turned away, hiding the disgust on his face.

What a falsehood. The girl was far beyond tipsy—sleep was an inevitability—and the chances of the man bothering to wake her in time for her to return home were slim. Ten-to-one, once he had conquered her, he would be perfectly happy for her to be caught, making it impossible for her to ask more of him. After all, what gentlemanly father would want his daughter marrying the agent of a gambling game in a run-down tavern? She would be whisked far away in hopes that her reputation could be salvaged, and a future husband could be very well compensated to ignore her lack of maidenhood.

Fitzwilliam wished there were something he could do to protect the foolish woman. Although, given her behavior in such a public setting, perhaps his protection was unnecessary. He had been unable to examine her closely, but she had not seemed particularly young, so it was possible that this was a long-standing behavior, even a knowing choice. He sighed. It was out of his hands anyway.

Fitzwilliam's eye was suddenly drawn to the heavy back door on the far wall, the entrance through which some of the more illustrious players tended to enter and exit. It swung open slowly, and a man stepped in, an older man with unkempt, graying hair, and a severe expression. He shuffled through the door in a graceless manner, his cloak swaying to reveal the clothes of a servant, probably a groom. He cast around the room for someone in particular, and his expression shifted to significant unhappiness when his eyes fell on the agent's companion.

It took her a moment to notice him, and upon doing so, she released a disappointed sigh. "I must go now."

"Stay."

"I cannot. Not tonight."

"Tomorrow then. Promise me. I will end the gaming early, and I swear there will be plenty of time to enjoy before dawn."

The lady started to shake her head, but after another round of passionate persuasive efforts, she acquiesced. "Very well. Tomorrow."

Only then did the man release her. "Until tomorrow then, my lady."

She teetered slightly before catching her balance and making her way toward the door. She glanced back, blowing the agent a kiss over her shoulder, then joined her disapproving servant in the light cast by an awkwardly placed candelabra beside the door. The older man helped her settle a hooded cloak, his eyes sweeping back absently around the room.

He paused in surprise when his gaze landed on Fitzwilliam. He turned away quickly, but not before Fitzwilliam straightened, a shock of recognition lancing through him.

Locken! The servant was Locken, Mr. and Mrs. Collins' man.

A terrible certainty began gnawing at Fitzwilliam's insides. Was it possible? The idea was entirely horrifying, and yet, it made a perfectly twisted sort of sense. But how could he have missed it? How, seated so near her for so long, could he have been so blind?

He had to know. His eyes scanned the room, the table, the bench upon which she had sat. There!

"My lady!" Fitzwilliam called out, drawing the attention of most of the room as he strode swiftly to the bench, picked up a pair of gloves, and crossed to the back door. He moved beside her as she turned to see him from under the edges of her hood.

She reached out slowly. "Thank you, sir."

Her eyes met his for the barest second before she turned gracefully and followed Locken out the door. Fitzwilliam watched her go, frozen in shock and dismay.

"She is quite the lady," said the agent from just behind Fitzwilliam's shoulder.

"Is she?" Fitzwilliam asked, struggling to make his voice sound casual.

"Not the loveliest I've ever seen," the agent mused, "but her… willingness more than makes up for that."

"Here, here," Fitzwilliam answered cheerfully, trying to shake off his emotions.

The men laughed together and returned to the table. The agent remained in an excellent mood for the next half hour, and after pushing all other thoughts to the side, Fitzwilliam took full advantage, chatting comfortably with the man about everything from preferred beverages to Kent's local politics. More importantly, he managed to learn several important facts: Lord Smythe had plans to remain on the continent for some time, that he was rumored to own an estate somewhere in Yorkshire, and that the agent seemed somewhat more familiar than ought to be expected with Rosings and its occupants.

That last fact seemed particularly significant to Fitzwilliam, and had he been able to stay and converse longer, he would have discovered all he could about it, but as it was, his eyes kept straying to the back door and the watch in his waistcoat pocket. Finally he stood, throwing down a final disappointing hand and declaring himself too unlucky to continue playing that night. He bade his farewells, implying that his travel plans were uncertain and that he might return again the following evening, and left the back room with as little haste as he could manage.

