Near Netherfield
Hertfordshire, England
If Darcy never stared at another tree again it would be too soon.
Hours. Hours. He had been staring at empty road and treeline, his naive eyes searching for a glimpse of the brown eyes he had been seeing every time he tried to fall asleep.
Not that sleep had been forthcoming, of course. The woman he had only just a few days prior gleefully (who knew he was even capable of such things?) compromised had been injured. Not just injured but she was being hunted.
Darcy gritted his teeth and fought the urge to hit something. He had been out of his mind with worry for days. Days. What if the men after her had succeeded? What if her injury turned septic? What if she decided not to help him? The plethora of 'what if's' kept his mind in a constant state of activity and his nerves frayed to the breaking point.
"What has your thoughts, cousin?" Richard pulled him from his revelry with a customary smile.
"Take your pick, Richard." He kept his voice disinterested, having no desire to explain his sudden, irrational and embarrassingly strong attraction for a girl neither classically pretty nor an heiress nor titled. He was a Duke for God's sake. "I was very nearly killed only a few days ago. My father is still missing and we need Wickham to find him." He made a circular motion with his hand "there is plenty to occupy my thoughts."
"Ah. And here I thought you were meditating on the great pleasure fine eyes in the face of a -"
"Oh, do shut up." If Darcy had had something to throw at him he would have. "It is difficult not to think of Miss Elizabeth… amidst everything else, of course." He cleared his throat uncomfortably before looking away.
Richard chuckled happily. "Yes, amidst everything else. Do you need to practice your new role with me, Mr. Darcy?"
Darcy turned a fierce glare on his cousin. "I am not your valet, Richard."
"Well, Miss Elizabeth did not say as much, per se, of course, but it would be an excellent touch. No one would ever recognize you as such. And, I have not had anyone dress me in quite some time. If I am not to wear my uniform, I will need assistance." His grin was absolutely ridiculous.
"I dare say you'll survive tying your own cravat for a day."
"Oh, but it just wouldn't be the same and you know it." What Darcy knew was that his cousin was in desperate need of a good jostling, his brain was clearly addled.
"Do you think this plan will work, Richard?" He flinched at the weak sound to his voice.
"Not at all." Richard laughed. "I said so then and I will say so now, no one, not even simple country folk would mistake you for anything other than the nobleman you are."
Darcy rolled his eyes.
"Now, if you were to be my valet, and keep your head down, very low, it might work."
Darcy's eyes were now in danger of disconnecting internally for their rolling.
"We just need to lay low for a day, Richard. Wickham will be returning to his regiment today and we will intercept him tomorrow. Two tradesmen meeting with Bingley should not excite any gossips."
"Cousin, you excite the gossips simply by breathing." Richards smile took on a mischevious bend. "Not to mention you have now successfully compromised a young lady."
"Yes. A first for me, I'm not a seasoned veteran like yourself." Darcy snapped playfully.
"Oh ho! You impinge my honor, cousin!" He answered in mock hurt. "Seriously, though, I would take many more books to the head if Miss Bennet would put her hands on me again." He raised his eyebrows. "Many. More." His smile was the happiest Darcy had seen his cousin in years.
"Miss Bennet seemed quite content in your arms."
"Yes, she did." He said on an exhale. "It's a shame I am not fit for a woman or I would have that one." A darkness passed over Richard's eyes, so fast Darcy was not positive he saw it before his easy smile replaced it. "And your Miss Elizabeth was shooting daggers at you the entire time." Richard had no problem laughing at the memory.
Darcy sighed, his lips curling into a small smile as the memory flooded his mind. "She has the most beautiful glare I have ever seen."
Richard laughed until he was clutching his stomach in pain.
Darcy smiled wide and looked away, the smile slowly fading into a serious, but still happy, look. "She saved my life, Richard." Reverence laced his words. "She stood between me and a knife, was injured for it and thought nothing of it." He looked back to Richard. "Can you believe that? I can not name another person in all of England, save you and maybe Georgie, who would do such a thing for me."
"No. I can name a few who might be on the knife's end, though."
Darcy let out a mirthless chuckle."Your brother, perhaps. Has he gotten his itching under control?"
"I wish he would. The man is like a feral dog." Richard stretched his legs noisily. "Only slightly less intelligent."
Darcy snorted at this accurate statement. "Your brother is the biggest idiot in England, Richard, I have no idea how the estate will survive when the earl passes."
Richard laughed. "Yes, well, if he mentions saffron again he may not be alive to claim either title."
Their levity was interrupted suddenly when their carriage came to an abrupt stop, their driver pulling back the reins hard to slow the horses. Both men had to brace themselves or find themselves sprawled across either the floor or the seat.
