Darcy and Deception

Chapter One

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Those words had haunted Elizabeth’s dreams for a week. All of Mr. Darcy’s words from that ill-fated night circled her mind like birds that refused to land, continuously intruding upon her thoughts. But the declaration of love, in particular, pushed itself into her consciousness again and again, a most unwelcome visitor.

Many of his other words that day had been painful and had provoked anger. Many she could dismiss as the result of his mistaken pride or his misapprehension of her character. But he had declared his love in an eloquent and heartfelt—and apparently unforgettable—manner. Those words could not easily be brushed aside or ignored.

The shock of Mr. Darcy’s declaration had not worn off completely. At unrelated moments she would suddenly be struck with a recollection that the master of Pemberley had made her, Elizabeth Bennet, an offer of marriage. Even now as she watched the scenery of Kent stream past her carriage window, she struggled to reassure herself that the event had indeed occurred. It would be easier to comprehend the happening if she could speak with someone on the subject, but she had resolved to tell the story only to Jane. Nobody else would have the requisite discretion and understanding.

If she told her father, he would be incredulous before considering it to be the occasion for a good many jokes. Her mother would be in despair that Elizabeth had refused the offer. Kitty and Lydia would perforce share the news with the entire population of Hertfordshire—which was also true of her mother, come to think of it. Mary would moralize.

Only Jane will keep my confidence and will not laugh at my ignorance. Elizabeth willed the carriage to greater speed so that she might see her beloved sister all the sooner. She arranged herself more comfortably against the carriage’s squabs and imagined the solace of Jane’s presence. Her sister might also offer useful counsel.

Elizabeth could use some advice. Reading Mr. Darcy’s letter had been a most unsettling experience. She had thought Mr. Darcy a villain and Mr. Wickham a victim, but the letter had revealed how wrong she had been. She had believed he disdained Jane’s match with Mr. Bingley because of her dowry when he had believed her sister to be indifferent to the man. Likewise, Elizabeth had assumed he had observed her with disapproval and disdain when he had been viewing her with…longing.

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, still dismayed by the depth of her misapprehension. She still struggled to ascertain her own sentiments about the man. When Mr. Darcy had spoken in Hunsford, she had been horrified, but now…she knew that much of her dislike was based upon false information….

How did she feel about Mr. Darcy? Believing he held disdain for her, she had felt the same for him. But knowing he loved her…could she love him?

He was handsome, well spoken, and certainly eligible. They enjoyed lively conversations, and their tastes in books and music were surprisingly harmonious. But he was proud and difficult. Was he not?

If only she could see him with new eyes! More than once Elizabeth wished she could conjure him from the air so she might judge him with improved understanding. Perhaps she could have developed tender feelings for the man under other circumstances.

Elizabeth shook off this thought and gazed out of the window to distract herself, spying a stream and a patch of wildflowers that had just burst into bloom. How lovely. Yes, she would think upon these sights and ignore any thoughts about Mr. Darcy.

After all, her misjudgment of the man hardly signified. Their paths were not likely to cross again—at least in the near future. Perhaps in ten or fifteen years they might meet by accident when they were both married to other people.

Why did that thought make her sad?

***

“You wish me to go to Brighton?” Elizabeth could not believe she had heard her father correctly.

Her father nodded, regarding her solemnly from behind his desk.

In the fortnight since returning to Longbourn, her life had resumed its regular rhythms. Lydia and Kitty had greeted her with the news that Mary King had left Meryton, leaving Mr. Wickham once again available. Elizabeth had expressed no interest in the officer but had not confessed her complete change of heart to anyone in the family save Jane. It would be too difficult to explain.

She had twice been in company with Mr. Wickham, and she had managed to be civil while avoiding a solitary conversation. The news that the regiment would leave Meryton had relieved her greatly, but she greeted with alarm the news that Lydia was to accompany them to Brighton as a particular friend of Mrs. Forster’s.

Now her father wished her to journey to Brighton as well? Although she enjoyed the seaside, her stomach clenched at this news. Elizabeth had no desire to chaperone Lydia or spend more time with Mr. Wickham.

When she had been called into her father’s study, she had been surprised to find Colonel Forster occupying a chair. Colonel Forster’s father was known to Mr. Bennet from his days at Oxford, and the two men had struck up a friendship over numerous games of chess during the regiment’s sojourn in Meryton.

However, that did not explain why he was concerned with Elizabeth’s visit to Brighton. She ventured the only possibility that had occurred to her: “You wish me to act as Lydia’s chaperone?” Elizabeth could hardly decline such a request; her younger sister was dearly in need of guidance.

Her father leaned forward, clasping his hands before him on the desktop. “Yes, but that is not the main purpose for the request.” He waved to the colonel. “Can you explain, sir?”

The officer shifted uneasily in his chair, cleared his throat, and then spoke slowly, measuring his words. “We have good reason to believe that George Wickham is an agent of Napoleon’s.”

Elizabeth gasped. “He is a French spy?” Mr. Darcy’s letter had taught her that Mr. Wickham was not to be trusted, but she had not believed his heart was so black as to betray his country.

The colonel grimaced at her reaction. “I did not want to believe it at first, but the Home Office has intercepted correspondence that proves his complicity. Fortunately, he does not have the slightest idea we suspect him.”

Her father interjected. “I had heard Wickham recently paid off large debts that he had incurred in Meryton, far in excess of what he earns as an officer.”

The colonel nodded. “I, too, was curious about the source of such wealth. When a man from the Home Office approached me on the subject, I understood.”

Elizabeth could scarcely comprehend the news. “That is treason!”

“Indeed.” The colonel’s voice was deep and p

onderous. “We may only guess how much information he has shared with Napoleon, but hitherto he has not been in a position to do much damage.”

Yes, Meryton was hardly a center of vital war activity.

“However,” the colonel continued, “when we reach Brighton, he will be in position to collect far more sensitive information and quickly relay it to France. Smugglers along the coast traverse the Channel frequently with information—and a not insignificant number of escaped French prisoners. They have a bolt-hole near the town, probably a cave in the nearby cliffs. We would dearly like to know its location and the identities of the smugglers.”

“Do you believe Mr. Wickham has been spying upon you?” her father asked the colonel.

The colonel nodded slowly. “Two letters we intercepted made reference to information Wickham should not have been privy to. It is possible that somehow he gained access to my private papers, or he may be working with someone higher in the army’s command structure. In either case, we find ourselves in need of additional knowledge about the man’s activities.”

This seemed a worthy goal to Elizabeth, but why was the colonel telling her? “Why have you not arrested him?”