However, upon exiting, his pace became nearly frantic, and once on the road toward Rosings, he traveled as quickly as he could without laming his horse on an unseen rut. He was only a mile or two from Hunsford when he caught up with the small curricle driven by Locken, and he slowed his anxious steed to keep pace with it, although neither he nor the cart's occupants spoke.

As they pulled into the parsonage's small yard, Locken moved to assist the lady down from the curricle, but Fitzwilliam was already there, waving him away. At a nod from her, Locken went to unhitch the horse. Her touch on Fitzwilliam's arm as she descended was light, and as soon as she was on the ground, she released him and began crossing the yard back toward the lane instead of turning into the house, where Fitzwilliam could see a single candle still lit on the windowsill.

He followed her uncertainly across the lane, through some long grass, and toward a low hill.

"Please, madam, where are you…?"

"Shhh."

He shushed, resigned to following her closely in case of a stumble. Her steps, however, were quick and certain, and he realized that she had not imbibed nearly as much as she had pretended. That somewhat eased his immediate concerns.

They worked their way over the low hill and finally stopped against a low pasture fence on the far side. Fitzwilliam watched her warily, but all she did was lean against the precarious rail, her eyes trailing over the wide pasture and toward the trees on the far side.

"'Tis a pretty prospect in the daytime, but I believe there is even more beauty here at night. Although, I admit, it is more impressive when the moon is full."

"Yes, very pretty."

She sighed. "You may speak freely now, Colonel. I simply did not wish for your scolding to be overheard by other members of my household."

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to speak and was surprised when no words came out. Now that he had his opportunity, he was uncertain what to say, how to express all the thoughts chasing around inside his head.

"You are angry," she offered mildly.

"Of course I am angry," he barked, half-laughing at her audacity.

"Two days ago, I told you that I wanted to help, that I felt responsible and was willing to do whatever was required to help Lizzy."

"And the first step in doing said duty was to place yourself in not only physical danger but also moral?"

"Oh, please, sir. Do not be so didactic. This endeavor was not conducted out of pleasure. I assessed the situation, considered what might be the best method of extracting information from an unknown gentleman, and settled upon this set of manners, dress, and behavior as the most likely to convince a man of his type to confide more in me than he intended. Tonight was my third night visiting Coxton, and I believe I have had some significant success in obtaining important information. Are you telling me that my method was ineffective?"

Fitzwilliam, as usual, had no counter-argument. Her approach had been perfectly intelligent. "No, Mrs. Collins, you were not wrong, but there are other ways, methods that are safer for you, your reputation, and your family."

"My reputation," she laughed lightly. "Come now, Colonel. You of all people should be quite aware that my reputation is in no danger. Not even you, as familiar as we have become with one another, recognized me in that room tonight, not until Locken entered. If I were to meet Mr. Monsdale face-to-face in the middle of Coxton one afternoon, if I were to strike up a polite conversation with him, he would still never recognize me. My dress, my manner, even this paint on my face—they created a whole other person. I am not afraid, and even if I were, I cannot think that my behaviors could harm me any more than my husband's stupidity already has."

"Monsdale? Is that the agent's name? What if he had discovered your true motives? What if he had felt threatened and hurt you? Or worse, what if he had grown so amorous that you had been unable to escape him? Drunken men can be difficult to disengage."

"He does not drink. His oath to refrain from all alcohol when at the table is part of his contract with Lord Smythe."

"Still!" Fitzwilliam was growing exasperated quickly. "You could not have any guarantee of safety!"

"Lizzy has no guarantee either, and as long as her safety is in question, I am willing to risk mine."

"You take too much on for the sake of friendship, madam."