Darcy watched as Richard righted himself quickly, his body going completely still, his face losing all expression in a moment. His hand went to his sword belt and his eyes hardened further as he heard the loud neigh of another horse near them but clearly not theirs.
They were not alone.
Richard was out the door before they even came to a full stop.
And he was laid out flat by the time they did.
/
Darcy could not keep the smile from his face as he stared down at a prone Richard.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" Miss Bennet was digging through her reticule (seemingly also her weapon) and Richard was smiling up at her dazedly. "I am so sorry!" she articulated her words loudly and clearly as though trying to wake him up. She located a delicately embroidered handkerchief and bent down to push it into a small gash located directly opposite the one she had inflicted only a few days prior. "I will take care of you." She smiled into his face. "I really am very sorry to keep hitting you, I am not a violent person at all." She looked up at Darcy earnestly, with wide eyes. "You may ask anyone."
Richard seemed incapable of moving, his smile was frozen and he closed his eyes as she tended to him. She turned back to Richard and mentioned something about bandits but Darcy missed it.
He Looked up to see Miss Elizabeth smiling wide, eyes twinkling with laughter, and holding a small, beautiful little girl in her arms.
Darcy was suddenly incapable of moving as well.
His mind went simultaneously blank and awhirl. The child had blonde ringlets like Miss Bennet but the same large, impossibly expressive brown eyes of Miss Elizabeth.
He swallowed thickly.
A child. God, but he wanted a child. Especially one that looked exactly like the woman before him.
This thought surprised him but not enough to refute it as less than absolute fact.
"Your Grace." Miss Elizabeth curtsied and placed the little girl down so she could do so as well but she bowed instead. "No, no, Abby, like this." she laughed and showed the little girl another curtsy. The little tot promptly fell over when she tried.
"Too hard, Auntie Lizzie" She held her arms up to be carried and Miss Elizabeth picked her up gently.
A large woosh was audible as all the air in Darcy's lungs escaped hurriedly.
Auntie.
"Miss Elizabeth, would you introduce us?" the little girl looked up at him with those big brown eyes and he nearly melted.
"Of course, Your - Sir." She seemed to remember their ruse. "Mr. Darcy, please meet my niece, Miss Abigail Lucas."
Darcy felt a shudder down his spine when she said his name. He had always, always, hated the appellations attached to his title, it was why Richard still called him Darcy.
He did not care who he had to impersonate, even Richard's valet, so long as she would call him that.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Lucas." Darcy bowed formally to the little girl who giggled.
"I three." she pulled her thumb from her mouth to hold up four fingers before looking at them curiously and pulling one down. She smiled in triumph as her fingers matched the number she had stated.
"Three is an excellent age." he nodded seriously.
Miss Lucas nodded just as seriously. "Auntie Lizzie let me potty outside." She paused and leaned in closer. "Ladies don't potty outside when they're big." She whispered to him conspiratorially before her eyebrows knit in puzzlement. "Do you potty outside, Mr. Dawcy?"
Darcy kept an almost straight face. "Not if I can help it, Madam." he bowed to hide his laughter.
Miss Elizabeth did not fare so well. She looked stuck between mortification and an overwhelming fit of laughter.
"Now, Abby." She cleared her throat and tried very hard not to smile. "Ladies do not talk of such things, remember?"
Abby did not look abashed in the slightest. "Yes, Auntie Lizzie"
"Would you be a dear and go check on Auntie Jane?" Miss Elizabeth bent down to speak with her niece. "I believe she hit the Major General again, would you help her tend to his wound?" Abby straightened her spine and nodded forcefully, sending her wild curls bouncing, before running, only a little clumsily, to her other aunt to be of service.
Miss Elizabeth stood, smiling and happy. "I apologize, Your Grace." She said quietly.
"Mr. Darcy."
"Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Darcy." She chuckled at him "My sister will kill me if Abby keeps telling our secrets, thank you for understanding."
Darcy bowed. "Ever at your service." He stood smiling, his cheeks aching from the abnormal formation. "Are you well?" He asked and picked up her hand, turning it over to check her injury.
"I am well, I assure you. I have an excellent caretaker." She nodded to her sister now showing their niece how to tend the wound on the absurdly happy Richard.
It was Darcy's coachman who interrupted them. "Your- urm, Sir." His coachman had been in his service for nearly two decades and Darcy trusted him implicitly. No one else, though so they had not travelled with a footman. "The other coach has, urm... there is..." He looked up to Darcy with worry in his eyes. "'Tis not proper to speak of in front of a lady, Your - Sir." He mumbled quietly.
