The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (23 page)

Bingley shook his head completely knowingly. “And how is the royal commission?”

“Not particularly taxing, I must admit. The prince is actually in excellent health, and I am enjoying having London University open to me. There have been a few advances since I was last in school. And something tells me I am about to be a busy man.”

“A proper gentleman has little to do with infants,” Bingley
said. “Or any sort of real business. Me, I am the most terrible proper gentleman in the world.”

“I, as well.”

To that, they raised their glasses and clinked them together.

Bingley's other business, quickly dispensed, was advising Georgiana away from Chatton for a while, as the Wickhams had responded and would be in shortly. To this she had little comment, and with that dispatched, Bingley made the long journey back to Chatton by horseback, with the books being sent up behind him to arrive before his guests did.

Bingley supposed that, in another world, he would be a friend to George Wickham. Both men were excessively good at being hospitable and charming, and on the surface, they got along excessively well. (If their first meeting was stricken from the record.) If Bingley could bring himself to forget all of the past injustices this man had been party to or been the villain in, he could very well have enjoyed his company.

He was also busy looking at the Wickham children, a girl about one and a boy about three. They were named George Wickham (the third) and Isabella, and Bingley tried to keep his staring at a minimum, because he was unwilling to explain to anyone that he was looking for familial similarities. There were few to none. True, George Wickham and Fitzwilliam Darcy did not resemble each other, or the ruse (if there was a ruse at all and it was not Bingley's idle suspicions) would have been given up long ago. Darcy, by portrait, favored his mother, and Wickham his. So Bingley said nothing as he greeted them—not that he would have if the two children had been exact images of Darcy.

There were many introductions to be made, because Mr. Bennet had met neither of these two grandchildren, and Geoffrey and Georgie had never met their Aunt Lydia. When asked, Bingley merely said Jane was resting and would join them later. The Bingley twins were brought in, and there was much comparing and speculation about height and intelligence by brightness of the eyes and all that. Mrs. Bennet was in heaven, being surrounded by her grandchildren and finally getting to see her precious Lydia without going alone to Newcastle. Mr. Bennet did seem to show some affection when holding his grandson George, even if he gave the father of that child a very cold glare every time he could.

And then there was the business of Mary. They had decided to not hide her condition, as at this point it would have taken a bit of camouflage. The squeal from Lydia nearly broke most of the men's eardrums, and the three of them found it advantageous to retire to the next room, where Mr. Bennet sat happily with one of his three grandsons in his lap.

“Welcome to Chatton, Mr. Wickham,” Bingley said. “It does get a bit… crazy here. Sometimes.” He was just glad Geoffrey and Georgie had returned to their normal skin tones and that he didn't have to explain
that
incident.

“I can imagine. Quite vividly, actually, with all of the people in the next room. Lovely house, though. So I hear the Darcys are on the Continent?”

“Traveling, yes.” Bingley did not elaborate. “They will be back in time for various—events. My sister is also approaching confinement.”

“My apologies if I forget her name. Carol?”

“Caroline. Caroline Maddox, now. Her husband is a physician. They live in Town, near my other sister and her husband.” In his arms, his own son began to whimper. “What is it? Do you want your mother? You're running her ragged… you know that?” He quickly passed his son off to Nurse.

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen months. And his sister is Eliza, if it all got too confusing.”

“Of course. Named after Elizabeth. Isabella is named after my mother.”

Well, Wickham had that part right. Probably.

It took a long time to get all the children put down or in their right places before the adults could sit down for dinner, with Bingley at the head of his massive conglomerate household. Jane joined them just in time, having regained her color, and Bingley found himself holding her hand often as Wickham did his best to delight them with military rumors. Not that hearing about disturbances in France was going to put anyone at ease with the Darcys there, but Wickham probably missed that subtlety and no one was willing to point it out.

Mrs. Bennet was delighted in having her daughter at her side “at a proper table” again (implying, however unintentionally, that the Wickham table was not so proper), and when his mother-in-law was happy, Bingley was inclined to feel some of it. Mr. Bennet kept quiet but was not as standoffish as Bingley and Jane had expected him to be, taking a great delight in hearing tales of his grandchildren, regardless of their parentage.

“And Isabel did the cutest thing the other day…”

For Lydia, it seemed, had grown into her accepted role as
a mother, at least to a presentable extent. However much she whined about money and living conditions in her letters, she did none of it at the table.

The gentlemen retired to the library. Wickham excused himself to smoke when Mr. Bennet mentioned a particular physical intolerance for the stuff, leaving Bingley and Mr. Bennet alone to share a glass of port. “How was Town?”

“Fine.”

“Did you see Miss Darcy? Does she have any news?”

“Very little we do not have.”

“Yes, yes, all of the letters seem to match up,” Mr. Bennet said. “Sort of.”

Bingley lowered his glass.

“What I mean to say, of course, is that I've noticed that the letters we're all getting are slightly different when lined up. As can be expected on some level, because Lizzy will only write calming letters to Mrs. Bennet and more pertinent material pertaining to Mary to me, while Mr. Darcy hardly says anything at all beyond their itinerary. Which, if you look at the map, has a lot of inconsistencies.”

“You've—been studying this?”