It was too dark to see the expression on Mrs. Collins' face, but there was a deep frown in her voice. "You think this is all about friendship? I love Lizzy dearly, and I would do much for her, but any call made by my love for my friend is only enhanced by my sense of responsibility. It is because of my husband's intemperance that she has found herself at this extremity."

Fitzwilliam threw his hands in the air. "Then it should be your husband risking himself to aid her. Not you!"

He watched her shoulders drop, her outline in the darkness suddenly smaller. "You are not a fool, Colonel, so I cannot imagine why it is not clear to you that such a thing would be impossible."

"It is his duty, as a husband, as a cousin, and as a man of the cloth!" Fitzwilliam insisted, full of righteous indignation.

"Colonel, even were he inclined to give such aid, he would not be helpful. You know him well enough to answer this question: do you truly believe he could manage it?" She paused, waiting for an argument, one Fitzwilliam could not offer in good conscience. She continued, "No! And so, it is left up to me."

"No," he insisted stepping toward her, "it is left up to me! I told you I would take care of this."

"I am neither your wife nor your relation, sir. You have no control over me, nor any right to assume it."

Fitzwilliam found himself grinding his teeth. "But is it not my duty as a friend, both to you and to Miss Bennet, not to mention as a gentleman, to protect you? Would Miss Bennet want you to take such a risk on her behalf?"

"Lizzy trusts my intelligence enough to know I am neither reckless nor foolish. I do what is necessary."

"You mean like marrying Mr. Collins? Was that necessary? Was it not foolish, rather?"

Mrs. Collins stiffened and turned to the fence again, stepping further from him. He should have kept that comment back, he knew, and his chest ached at the feelings he thought she must be experiencing, but he had wanted to say it for so long, to ask her why, that he was entirely unable to rescind the question or apologize.

"I cannot imagine," he continued, his words quiet and earnest, "how a woman as bright and aware as yourself ended by marrying such a husband. You cannot have known him beforehand. You cannot have accepted him intentionally."

"But I did," she replied, her words simultaneously low and harsh. He could practically taste the bitterness in her tone. "At the time I felt it a reasonable choice. I was a spinster, Colonel, on the shelf, and when Mr. Collins offered me a home and a life and the possibility of having children, all things of which I had long before despaired, I accepted with only the barest of attention paid to his intellect."

Fitzwilliam wanted to blame her, and a part of him did, but he could not prevent the sympathy that was overwhelming him. Women were so often dependent on men for their happiness. How could he say that she should have made a different choice?

"Had you known him then as you do now, would you have married him still? Can you be happy with such a man?"

"Of course not!" she cried, her voice cracking with emotion. "Any hidden depths I had hoped to discover in his character have proven shallow. He is insipid and cowardly, and I can hardly bear to listen to his sermons on Sunday or watch the simpering way he condoles with or guides his parishioners. I…" She swallowed hard, trying to gain some calm, but the effort was useless. Her next words burst out. "Oh, how I despise him!"

Fitzwilliam was silent. All these weeks, he had desired to know Mrs. Collins' true opinion of her husband, to know whether she could really be as complacent regarding his weaknesses as she appeared to be. Yet now, hearing the despair in her voice as she admitted the truth, he found himself wishing he had never provoked her to make such an admission. He felt only misery instead of triumph.

For a few moments they stood in silence, both of them turned out to look over the field but neither of them seeing anything beyond their own thoughts. Mrs. Collins drew in a cleansing breath, squared her shoulders under her cloak, and spoke with renewed calm. "And yet, he is my husband."

"How can his mere connection to you balance this account?" Fitzwilliam asked in wonder.

"I made a choice, Colonel, knowing that I must live with the consequences. I promised to be his wife in all circumstances, and discovering his weakness does not grant me clemency from my vow. We are a pair now until death do us part."

"Marriage should not be an act of resignation."

"Most of life must be an act of resignation in order to find contentment. I will live with my choices, and I will find peace in them."

Her return to such platitudes released his own passionate response. He banged his fist against the top of the fence, welcoming the sting of the rough wood against his skin. "But what of love, Mrs. Collins? Does not every person deserve to be loved, truly and deeply?"

