The Unforgettable Mr. Darcy

Two days later, a small boat rowed into the surf near a beach on the French coast. With a nod to the sailor manning the oars, Darcy jumped over the side and waded to shore, thankful it was summer. He could let his feet dry on the beach before donning his stockings and boots. The journey would have been far more unpleasant in January. Soft splashes behind Darcy warned him that the rowing boat was returning to the fishing vessel that had brought him across the Channel. With its departure went any opportunity for Darcy to change his mind. He was quite alone in enemy territory. This was what I wanted. I have a mission to complete, he reminded himself. Still, he could not completely suppress a shiver of unease.

After the War Office approved his plan, Darcy had consulted the navy’s best sailors, as well as a few fishermen who regularly navigated the Channel. Considering the weather, the time of day, and the currents, the experts had agreed that a small boat escaping from a Jersey-bound cutter in the late afternoon most likely would land in Brittany, particularly the Saint-Malo area.

The office had several agents in Brittany; one lived near Saint-Malo, and Darcy’s first task would be to contact him. “If the Black Cobra is in Brittany, Pierre Dreyfus will know about it,” Richard had said confidently. Darcy had strict instructions not to apprehend any suspected spies himself; any attempts to capture and punish the man should be left to the War Office. But Richard had relayed the instructions with an air of weary resignation; he knew it was unlikely that Darcy could prevent himself from meting out justice.

Darcy waded on to the beach, sand crunching under his feet. Although a wispy cloud concealed the moon, there was sufficient illumination to prove the be

ach was fortuitously empty. A midnight stroll in the surf would be suspicious.

Glancing up, Darcy saw the ancient citadel of Saint-Malo—with its lone church steeple—silhouetted against the sky. That was his destination; Dreyfus’s house lay just outside the walls at the city’s southern edge.

Trudging across the beach, he found a path snaking up the cliffs and into the town. He sat on a boulder as he brushed sand from his feet and donned his hose and boots, wincing as he pulled the latter on. The leather was far stiffer than what Darcy was accustomed to; likewise, his clothing was coarser than anything ever worn by the master of Pemberley. Greeves, Darcy’s valet, would be appalled. But he was to pass himself off as a wandering laborer, and the master of Pemberley’s clothing would not suffice.

Darcy rolled down his trousers and tucked them into his boots. They were still damp at the edges where they had touched the water, but the warm night air was drying them quickly. All his clothing in place, Darcy swung his satchel over his shoulder and started up the side of the cliff. Hopefully he would reach Dreyfus’s house by the time the sun arose.

***

The sun was just peeking over the horizon as Darcy laid eyes on the house he sought. It was set back from the road, screened from view by trees and undergrowth and accessed by a short drive that branched off from the main road.

The house was constructed of the same wood and warm yellow stone as the other houses in the area. Not terribly large but well maintained, it was the sort of abode a prosperous merchant or solicitor would own in England.

A short, round-faced housekeeper answered the door when Darcy knocked.

“Bonjour,” Darcy addressed the woman in French. “I am calling for Monsieur Dreyfus. I am a friend of his uncle’s.” This lie was the code he had been given by the Home Office. Richard had assured Darcy that Dreyfus had been notified of his arrival and would be prepared to render all possible assistance.

The housekeeper gave him a sour look. “Mr. Dreyfus is not at home.”

Darcy strove to keep his face impassive. This was a blow to his plans.

“But he did expect you,” his housekeeper hastened to add. “You are welcome to stay and rest. I can supply a bit of breakfast, and he will return by mid-afternoon.” Her attempt at a welcoming smile more closely resembled a smirk.

Mid-afternoon! Darcy was loath to lose so much time. During those hours he could question a good number of people in Saint-Malo for evidence of the Black Cobra. “Very well. I will return at mid-afternoon.”

The woman finally showed some animation. “No, no. Mr. Dreyfus was quite adamant that you must remain. He will be offended if you refuse his hospitality.”

Darcy did not respond well when others gave him orders. “I have other tasks to complete and little time,” he said curtly. “I do not wish to spend half the day sitting in Mr. Dreyfus’s drawing room.”

She blinked. “But I can give you breakfast…and luncheon…!”

“I will purchase both in town. Please give Mr. Dreyfus my compliments and tell him I will return later in the day.”

“But, monsieur—!”

Accommodating others had never been Darcy’s greatest talent, and grief had made him even less inclined to please. He felt no obligation to debate his plans with the woman. “Good day.” Darcy spun on his heel and stalked away, leaving the housekeeper sputtering in his wake. He did not understand the reason for her insistence, and he did not care.

***

Saint-Malo was a large town in comparison to Lambton or Meryton but tiny compared to London. A stranger would be conspicuous, but not extraordinary. Darcy had a ready tale about why he had ventured into Brittany. A half hour later, he was passing through the ancient and unmanned city gates just as the sun was burning off the last of the early morning haze. The streets were alive with activity: laborers hurrying to work, shopkeepers opening their doors, children playing and yelling, women gathered on street corners to chat.

Originally a medieval fortress, Saint-Malo had been built right on the coast, with many of its ramparts sitting on rocks that jutted out into the water. Newer homes like Dreyfus’s had been constructed outside the city walls, but it was obvious that the true hustle and bustle of the neighborhood lay within the walls. Darcy made his way into the older part of the city, which boasted narrow cobblestoned streets lined with rows of identical sand-colored rowhouses of four or five stories.

Darcy wandered and learned the plan of the streets until he came upon a market square where vendors had set up tables to display their wares. A few people spared him glances, but the sight of a stranger excited little notice. Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. His height always made him remarkable, but wading through the sea and journeying along the dusty roads had added an authentic layer of grime to his simple clothing that apparently served well as a disguise.

As he wandered among the stalls of breads, cheeses, and vegetables, a loud growl from his stomach reminded him that it had been hours since he had eaten. A bit of apple with some cheese and bread would not go amiss. But he wanted to select his vendor strategically; the right merchant also would be a good source of local gossip.

He selected a plump, matronly merchant with dark hair and spectacles. She had an open smile and spent as much time chatting with her customers as she did selling them food. Her stall held a promising array of breads and fruits from which he could make a breakfast.

Adopting the shy smile of a stranger, Darcy approached her table, but before he reached it, he was bumped by a passing man. He felt fingers fumbling at the money pouch at his waist. The man is trying to rob me. I need that money to complete my mission. Panic gave Darcy strength. Grabbing the man’s wrist, Darcy shouted in French, “Thief! Thief!”