Darcy and Deception

“No! Elizabethhhh!”

Elizabeth winced. She had never heard such desolation in William’s voice; in fact, she would not have believed him capable of making such a sound.

William continued to shout as the pier receded from sight, but the sound of his words grew fainter and fainter as they were absorbed by the swirling fog—until she could no longer hear him.

Chapter Fourteen

Darcy thought he knew despair when Elizabeth had refused him at Hunsford, but that could not compare to the agony of watching a boat bearing his beloved disappear into the fog. He had believed he could thwart Wickham’s plan at the last minute, but the other man had been too clever. Throwing Lydia at Darcy had delayed him just long enough to allow their escape. By the time Darcy had disentangled himself, the boat was yards from the pier.

Already the vessel was scarcely visible in the thick fog. For a wild moment he considered diving into the water, but his swimming abilities were no more than adequate—certainly not fast enough to race a boat. Instead, he was reduced to shouting threats and imprecations after Wickham.

If only he could find help! But if there were any other people on the beach, the fog concealed them thoroughly. Blast and damnation! The men most capable of rendering assistance now huddled uselessly outside a cave to the east. I should go and find them. But his feet refused to move. Irrationally, he could not abandon the last place he had seen Elizabeth—although there was no reason to believe the boat would return.

His mind tried to seize on slivers of hope, but he knew in his heart that they were false. Even if Wickham remained convinced that Elizabeth’s passion for him was authentic, he was unlikely to return the loyalty. More likely she would outlive her usefulness once they left the pier, and Harrison would toss her overboard—while Wickham offered no objections. Simply imagining the scene made Darcy’s entire body shake with impotent rage.

The best he could hope for was that Elizabeth would survive the journey across the Channel to become a prisoner in France—where she would be friendless and vulnerable. Perhaps a quick death in the sea would be preferable. The pain in Darcy’s chest grew so fierce that he seriously considered the question of whether he was dying.

I will never see her again. I must accept the truth.

Damn Wickham for being a treacherous scoundrel!

Darcy wanted to blame Elizabeth as well, but he could not; she had sacrificed herself for her sister. Although Darcy hated the choice she had made, he was not surprised; it was entirely in keeping with her character. Why could I not love a more selfish woman?

Staring into the gray expanse of fog hovering over the sea, Darcy made a vow. He would devote the rest of his life to hunting down Wickham and forcing him to pay for his crimes.

After several minutes of futilely seeking any sign of the rowing boat, he turned his attention back to the pier. Despite Lydia’s unworthiness, Elizabeth had ensured her sister would live, and he had an obligation to protect her.

The girl huddled on the pier’s rough wooden planks, alternately bemoaning a tear in her best muslin dress and complaining about bruises on her arm. From the volume of her laments, an observer might believe she was the one whose life was currently threatened. This is who Elizabeth sacrificed her life for! What a pathetic exchange. Darcy was quite tempted to leave the girl to find her own way home.

Swallowing his bitterness, Darcy offered Lydia a hand and pulled her to her feet. “Miss Lydia, we should seek some help.”

She examined her torn dress. “Yes, a good seamstress might repair it.”

Darcy ground his teeth. “I meant we should locate someone with a boat who can pursue your sister and Wickham.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Why? She’ll return in a few days. And she’ll be the one who gets a silk shawl!”

Does she even understand that we are at war with France? Darcy opened his mouth to reply but closed it again when he heard unexpected sounds: feet pounding on the other end of the pier.

Someone was running in their direction. Was this Wickham’s mysterious “friend”? Not for the first time Darcy wished he had brought his pistols. Placing Lydia behind him, he readied himself to fight in her defense.

However, the shape that emerged from the fog was…Mrs. Forster. Red-faced, with wisps of hair lashing her skin, the woman raced toward the end of the pier, her skirts hitched up around her knees. Ignoring the others, she stopped at the end of the pier, searching the water with wild eyes.

At the sight of her friend, Lydia grinned and clapped her hands. “Mary! You cannot imagine what has occurred! Wickham was here with another man and—”

Mrs. Forster made a visible effort to calm herself, smoothing her hair and turning to Lydia with a wan attempt at a smile. “What is this? Wickham, you say, and another man? Where are they at this minute?”

Lydia babbled a garbled account of all that had transpired, but Darcy did not attend to it. Instead, he observed Mrs. Forster warily. Her appearance at this moment was entirely too coincidental, and she was far too concerned with Wickham’s whereabouts. When Lydia finished her tale, Mrs. Forster gave a rather forced laugh, placing a hand delicately over her mouth. “Such goings on! I cannot imagine what Mr. Wickham was about.”

Various puzzle pieces fell into place. “You are Wickham’s friend!” Darcy cried. “The one he and Harrison left behind.” Blast it all! Forster’s own wife had been spying on him. No wonder the French had learned so many secret plans.

Mrs. Forster regarded him with wide and wounded eyes. “I do not know what you mean.”

Darcy shook his head in disgust. “Of course, Forster never discovered who was ferreting out his regiment’s secret plans.” As Richard said, nobody ever suspected women of espionage.

The woman gave a little laugh. “I believe you are confused…”

He stepped forward until his tall form loomed over her smaller frame. “They may have escaped justice, but I will see that you are turned over to the magistrate.”