"Few of us ever receive all that we deserve, sir, either the good or the bad," she replied stiffly. "But my family loves me, and I believe Mr. Collins loves me as deeply as he is able. That has to be enough."

"And what if there were another who cared for you?" Fitzwilliam asked, frustration causing his words to race out ahead of his thoughts.

Mrs. Collins paused a moment before replying, "You are correct. I have friends like Lizzy, many who bring light to my life. And the parishioners here need me, especially when they would otherwise have only Mr. Collins as their spiritual guide. I have found great contentment, even peace, in my service to them. It is enough. Perhaps someday, there will even be a child. That will be more than enough."

"But what if there were someone else?" Fitzwilliam persisted, no longer able to keep himself from reaching a hand out to rest on her arm. "Someone both willing and able to love you as you deserve to be loved, someone who could appreciate you for all that you are and care for you with earnest, tender devotion?"

Mrs. Collins stiffened under his hand, but she did not pull away. Instead she remained very still and spoke with gentle certainty. "I gave up on that possibility years ago, Colonel."

"You gave up too soon."

"It does not matter. I married Mr. Collins. I made my choice."

"It does not matter? I…"

"It cannot matter!" Her tone was harsh. "I cannot allow it to matter. Or else I should be unhappy all my days."

She had turned to face him, and although he could see little more than the glint of the moonlight reflected from her eyes, he felt the entreaty in her grip on as she covered his hand with hers, the barely-contained emotions roiling through her. In the seconds they stared at one another, he constructed several pleas to convince her, visions of their happy future together. He considered kissing her, drawing her into his arms and shocking her into compliance with his most errant fantasies. He wanted to speak of the adventurous, traveling life she would have as the wife of a colonel, of what a loving, devoted father he would be, and of the way society would forget their scandal after a few years abroad. But each idea, after a bare second, was discarded as hopelessly unable to overcome the inevitable ending—she would indeed be unhappy.

"You would never forgive yourself," he whispered.

She lowered her voice to match his and leaned nearer, almost laying her head on his shoulder. "There is little enough I prize about myself, sir. I am neither beautiful nor gentle. I am neither lively nor witty. I am neither intellectual nor accomplished. But I am earnest and devoted, honest and fair. I cannot lose that piece of who I am. It is all that I am. The devastation of losing the good opinion of my family, my friends, and society would be nothing compared to learning to hate myself."

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to speak then closed it. There was nothing else to say on the subject, and more words would just bring more pain and humiliation.

Mrs. Collins squeezed his arm once then pulled back to a respectable distance. "I have learned a few important things these past nights, if you would care to hear them."

It was almost more than he could bear to return to a topic that suddenly felt so distant and mundane, but he managed to sound reasonably calm. "I would, yes."

"Mr. Simon Monsdale has been Lord Smythe's Coxton agent for just over a year. Lord Smythe is an exacting employer but scrupulously fair. He does not stand for cheating amongst players or between players and agents in either direction. The entire crux of his scheme seems to stand on his honesty. When a player in debt refuses to pay an agent in a timely manner, whether their debt is small or large, the player receives one warning and a small extension—a month, usually. When the debt remains unpaid, the agent contacts Lord Smythe and his crew through a system of privately-couriered messages. The crew appears as soon as possible, usually led by the mysterious Reg, Lord Smythe's right-hand man, and pilfers enough from the empty home of the debtor to pay the debt.

"However, in cases where more credit has been extended to a person of known wealth or influence and the large amount remains unpaid, the method differs. There is usually a warning—often a small theft such as the removal of a precious set of earrings from a lady's bedchamber accompanied by a letter. If the warning is ignored or the response is otherwise undesirable (such as hiring guards), Lord Smythe himself arrives and conducts a ransoming. According to Mr. Monsdale, the abduction victim is rarely the debtor but someone who is important to them in some manner but whose absence will not cause too much trouble. There are contingencies planned in case there remains no response to the abduction, but as far as Mr. Monsdale knows, they have never been necessary."

