Disclaimer: I am not Jane Austen. Still.

Chapter Eleven

It was early evening by the time Elizabeth was ushered into a dusty bedchamber on the second floor of a decrepit manor house some few miles outside of the last town through which they had passed. She wanted to rest, to flop herself on her stomach across the faded counterpane on the thin mattress and go straight to sleep, but she remembered Mr. Darcy's advice from several days before about a gentle walk being the best method for relieving saddle-induced stiffness, so she mustered her will and remained upright, occupying herself by testing the doors and window of the little chamber. As she had assumed, all were tightly sealed, which explained the musty odor clinging to every surface.

A part of her felt guilty that through the course of the carriage ride, several hours on the back of Reg's horse, and several breaks at carriage stops and rushing streams along the way, she had not managed to escape. She had watched for opportunities, but Reg was an attentive captor, and she was quite certain that either pleading for mercy or feigning illness would have an equal lack of effect on her circumstance except to make him more wary of her. Therefore, she had remained docile, eaten what she was given, made no requests, and kept her eyes wide open despite the tiredness that had stolen over her some hours into the trip.

At least she was used to wearing the men's clothing they had given her this time. She had even tied a decent, plain knot in her own cravat, thanks to a good-humored lesson Mr. Darcy had given her two evenings before when she had remarked on her lack of skill in that area.

Perhaps it was strange, but she had not found herself to be terribly afraid. Certainly she was in a vulnerable position and could easily be victimized, but the circumstances felt oddly familiar. Unlike the last time she had been taken, a part of her had been expecting the occurrence, which had removed some of the apprehension upon its actually happening. Also unlike the last time, there had been no references of any kind to the allure of her company or threats made against her maidenhood. Reg had treated her rather more like a saddlebag than a desirable woman, thank goodness.

The only emotions she seemed to be feeling in excess through the course of the day were anger at the man's presumption—why could he simply not have left them in peace?—and worry for Mr. Darcy's state of mind. He would not know how she was being treated, that she felt relatively safe with these men despite the circumstances, or where she had been taken. He had instead been left in London with only a request for a disgraceful sum of money and a promise that she would be returned unharmed in three or four days' time. He would be blaming himself, of course, as he seemed to always do.

She found herself gazing out the window, watching the last, lingering light of the sun, which had sunk below the horizon just minutes before they had arrived. She imagined Mr. Darcy's face as it must be at this moment, that familiar expression of self-recrimination. Were she beside him, would she have the courage to reach out and smooth the lines above his brows? She would certainly attempt to cajole him into a more sensible humor, to erase his regret and turn his thoughts toward finding a solution.

But what were his choices? He could either gather the funds to pay the ransom, or he could call on the Bow Street Runners and attempt to lay a trap for whomever Reg sent to collect the money. Neither idea was terribly appealing. Lizzy considered for a moment the possibility that he might refuse to pay such a shocking amount for her return, but she pushed it aside, choosing not to dishonor him or the true affection she was now certain he had for her by imagining a selfishness that was not there. He would pay the money without a single complaint, and he would never hold it against her, not for a single moment. It might even bring him a twisted sense of satisfaction to know he had sacrificed so much for her well-being.

No, the real source of Lizzy's lingering anxiety was what would happen when she and Maria had not arrived at the Gardiner's at the expected time three days hence. Surely Charlotte would attempt an excuse, but Lizzy's family would already be growing suspicious by now of her total silence for the past week, and if she did not appear in Cheapside on Monday, it would be perfectly reasonable for them to begin an investigation, for Uncle Gardiner or her father to ride to Kent and check on her. Would she be returned before a true alarm had been raised, before the world discovered all that had occurred and her reputation became tarnished?

And would all of Mr. Darcy's affections and their shared experience these past days be enough to bring him to humble himself before her again, to offer for her a second time, in spite of not only her lack of fortune, connections, and sensible relations but also a ruined reputation?

The thought only fueled her anxiety and anger. Why could Smythe and his men not have simply left her alone?

That consideration brought her up short. It had seemed odd to her all day, the way Smythe's men were behaving, the way they avoided eyes and slunk behind stables and kept looking over their shoulders. Even Reg, who had seemed downright jaunty sometimes, had continually cast glances behind him as they rode. During her first abduction (she had to wonder how many people in England could say they had been abducted more than once), the atmosphere among the men had been quite businesslike, almost comfortable despite their general silence. They had a familiarity with someone in nearly every place they had stopped, and although they had been wary of Lizzy and Mr. Darcy attempting to run away, they had not seemed so guarded.