It was then Darcy noticed the abandoned coach in the road.
"It's alright, Sir." Miss Elizabeth addressed his coachman. "We were taking my niece back to Lucas Lodge when we noticed it. You came upon us just in time."
The Coachman still looked troubled which, in turn, began unsettling Darcy. "I believe you may speak plainly, Mr. Greeves, what did you find in the coach?"
His wide eyes darted back and forth between Darcy and Miss Elizabeth. "There's someone in the coach, S-sir." He stammered.
"Are they injured?!" Miss Elizabeth asked and began walking towards the coach determinedly.
"No!" Mr. Greeves shouted, effectively stopping her in her tracks. He turned back to look at Darcy, fear clear in his eyes.
"He's dead, Your Grace."
\\\\\
Netherfield Hall
Hertfordshire, England
Charles Bingley had thought of death only once in his eight and twenty years. He had been 12 and his father had just passed. His mother had cried for days until he found little ways, in as much as a 12 year old boy can, to make her smile. He realized then, and this was the revelation that stayed with him, that finding ways to be truly happy, even in the worst circumstances imaginable, was the way he wanted to live the rest of his life.
And so, he did.
He was currently putting his philosophy to use, admiring the way the setting sun beamed its last rays into the billiards room of his rented home.
He glanced back up to see if his youngest sister had abandoned her tirade.
She had not.
The light, coming through in wide beams, showed a veritable quadrille comprised solely of dust, flitting and twirling around each other.
Dancing. He almost sighed.
Charles did so love to dance.
"Charles!" His sister's voice broke through his thoughts, clearly not finished with her tirade. "I say, Charles! Are you paying attention? I have been speaking to you for over an hour, have you missed everything?" She threw her hands in the air in exasperation. "I still don't understand why, even if the Duke is coming here to rusticate, he would ask that we hide his identity." She looked at him expectantly, but continued before he could reply. "And a tradesman? I am quite sure it's treason to call him anything other than Your Grace!"
"Caro-"
"Treason, Charles! This is not a game. I see no reason why I could not tell someone he is a Duke."
Ah, yes - and there was the crux of it. Even a married, titled woman needed to find ways to feel superior to those around her.
Charles had enjoyed two years, two peaceful, happy, joyous years without her tainting everyday and everything with her negativity and scheming. It had been far simpler to deal with her when he did not know any better
"Those are the Duke's wishes, Caroline. Perhaps you should go back to Trillworth? I am sure the Baron misses you by now."
"Oh." She scoffed like the very idea was nonsense. "That drafty old castle is horrid and you know it." She looked almost, but not exactly, sad for a brief moment. "My husband is far too busy to notice I am missing." She raised her chin high. "I am here to help you, of course. What would you do without me, Charles?"
Smile more.
"I am not sure, sister." He forced a smile. A movement of which he had just become accustomed.
There was a knock on the door followed by his head butler, Mr. Grimes. "Sir, My Lady" he bowed to the brother and sister. "There was a carriage waylaid up the road. A Monsieur St. Orange has arrived unharmed but he says this was his final destination. I took the liberty of placing him in the... Egyptian room." Charles had become more astute since he realized (rather belatedly) that his sister was a harpy, and he caught the small glance at Caroline before he denoted the room in question. The room was hideous, he could understand. When they had first arrived, Caroline had been mad for everything Greek. She negotiated with the owners herself to get permission to add a columned portico to the front. But her Greek craze had lasted not even the length of time to repaint rooms and build her columns.
Now it was Egyptian.
"Waylaid... by bandits?! How positively dreadful." She patted her deep orange dress and adjusted her rather large matching hat. The hat in question made Charles wary. He was eerily aware of the way in which the stuffed pheasant was facing from amongst the cornucopia of feathers, its beady, lifeless eyes watching him from every angle.
He shook his head slightly before heading towards the Egyptian room, briefly wondering what his father would have done with his sister... were he not dead.
Oh! He thought happily. But this carpeting is rather plush.
What a pleasant home he had found himself.
/
Caroline Bedford (neè Bingley), the Lady Trillworth, knew herself to be the pinnacle embodiment of the perfect Lady, either living or dead. She made a mental note to except royalty from that list as she had yet to achieve that status.
But, she was working on it.
She smiled as they neared her new room. Her new, gloriously appointed, Egyptian room. Her eyes lit up at the very thought of any of those catty women of the ton looking upon her creation. She could envision their looks of awe, stifled quickly of course, but Caroline knew the look of envy well enough to spot it in others. She would know her triumph.