Fitzwilliam leaned over his elbows on the fence, resting his head against the rough wood in hopes of it increasing his alertness. "But according to Darcy, Lord Smythe behaved as if, of the two of them, Miss Bennet was the preferred prisoner. That makes no sense, according to Monsdale's explanation."

"Yes, I have been considering that. It would have been far more sensible to take only Mr. Darcy. I have wondered whether perhaps once Lizzy had seen them they felt they had to take her to protect themselves."

"Possibly," he mused. "Or, given how obvious Darcy's regard is for her, they thought he would be more compliant in her presence. Really, in either case, Darcy was a strange choice. Yes, he is important to Lady Catherine, but he is also quite influential in wider society and his presence will soon be missed by more than just Rosings."

"Has Rosings yet been contacted with a ransom demand?" Mrs. Collins asked.

"None, nothing more than the warning of one in that letter. From what Darcy said, it seemed as if Smythe was in an awful hurry to get to the Continent. He must have intended to wait and write from there."

Mrs. Collins shook her head. "There is still something essential missing, something unexplained. How on earth did Lady Catherine get into Coxton frequently enough to accrue ninety-thousand pounds in debt? Mr. Monsdale says that the most he is allowed to extend to anyone, even the richest, in a one-week period is a few thousand pounds. That means several months of gambling gave rise to such a debt, and I know that Mr. Collins was not away long enough to be in Coxton more than the once each month, at least since we have been married. It makes no sense! I shall have to extract it from Mr. Monsdale tomorrow. He has been very tight-lipped about his dealings with Rosings, and he always gets a strained look on his face when anyone refers to it."

"Tomorrow?" Fitzwilliam blustered. "You cannot possibly be considering returning! You know Monsdale will not remain patient with you if you do not keep your promises to him in full."

"I would prefer not to return," Mrs. Collins admitted with obvious reluctance. "I admit that I am in a tad deeper than I had planned. But how else shall we extract the information we seek?"

Fitzwilliam was so relieved by Mrs. Collins' acquiescence that it took him a few moments to focus on solving the problem. Then, with a slight chuckle, he said, "I believe, my dear Mrs. Collins, that the time has come to go straight to the source. We must ask my aunt."

"You believe she will be more helpful than she has been up until now?" Mrs. Collins scoffed.

"Of course not. But I believe that, given the circumstances, it is time to breach the boundaries of polite society and invade her privacy, whether she wishes our invasion or not."

"I believe, sir, that this will be a job best left to you. It is one thing to deceive a gambler's agent. Searching through my husband's employer's personal documents is another."

"You are voluntarily giving up your right to assist?" Fitzwilliam asked with feigned dismay. "Are you well, Mrs. Collins?"

She laughed and turned away, beginning to cross back through the meadow the way they had come. "Well enough, Colonel. Only tired, as I suspect you are."

"Yes," he said, catching her up, "the rest can wait until tomorrow."

They crossed the meadow in silence, and when they reached the silent dooryard, Fitzwilliam stood still and watched as Mrs. Collins ducked into the small alcove leading to the kitchen door. She stopped with her hand against the door and looked back.

"I hope we are good friends, Colonel."

He began to speak, paused, then said in a slow whisper, "My dear Mrs. Collins, although the sun and the stars may pass away, my friendship is a certainty."

She released a breathy laugh and began to turn back.

"But for the record, madam, I would have you know that while you are not classically beautiful, and you may not play an instrument or cover screens or… or charm birds from their nests, you…" He trailed off, drawing in a deep breath. "I would leave you with no doubt that you are enough to make an old soldier curse the fate that brought him into your life six months too late."

He could not even see her form in the darkness of the small porch, but he imagined a thousand words in the quiet, "Goodnight, sir," that was her reply before pushing open the door and disappearing inside.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Collins," he whispered.