Today they had all been tense, both the men she had recognized from before like Cleft Chin and Scar Hand, and those who were not familiar. Their movements and conversations had been furtive, secretive, and… well, ashamed. She was uncertain why, but they had all seemed ashamed of something.

And where, through all of this, was Lord Smythe himself? Was this moldering old house his home? Or Reg's? Or just a place they liked to lie low? Only two servants had greeted them when they had burst unceremoniously into the kitchen upon arrival, and they had scurried to do Reg's bidding quick enough, but they certainly had not been glad to see him.

Lizzy shook her head as she paced, feeling too tired to analyze yet unable to quiet her thoughts. She occupied herself with changing back into her dress, which one of her captors had tossed carelessly onto the bed as they had entered.

Oh, if she were to be locked in this room alone until Wednesday, they might find her quite mad when she was finally released.

She drew in a surprised breath at the sound of a key turning in the lock, moving as quickly as her body could manage to the far corner of the chamber and assuring herself that she was fully finished dressing. Belatedly, Lizzy realized she ought to have tried to find a weapon and attacked her captor before attempting an escape, but being as she was alone and not even certain of her location, she decided it was probably better that she had not tried it.

A head poked inside along with a single candle, a feminine face with simply-coiled auburn hair. "Hello?" the woman called, her voice distinctly nervous.

Something about her tone relaxed Lizzy and she stepped forward slowly out of the shadows. "Who are you?"

The woman moved inside, her slight frame struggling under a heavy wooden tray. She pushed the door closed behind her with her foot, and Lizzy noted that the door remained unlocked. "I have brought you some food. Normally Mr. and Mrs. Jones would do this sort of thing, but they are preparing rooms for Geoff's men."

Lizzy looked the woman over in the faltering candlelight, the sun having set long enough ago that the light from outside was useless. Her dress was not extraordinarily fine, but it was much too nice for a servant to wear. "You are… the mistress here?"

"I suppose so." The woman… really more of a girl, Lizzy realized as she came nearer… seemed uncomfortable with the idea. She rested the tray carefully on a three-legged table near the wardrobe, then turned and curtsied to Lizzy, a movement that did not come naturally to her. "I am Mrs. Talmadge, Geoff's wife. You can call me Tilda."

"Talmadge? Then his name is not really Smythe?"

The young woman frowned, looking far more defeated than Lizzy thought was justified. "Oh. I forgot he uses a false name for all this. I suppose I should not have said anything."

"You are very kind to bring me supper," Lizzy said, hoping to raise the girl's spirits. She could not promise to keep secret the accidental information, but something about the girl tugged at Lizzy's heart. "All they gave me on the way was stale bread and ale."

Mrs. Talmadge frowned more deeply. "Truly? I thought Geoff always insisted on his abductees being well-fed and treated. Reg and the others did not hurt you, did they?"

"No. I am only hungry, saddle-sore, and weary."

"I am sorry for that. I am sorry for all of this." The girl pulled a rickety chair from against the wall and began, with some difficulty, to pull it toward the table. "Please sit."

Lizzy watched her closely, surprised that such a light burden should cause such difficulty, and it was only upon minute inspection that Lizzy noticed the slight bulge of a rounded middle hidden under Mrs. Talmadge's dress. "Oh! You are with child! Please let me get my own chair!"

She took the chair out of the girl's hands and easily carried it to the table. It was not until she had placed it and sat down that she glanced back up and realized the girl had not moved. She was staring at Lizzy with a horror-stricken expression.

"Whatever is the matter?" Lizzy asked, carefully studying the limp vegetables and small wedge of beef on her plate. She could see nothing wrong with them besides their unattractive aspect.

"You… you can see that I am expecting?" Mrs. Talmadge squeaked.

"Well, it is not apparent when you stand still, but when you bent forward just now I could see it very clearly. I hope I have not been indelicate by noticing."

The poor girl slumped to the bed, leaning her temple against the post beside her. "I had fooled myself into thinking I could hide it longer."

Lizzy stared at the girl, full of uncertainty. "You do not wish Mr. Talmadge to know?"

"No," she whispered. "Not yet."