“I am perhaps bored in my old age,” Mr. Bennet said, knowing that was no excuse. “Or maybe I smell not quite a ruse, but something else going on. Judging from your reaction, you have your own suspicions.”

Bingley frowned and leaned against the bookshelf. “I will not lie to you. I think Darcy has discovered some family business there that he did not expect to find. But it has nothing to do with Miss Bennet's situation, and I don't think there is any
real 'ruse' here. In fact, I have a feeling everything will come out when they return.”

“Perhaps,” was all Mr. Bennet had to say to that.

THE DARCYS MADE HASTE south, as fast as the carriage would take them, often through the night, until they were all equally exhausted. The roads had dried up as the weather changed, and they made better time. Grégoire did not insist on walking beside the carriage and was eating more, so he was managing better, though he did rise earlier to hear local masses when they stopped in towns with a proper church. Despite the roughness of the carriage ride, with enough pillows, they all got very good at sleeping along the ride, and Elizabeth remarked that yes, she had seen quite enough French countryside.

As they passed beyond the reaches of real English presence, Darcy took Grégoire aside one night in yet another nameless, rundown inn. “If we are attacked, I am prepared, but I am only one man. Elizabeth's life is paramount to me, as is her honor.” He did not explain what he meant by the last bit—if Grégoire missed the reference, he wasn't going to spell it out. “I'm not asking you for anything beyond translation. Obviously, I assume you are a pacifist. The church does not spill blood, does it?”

“No,” Grégoire said.

“Then, at least, stay behind me, if God forbid, something should happen.”

“God forbid.” Grégoire crossed himself.

Darcy was more than aware of the danger of the roads. He would have had a whole honor guard for his wife, if not for the fact that, frankly, he had little faith for his and his wife's welfare in the hands of someone who fought for hire in these regions. These concerns he did not express to Elizabeth, a rarity in his case. He was responsible, as a husband and a gentleman, for protecting his wife.

His fears were not unfounded.

They were traveling through the night again, in an attempt to reach Marseilles by the next morning, when they could finally rest aboard the ship that would take them to Italy. The moon provided little light, and the coachman said there was nowhere to stop for miles, so the decision to continue onward was made for them. In fact, it was so late that Darcy was asleep with Elizabeth leaning on him when the faint sound of a pistol was heard. It was in the distance, maybe even far away enough for them to remain uninvolved, or so he judged as he snapped awake. Elizabeth and Grégoire were slower risers, and without explaining anything, he dragged the monk out of the carriage. Darcy was carrying his sword and pistol, neither of which he had ever used in his life beyond basic instruction. But he was good enough with the sword, if it came to that.

“Darcy?”

He whispered, “Elizabeth, stay in the carriage.”

In the woods, there was only silence. They were alone on the road and could feel a cold breeze. The coachman said
something to Grégoire, who translated. “Someone is in the woods. Several people.”

Darcy shielded his eyes from the lantern light, so as not to destroy his night vision. Yes, something was out there. Someone. In fact, he could hear movement in the woods, and he needed all of his athletic abilities to know when to dodge and force his brother to the ground with him. The bullet meant for one of them hit the side of the carriage instead, bouncing off the metal of the axle.

They were approached while they were on the ground. Three men, maybe four—and obviously bandits—emerged from the utter darkness. Grégoire put himself in front of Darcy. “
Je vous en prie, nous vous voulons aucun mal!
” (“Please, we mean you no harm!”)

The first man to come close enough that his dirty face could be seen in the light laughed and said, “
Jolie calèche pour un moine.
” (“Fancy carriage for a monk.”)

“
Nous sommes juste de pauvres voyageurs!
” (“We are just poor travelers!”)

“
Il n'a pas l'air si pauvre
,” said the man next to him, cocking his gun at Darcy, who drew his. (“He doesn't look so poor.”)

“Tell him if he comes any closer, I'll shoot him in the head,” Darcy said, hoping his own words would convey meaning with their intensity.

There was laughter all around the carriage, but not from the passengers.

“
Restez la!
” (“Stay right there!”)

The bandits all turned, because this voice did not come from them, and the clumping of horse hooves was clearly unexpected by both parties. What little the moonlight offered was the vague
portrait of a man in a tall hat riding up on horseback. “
Garde nationale! Que se passe-t-il!
” (“Police! State your business!”)

“
Excusez-moi, monsieur, mais ces hommes ont tiré sur nous!
” Grégoire insisted. (“Excuse me, sir, but these men have shot at us!”)

The man on the horse responded by lowering his bayonet in the direction of the men he towered over and blowing his whistle to signal. “
Gardes! A l'attaque!
” (“Guards! Attack!”)

“He's a policeman,” Grégoire whispered to Darcy. “He's called for his men, I believe.”

Whether that was true or not, the bandits were taking no chances. They scattered into the night, and the man in the tall hat did not pursue. He whistled a few more times, but no one came. Instead, he climbed off his horse, holstered his bayonet, and shuffled towards them. He had a limp and a black beard, and was, as they saw when he came into the light of the lamp hanging off the carriage, in a guard uniform of French colors. “My God,” he said. “Just in time.” His accent was perfectly English, probably a Londoner.

Darcy blinked, took the lantern down, and held it up as the man approached. “Hello? Who goes there?”