As Charles opened the doors, she basked in the glow of her masterful decorating briefly before she noticed their unexpected guest lounging on her newly upholstered chesterfield. She couldn't help but bristle slightly. If the furniture were meant to be treated as a bed, she would have allowed them to be far more comfortable.
The man stood with an elegant grace that took Caroline by surprise, considering the lazy way he had occupied her furniture. He was of average height but above average carriage. A gentleman of perhaps 40 years of age if the light sprinkling of gray at his temples was any indication, and immaculately attired. His clothing had been tailored specifically for his body and showed no outward signs of long usage. She had sized him up in a moment and knew very well to be on her best behavior.
She fluttered her eyelashes unconsciously before chiding herself mentally. She was very nearly irresistible when she did that and she did not need this man to fall for her immediately.
"Sir, Your Ladyship" The man bowed to the brother and sister, his accent clearly French. "I apologize for the inconvenience. I was coming here, to Netherfield you see, to inspect the property as a prospective rental and - and" his lip trembled and Caroline had the sudden urge to slap him. She had seen better acting in drawing rooms on a Tuesday morning call. She spared her brother a sideways glance but he had been taken in immediately, he currently wore a very concerned frown. She sighed. The dirty work was always left to her.
"I am sorry for your predicament, Sir, perhaps if you could introduce yourself, we could sit and begin working out your options." She held her contempt in check, but just barely.
No one preyed on her brother's kind heart.
No one else, at least.
The stranger cleared his throat and gave her a quick, appraising look. She raised an eyebrow slightly to acknowledge his actions.
She was not known for subtlety. Unless she wanted to be, of course, then she would be known for being the most subtle.
"I am Henri St. Orange, the Duc of Bar, madam." He bowed low, answering her challenge.
Well. In that case.
Her brother dispensed the introductions on their side.
"Your Grace, you must be exhausted after such an ordeal." She tittered. "Shall I show you to a room before you and my brother conduct business? You should rest." She didn't entirely trust the man but she wasn't an idiot.
"Yes, thank you, I would appreciate that greatly."
Charles bowed to the two, still making a sympathetic face. "Yes, of course. Though, I will tell you ahead of time, I have rented this house for the next twelvemonth." He held up his hand with a smile. "No business until you have rested, we will figure this out easy enough. I will be available once you are ready, Your Grace. Take your time and I will have my men retrieve your things from your carriage."
Charles would house him indefinitely, Caroline knew her brother well enough.
She sighed before devising a brilliant (though weren't they all?) strategy. She could protect her brother and impress a stranger.
She smiled, as much to herself as to the French Duke.
"Follow me, Your Grace."
They moved into the hall, leaving Charles in her beautifully decorated room.
"As luck would have it, Your Grace I have a room readily prepared for your use." He bowed noncommittally and mumbled a thanks. "We are expecting the Duke of Montagu at any moment so I had many rooms readied in case he would need more than just the two."
The stranger cringed slightly at the name and Caroline felt a surge of triumph. She knew he was hiding something, and everyone was afraid of the Duke of Montagu. It was the primary reason she was still so desperate to be his Duchess.
That and the part where she would be a duchess.
"He is here to rusticate, of course, so he will be keeping his title a secret. He enjoys pulling a bit of a May game on those lesser than himself, you know." She waved her hand as though this were a normal occurrence and tried not to preen at his still troubled expression.
She conjured all her grace and aplomb (which was considerable) not to gloat ever so slightly.
Ladies did not gloat.
At least not overtly.
/
Elizabeth chewed her lower lip as she looked over the carriage, briefly debating swatting the hovering Duke.
"Miss Elizabeth. I will carry you back to my carriage if I must." His deep voice had been nagging at her since they realized the abandoned carriage held a dead man.
"I know well your penchant for carrying ladies, Mr. Darcy." She flashed him a mischievous grin. "I do not doubt you."
"Only you, Miss Elizabeth."
"A dubious distinction, indeed." She deadpanned, still concentrating on the abandoned carriage.
"But an important distinction nonetheless." He raised his eyebrows. "Now, if you please-"
"Mr. Darcy, where was this man stabbed?" She cut him off and pointed to the corpse, still sitting in the box seat, now covered with a blanket from the interior of the coach.
He narrowed his eyebrows at her, not missing that she had ignored his wise words. She turned to him fully when he still hadn't answered her, her look of questioning answered by one of his own.
"Yes." She finally gave in, exasperated. "Answer me and I will get in your carriage."
He nodded, clearly pleased with himself.
"The chest, Miss Elizabeth." He held his hand out, ostensibly to escort her back but she hesitated.