Lizzy pictured Lord Smythe's—that is, Mr. Talmadge's—face. He had made her nervous, yes, with his lecherous insinuations, but in hindsight, he had never been overtly cruel or purposely hurtful. As with his men, he had seemed like a very determined man of business.

"Will Mr. Talmadge be angry with you? Does he not wish for children?"

"He wants children very much," she sighed.

Lizzy knew she was prying, but the girl did not seem to mind, and she obviously needed someone in whom to confide given that she was confessing all this to a complete stranger. "Is it that you do not wish for children?"

"I also want a child very much," she whispered before bursting into silent, wracking sobs.

Lizzy remained in her chair for several seconds. Never had she felt more awkward or uncertain. She was a captive in a stranger's tumble-down manor being held for an extraordinary ransom to be paid by a man whose suit for her hand she had violently rejected less than a fortnight before yet had come to love with a deep and abiding affection. She had spent all day in the saddle and was hungry and exhausted. And now a poor, unfortunate girl was sobbing in her room about a pregnancy she apparently wanted but felt she must hide from her husband, who also wanted a child (and happened to be Lizzy's captor).

Lizzy glanced longingly toward the unlocked door. She could leave now, and the girl would probably not notice for several minutes. The worst that could happen would be that she would be caught and returned to her room.

Yet in spite of that, she found herself rising to her feet, crossing to the bed, and sitting beside the girl before wrapping her arms around her and murmuring soothing nonsense. "Come now, come now. Everything is all right. All will be well."

The last phrase brought Mr. Darcy's face to her mind again. Good grief, how she wished he were here with her now! Not that he would know any better than she did what to do, but that seemed to have little effect on her longing for him.

Some minutes passed as the girl clung to Lizzy, trying to slow her tears and catch her breath. "I am sorry… so sorry. Please forgive me. You must think me… quite unhinged."

"I am told that being overly emotional is a common occurrence when one is carrying a child."

"I suppose there is some comfort in that, but everything just feels so overwhelming. What am I to do?"

Lizzy frowned. "About what? The child?"

"About Geoff. Reg says Geoff will be returning to England at the end of next week, expecting to gather the last of the debts and retire permanently to the Continent. I spent so many months dreaming of the small cottage in the countryside he has always wanted, the one he says he has finally found. We were to leave this rotten old place and all its troubles, our pasts and his gaming business and everything else that might cause us difficulty, and disappear into a new, quiet life. I have yearned for such freedom for so long, and now…" She seemed to pale, and her voice grew breathless. "…Now I can hardly bear the thought of him returning!"

"Do you not care for Mr. Talmadge anymore?"

"Oh, I do! I love him so fiercely that sometimes my heart aches fit to bursting!"

"Then why do you not wish for his return, for the end you say you have both sought for some time?"

"I… oh, I cannot… I cannot bear to speak it aloud. I… you see, some months ago, I was…"

She was interrupted by voices in the corridor and the pounding of heavy boots. "Tilda!"

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Talmadge hissed, jumping to her feet and wiping her face. She scurried to the tray, trying to appear as if she had just arrived and was setting out the meal.

"Tilda!" The door swung open, and Reg strode inside, followed quickly by Scar Hand, who glared at Lizzy as if she had done something wrong. "What are you doing in here?"

She looked up at him innocently. "I was bringing the poor woman some supper."

"Mrs. Jones would have gotten to it… eventually," Reg answered, looking slightly abashed. "You should not be in here, especially alone. Miss Bennet can be quite devious."

"Are you saying she would harm me?" Mrs. Talmadge asked, surprised.

"She and her gentleman-friend bashed a sailor over the head and threatened Wellington in the process of their escape in Dover."

"Well, good for them," Mrs. Talmadge said, glaring at him. "I would do the same had someone carried me away from my friends and family."

He pursed his lips. "Still, I have no wish to see you harmed, my love."

It took a moment for Lizzy to register the endearment he had used. She stared back and forth between them, monumentally confused.

"Please, Reg," Mrs. Talmadge said, looking terribly downcast and motioning toward Scar Hand, who was watching from the doorway. She lowered her voice. "Not in front of the men."

"It will matter not, my darling," he said, moving forward and taking her hands, "as soon as you agree to come away with us to the north. The men will know the truth before long."

He looked so different to Lizzy suddenly, so unlike the sardonic, silent enforcer he had always seemed to her. Gone was his forbidding mien, and in its place was an expression of hopeful apprehension.

"Reg, you said you would give me time to consider," she whispered, eyeing Scar Hand uncomfortably.

"You are carrying my child, Tilda," Reg said, rubbing his hand over her middle possessively. "I want no one to doubt what is mine."

Lizzy stifled a gasp, remembering despite her surprise that she had no wish to be noticed. Scar Hand, however, had no such scruples. His eyebrows raised all the way to his hairline and he released a low whistle.

"Reg!" Mrs. Talmadge cried out as she jerked out of his grasp and covered her blushing cheeks with her hands. "Don't!"

"Leave us, Windham," Reg commanded Scar Hand nonchalantly. "Go make certain guards have been posted at the front and back entrances, and post a watch at the gate."

Scar Hand—Windham, apparently—nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind him.

"How could you?" Mrs. Talmadge shrieked as soon as the door closed. "Are you attempting to force my hand? You said my choice would be my own!"

"Forgive me, my love," he said, not looking nearly as repentant as Lizzy thought he should. "I am only eager to have the world know that you are mine."

"But I am not yours," Mrs. Talmadge insisted. "I am Geoff's by law."

"The roundness of your belly says otherwise."

"I cannot bear how flippantly you speak of betraying a man who calls you friend!"

"Geoff is my best friend, but he is a fool—he always has been—and now he is a cuckold. 'Tis only fitting, I say. He has mismanaged everything in his life, his inheritance, his business, and his marriage, and not prized them as he should, so it seems only right that both his occupation and his wife should belong to someone who will take better care of them." His words had returned the harshness to his expression that was more familiar to Lizzy, but he seemed to consciously soften again as he added, "And I will take care of you, Tildy. We will go north, and with me running the business, we will live quite comfortably. Our child would want for nothing, and no one there need ever know that we are not man and wife."

Mrs. Talmadge watched his face, hers a mask of indecision. "I still need time, Reg. You are to remain here for a few days, yes?"

He nodded and straightened, trying to hide his disappointment. "We will leave on Wednesday morning for London, and we will not return to Buckinghamshire ever again."

"Then you will know my answer by Wednesday morning."

They stood awkwardly for several moments, Reg obviously wanting to say more but unsure how to be more convincing. Lizzy shifted slightly, feeling their discomfort, and the bed beneath her creaked. Both Reg and Mrs. Talmadge looked surprised to see her sitting there. She attempted to remain expressionless.

"Come," Reg said gruffly, glaring at Lizzy as he put an arm around Mrs. Talmadge's shoulders. "Next time, allow Mrs. Jones to do her work."

Mrs. Talmadge nodded submissively, but just before he ushered her out the door, she looked back and met Lizzy's eyes, appearing to search for something. Then the door closed, and the key turned in the lock.

Lizzy dropped back on the lumpy mattress, staring at the threadbare canopy above her head. She knew not what to think! The poor girl appeared so innocent and professed her love for her husband faithfully, yet she was carrying the child of his best friend and considering running away with him. Lizzy wondered whether this was the sort of tale told in the sordid romance novels her father had never allowed her to read.

She found herself absurdly fascinated by the entire situation yet also sympathetic to each party. One, a man in love with his best friend's wife who found his way into her bed, the other a husband attempting to secure a peaceful, quiet home for a wife he cares for yet neglecting her in the process, and between them, a woman who loves her husband dearly but has made a mistake that puts his love at risk, so much so that she is considering running away with his dearest friend.

Somehow, their troubles made her own seem far less daunting.

She considered rising again to eat the meager meal, but as her eyes were already closed, it seemed most convenient to keep them that way. Her last thought was to wrap the counterpane over herself and imagine it was Mr. Darcy's arms that would warm her all night.

"We have no time for this, Fitzwilliam," Darcy growled from behind him as they made their way through a narrow hallway into the busy taproom of a tavern near the outskirts of Chalfont St. Peters.

"Make time, Darcy." Fitzwilliam was as tired and impatient as he was, possibly more so, and was in no mood to be polite. "The horses must rest, as well as the men, now that we are so close to our destination, and we need to gather information, to attempt to discover the name of the manor where they are keeping her.

"Would that not be simpler in Amersham?" Charles Bingley asked, moving beside them as Fitzwilliam banged on the bar to get the barkeep's attention. Bingley was cracking his knuckles and glancing restlessly around the room. Clearly, he had caught a great deal of Darcy's anxiety. "They would know this man Smythe and his companions better there, would they not?"