His face fell easily back into its stubborn set before he swooped her up into his arms.
"Mr. Darcy!" She screeched at the unexpected upheaval. "Put me down!"
He looked down at her, face stern. "You gave your word, Miss Elizabeth. This truly is not a safe place."
"Actually, I didn't." He scoffed before she could finish. "But if you had but given me a moment I would have gotten in. Now, put me down!"
"No."
"Please?" His eyes bore into hers as he stopped walking, they stayed thus for a long moment.
"A moment, Miss Elizabeth. We must get your niece away from here." And he was absolutely correct. But, she had to figure this out.
He set her down gently and she smiled up at him.
"Thank you." She tilted her head to the side and stared at his chest. "Mr. Darcy, how would you attack me?"
"What?" He barked at her.
"If you had a sword, and I did not, how would you attack?"
He contemplated for a heartbeat before lunging at her, executing a thrust to the stomach with his imaginary sword. His hand stopped a hairsbreadth from her corset. She looked down to it and tilted her head to the other side.
"Why not the chest?"
He looked back up from their nearly touching bodies and swallowed hard. "The breastplate, Miss Elizabeth. You can't get through easily." His voice was oddly hoarse.
This puzzled her further. She turned her body to stare at the carriage again. Mr. Darcy came up to stand beside her.
"I see what has you puzzled, Miss Elizabeth. The driver was stabbed from the front but we found him still on the box." He seemed to continue her own thoughts.
"That is what's been bothering me." She nodded. "It would be impossible to stab him from the front without having gotten into the box themselves. And, even then, why the chest?" She turned back to the carriage before walking determinedly towards it.
"What are you looking for?" Mr. Darcy's much longer legs brought him back to her side in an instant.
"This may sound morbid but, was there a great deal of blood in the box?
"No. None." He steered her to the side of the carriage with a large hand on her shoulder. "But there is a great deal over here." They stood before the door to the carriage, a large spot of blood staining the dirt.
"He was killed here." She looked up to Mr. Darcy, fear creeping into her face. "By whoever was in the coach."
They held eye contact for a time, minds synchronized in going over the events that must have taken place.
"It's why he was struck in the chest." He said quietly before looking towards the carriage door. "The height difference."
She turned to look and instinctively grabbed hold of his hand. He squeezed hers tight, pulling her closer at the same time.
"This was not bandits, Mr. Darcy." She shivered and he pulled her ever closer.
"This was murder."
/
Earlier the same day
Hertfordshire, England
Jean and Gustav, all purpose henchmen and brothers (in spirit if not in blood) were dead men.
Henri St. Orange, formerly His Grace the Duc of Bar (but only in the brief moment between his father's execution and his surrendering of the family title) was not planning to mourn their loss.
They died as they lived. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the perfect engraving for his former, aggravatingly incompetent and now aggravatingly dead, servants headstone.
Not that they would get a headstone.
Or a grave, for that matter.
The Thames river flow didn't exactly allow for flowers on their resting places.
He smiled to himself as he recalled their blubbering last words. He couldn't recall them exactly but the vague sounds they made and the rather sad whimpering would stick with him for some time.
Henri knew he shouldn't have killed them. He wasn't so lacking a moral compass that he didn't know right from wrong. It was absolutely wrong to have killed the two men.
Getting replacements would take far too long.
By the time Fouches sent him more mindless chattel the little puteresse would have uncovered his entire operation.
That would be the real wrong.
Henri was pulled from his thoughts by the carriage turning a sharp corner. He looked out the window for the first glimpse of the home he was to be "renting" and his stomach nearly soured at the sight. The manor was a large Tudor style with gray stone walls covered in a mass of ivy slowly making its way towards the sun.
Henri despised the Tudor style.
He would have been able to tolerate it had someone not decided to turn Greek revivalist and add a column lined portico onto the front of the home. The columns and the balcony which they upheld were a shocking white against the aged stone of the walls and the lines contrasted severely to the rounded tops of the house's facade.
Henri valiantly fought the urge to gag. He would not be brought low by terrible architecture.
He would not.
He took long, calming breaths through his nose, preparing himself for what was to come, before tapping the roof of his carriage, alerting the coachman of his need to stop.
It was time.
His coachman had been perfect thus far. He had hardly hit ruts, he took turns at the ideal speed and kept excellent control of his horses. As Henri pulled a long stiletto knife from his cane, he couldn't stop the sudden, but thankfully small, pang of guilt for what needed to be done.
He pushed that thought aside quickly as the door to the carriage was opened, the coachman smiling kindly, clearly unaware his fate had been sealed.
Vive la France.
Sorry for the mishap!