"Yes," Fitzwilliam agreed. "But they may know him too well. If they have loyalty toward him, or if a portion of his men hail from the area, they might report our questioning to the villains themselves."

"Ah."

"Five pints of ale!" Fitzwilliam called to the barkeep, who finally had the opportunity to attend to them. He motioned his companions to a table that had just opened in the back corner, and he joined them moments later carrying the tankards.

"Might I ask, sir," Darcy's footman John said humbly, twisting his cap in his hands, obviously uncomfortable keeping company in such a way with his master, "what we're to do next? Shall we attempt to question the other patrons?"

"Yes," Darcy said briskly, rising again himself. "We should…"

Fitzwilliam reached out and grabbed Darcy's arm, returning him to his seat. "Now, now, cousin, I know you are worried, but we must be strategic about this. If we five simply begin asking questions about a man named Geoffrey Smythe of anyone in the room at this moment, no one will speak to us. This does not seem a terribly suspicious lot, but people still tend to guard their own knowledge closely. We must filter in slowly, as if we are in no hurry and have nowhere to be, and strike up entirely unrelated conversations."

Matthew, the other footman, an extremely broad-shouldered young man with hair so fair it was almost white, looked troubled. "Strikin' up conversations wit' strangers idn't one of my skills, sir. I'll more'n likely make 'em too nervy to speak."

"You are a rather intimidating fellow," Fitzwilliam mused. "Perhaps you and your master should remain here to observe the room at large while Bingley, John and I work our way into some acquaintances."

"You cannot mean I should just sit here," Darcy scoffed. "I shall go mad."

"Would you rather join us? Do you think you can insinuate yourself into a game of cards without coming across as stuffy and uncomfortable?"

Darcy glared at him but could not defend himself against the assumption. Fitzwilliam patted his arm. "Sit here looking forbidding. We shall spend an hour being friendly, and if we have learned nothing, we shall move on to Amersham."

An hour and ten minutes later (Fitzwilliam could not prevent himself from glancing toward Darcy's pocket watch each time he pulled it from his waistcoat and muttered), Bingley finally returned to the table to join the four who were sitting there morosely, nursing another round of drinks. He was looking pensive. "Forgive me, Darcy, but that fellow was even more talkative than I am. He claims to know the area quite well—he has lived his entire life only a mile outside of Amersham—but he has never heard of a Lord Smythe, or any of the men whose names you gave me. I have learned nothing of any use."

"Neither has anyone else," Darcy said through clenched teeth. "I knew this was a fool's errand. We must move on to Amersham. Let us go."

All five men began pushing out their chairs, but they stopped when a man in a wide hat and long cloak appeared at the end of the table. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I could not help overhearing your discussion just now. Did you say you were trying to gather information about a Lord Smythe?"

Darcy narrowed his eyes as Fitzwilliam answered warily, "He is… an object of curiosity for us, yes. We are seeking his home. Know you something about him?"

"I may have a bit of information."

The man swept off his hat, and Darcy released a growl, rising to his feet. "You!"

"How nice to see you again, Mr. Darcy," the man said pleasantly as he bowed. His light-colored hair was pulled back in a jaunty tie, and his eyes were dancing with humor. Fitzwilliam thought his face seemed familiar. "Would you do me the honor of introducing me to your friends? I must say I am surprised to see you here."

Darcy lunged toward the gentleman, and it was only thanks to Fitzwilliam's and Bingley's combined efforts that they managed to keep him from dropping the fellow to the tavern floor.

"I will admit," the man said, stepping back warily and looking significantly less jolly, "that I did not expect quite such a hostile reception, sir. After all, I did allow you and your beloved to escape."

"Do not mock me, Smythe," Darcy hissed, Fitzwilliam still keeping him in his chair. "Allow our escape?"

So this was the infamous Lord Smythe. He appeared to be exactly as Darcy and Miss Bennet had described him. Fitzwilliam realized with a start that his face was familiar because of the moderately accurate sketch Mrs. Collins had done from her servants' descriptions. What a marvel.

"Well, of course! You did not believe your movements across the deck of that packet were unseen, did you? I was very relieved to see you finally taking the opportunity—Wellington really was exhausted—for I had no idea what I would do with you once we had crossed the channel."

Darcy stared at him doubtfully, his nostrils flaring like a raging bull Fitzwilliam remembered from his months in Spain. "Even if it is true that you intended our escape, that only makes your further nefarious actions more absurd and deplorable. Why could you not have left us alone?"

The man Smythe frowned now, looking truly surprised. "I do not have the pleasure of understanding you, sir. I only returned to Dover last night, and although my crew returned some days ago, they were under no orders to further accost you." His frown deepened. "Although I have good reason to believe that they no longer take orders from me in any case. Thus the reason I have returned early—to discover what exactly has been going on in my absence."

"And I am simply to take your word for that?" Darcy barked. Fitzwilliam shushed him, aware of drawing the attention of the entire taproom. In a quieter but still strained voice, he continued, "Although I know for a fact that Elizabeth recognized at least one of her abductors as your lieutenant Reg, I am to believe you innocent of all involvement?"

All the man's confidence and bravado abandoned him, and he jerked over a chair from a nearby table, seating himself at the end of theirs and leaning in. "Reg abducted Miss Bennet? When?"

"This morning just after dawn," Fitzwilliam offered.

"So he is still attempting to collect Miss de Bourgh's debt?"

"No," Fitzwilliam answered grimly. "I myself witnessed the payment of the debt to Simon Monsdale in Coxton nearly twenty-four hours ago. As far as I know, Reg made no attempt to collect from Rosings before abducting Miss Bennet again, and he has asked for a ransom of fifty-thousand pounds, not the twenty she owed."

"And who are you, sir?"

"Darcy's cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. You are Lord Smythe?"

"In a manner of speaking. You were staying at Rosings as well, were you not? You are the other gentleman Molly told us about, the one who would sometimes visit the parsonage with Mr. Darcy."

"Molly?" Fitzwilliam asked. "Mrs. Collins' maid? I knew there was something suspicious about her behavior."

"Oh," Darcy said, sounding surprised. "Did I not tell you of her, Fitzwilliam? She spied for Smythe because her father owed him some kind of debt."

"No, you did not mention her," Fitzwilliam answered sourly.

"It was a rather surprising night," Darcy explained. "I suppose I simply forgot her."

"Poor girl," Smythe said, shaking his head. "Her father worked for me for a time, but he found himself too drawn to my tables for my peace of mind, and once he was unable to pay his own debts, I required him to find other employment."

"Hmm."

"And who are these other gentlemen?" Smythe asked, gesturing around the table.

"Charles Bingley," Bingley said, automatically beginning to extend his hand before remembering the man was not a friend.

"And these are two of my footmen, John Ralston and Matthew Corver," Darcy replied reluctantly. "We are here to rescue Miss Bennet, or at least attempt to find her."

"She is here somewhere? In Buckinghamshire?"

"She was taken to your home," Darcy answered, "or so we were led to believe. We know the location is near Amersham, but no specifics."

"My home! Tildy." Smythe's eyes bulged. He stood instantly and began to stride away.

"Stop!" Fitzwilliam cried, jumping in the man's path. "If what you claim is true, if you are innocent of this second abduction, the least you can do is tell us where your home lies."

"Follow me if you wish to know," he said sharply, half-shoving Fitzwilliam out of his way.

The five companions sped after him, exchanging uncertain looks, and less than thirty minutes later, they found themselves leaving the road approximately two miles outside of Amersham and following Smythe's mount into a heavily wooded copse. It was full dark by then, and Fitzwilliam worried about some kind of ambush, but before he could truly consider warning the others and returning to the road, they had come out on the back side of a large manor house.

It was difficult to see too much detail, given the clouds covering the moon, but he got the impression that the structure was large and quite old. Smythe dismounted at the edge of the trees and tethered his reins to an obliging tree branch. The others followed his example and walked forward quietly, all keeping their eyes open for signs of trouble.

Smythe ducked into the stable at the back of the house. After a quick discussion, Darcy and Fitzwilliam followed him inside, leaving Bingley, John, and Matthew outside in case it was some sort of trick. They entered to find Smythe examining the horses in the stalls by the light of a dimmed lantern.

"Reg is here," he said grimly, motioning toward a chestnut mare on the end. He moved down the aisle, pointing toward the others. "Pritchard, Cooperton, Windham, Lake, Wellington, Keeley, Fox, and Stoneman." He paused before the horse in the large stall at the back. "And Tilda. My wife."

Darcy and Fitzwilliam exchanged a significant glance but did not speak.

"If Miss Bennet is here, Reg will have posted guards on the front and back doors and probably a watch at the front gate. I doubt he remembers the side door, however, since it was rarely used, even when we were boys."

"So there are nine of your crew here? Any servants?" Fitzwilliam asked as Smythe blew out the lantern and replaced it on the wall. They returned outside, rejoining the others.

"None with whom we must be concerned. Mr. and Mrs. Jones are the only staff I maintain here, and they are quite docile and loyal to me."

"But your men are not?"

Smythe turned away to face the house. "I would have said they were. Were the circumstances any other than what they appear to be, I would simply walk into the house, insist they release Miss Bennet, then chastise them all severely. However, there seems to have been much occurring in England that I have missed, and it would probably be wiser to assume I am unwelcome."

"Had you no indication of their defection?"

Smythe sighed. "I will admit that I have paid little heed to such things of late. I have been far more concerned with my own affairs than with my business. Obviously, that was a miscalculation."

Fitzwilliam turned so he was addressing all five of the men. "Very well. Assuming Miss Bennet is here, what is our next move? Darcy," he said, holding up a hand to forestall his cousin's interruption, "is clearly anxious to take some action, but it might be wise to take a more cautious approach. Smythe says there are likely nine enemies inside, two each guarding the front and back entrances and a single watch on the front gate, but there is a little-known side entrance that may be a useful point of entry should we decide to storm the castle, as it were. What are your opinions?"

After glancing around to make sure no one else would speak, Bingley raised a hand. "Although I am concerned for Miss Bennet's well-being, I believe it would be wiser to watch the house for a time and hope some of the men leave during the day tomorrow. We could be more certain of a successful ambush if the numbers were more even."

"I say now, sir, beggin' your pardon," Matthew said, cracking the knuckles on both hands menacingly. "A night of keepin' watch outside will leave us tired and weak."

"Perhaps we could send one man inside to examine the situation right now," John offered uncertainly, glancing at Darcy for approval. "I could go. If I were caught, I could claim to only be a common thief."

"That is not a bad idea," Smythe mused, "although I cannot promise the men will be kind to a thief if you are caught."

"I am tougher than I look, sir," John argued.

"Are you certain, John?" Darcy asked, concerned. "Your mother will never forgive me if you are injured in an escapade like this."

"Mother may serve you porridge for your morning meal for a few weeks," John chuckled ruefully, "but she would have my head if I had not done everything I could to help you, sir."

"Very well." Darcy clapped John on the shoulder. "Remember, you are attempting to discover the number and whereabouts of any and all of the kidnappers, as well as Miss Bennet's location and state of wellbeing. Look out for possible alternate exits."

"Hide any weaponry you find lying around," Smythe added with a smirk. "My men have a terrible habit of removing their sword belts when they think their captives are harmless. Also, be certain not to harm my wife or the Joneses, the older couple in my employ."

"What does your wife look like, sir?" John asked. "And Miss Bennet."

"My wife is quite young, delicate, and red-haired. Miss Bennet is dark-haired." Smythe shot a mischievous look at Darcy. "And she has dazzling, intelligent dark eyes."

"Smythe," Darcy said warningly, "tonight is not the night to test my patience."

Smythe laughed quietly. "Now, John, let me describe to you the layout of my home."

He took John aside, describing various stairs and possible locations for holding prisoners.

"Obviously," Bingley said in a low voice, "this man is the kidnapper you described to me this morning, Darcy. Are we really trusting him with all this? Why is he helping us?"

"The man may be a scoundrel," Darcy replied thoughtfully, "but he has always seemed to have a certain sense of honor. If this is his home, he was at least brought up as a gentleman, whatever he has fallen to since. I believe his surprise at Elizabeth's abduction was sincere, and he sees it as his duty to rectify the situation, being as it began with him initially."

"My instincts lead me to agree with you," Fitzwilliam said slowly. "But we should not assume that once we are facing his men, particularly Reg, he will not change sides."

"Agreed," Darcy nodded.

John and Smythe returned to the group, and after a few more offers of advice and god-speeds, the men made their way back to the edge of the trees as John slinked his way toward the side door with instructions from Smythe regarding how to toggle the knob so the lock would open.

Too anxious for speech, they each found a place to settle and watch. All they could do now was wait.