Thatcher’s smile was sly. “So he would think we were all there waiting, while we send one or two men to watch the other entrances?”
Darcy nodded. “Precisely.”
That night, they did just that. While the other men pretended to hide but in fact made themselves obvious, Darcy sat on the side of the woodshed, his knees pulled up to his chest as he peered into the inky blackness. Hours ticked by, and he rubbed the back of his gloved hand over his tired eyes.
He was awaiting his replacement near midnight when a shadow moved near the house. Darcy tensed. Just as they had planned, the figure did not approach the window they had intentionally left ajar as a trap. Instead, it moved towards thekitchen door. Darcy was not worried—the door was locked, and he could sneak up behind the man to ensure he did not run off.
His heart was racing as he silently rose from his position. The shadow paused at the kitchen door. A faint scraping sound indicated that the intruder was picking the lock. Darcy crept forward more quickly, every sense on high alert. The door creaked open, and the shadow slipped inside. Darcy hesitated, torn between raising the alarm and maintaining the element of surprise. Then he moved quickly towards the house. But before he had covered more than a few yards, a shrill, piercing shriek was followed by a resounding crash.
His heart stopped. That was Mrs. Bennet.
Before he knew what was happening, he was off, feet pounding against the earth. In five long strides, he reached the door and threw it open, nearly taking it off its hinges.
Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the kitchen in an eerie glow as Darcy skidded to an inelegant halt. At his feet was sprawled a man, flat on his back, groaning and clutching his head. Above him, like an avenging angel, stood Mrs. Bennet, her nightcap askew and her eyes blazing with fear and triumph. In her hand, she wielded a large copper pot like a weapon, ready to strike again if necessary.
“Mrs. Bennet!” Darcy exclaimed, hovering between admiration and concern. “Are you well?”
She looked up at him, her chest heaving with exertion and what he presumed was fright. “Mr. Darcy,” she managed between breaths, “I thought you were asked to leave.”
Without missing a beat, Darcy strode forward, took the pot from Mrs. Bennet’s hands, and set it down, his eyes still fixed on the prone intruder. “I will explain later, madam. For now, allow me to deal with this matter.”
In one fluid motion, he grabbed the man’s arm, flipped him over on his stomach, and then kneeled on his shoulders. Theintruder yelped, but Darcy held firm, his muscles straining as he held the struggling miscreant in place. “Thompson!” he shouted. “Some of that rope, if you please!”
The rest of the men must have been running towards the scream, for they were already spilling into the kitchen behind him. Thompson cut his rope in two pieces and handed one to Darcy. As Darcy expertly bound the intruder's hands and Thompson secured the man’s feet, the sound of running footsteps from inside the house grew closer and closer. All at once, Miss Bennet burst into the kitchen.
Her dark hair was tied back in a long braid, and her dressing gown, hastily tied, hinted at a trim figure beneath. From where he crouched on the floor, he had a perfect view of her bare ankles. He had never seen her dishevelled before, even when she was falling, and his mouth dried at the thought of . . . He forced himself to close his gaping mouth and move his eyes up to her face. She looked radiant even now, and the unexpected intimacy of the moment made his heart race. Several half-dressed servants moved around her and into the room, clutching everything from a fire poker to a broom as weapons, but Darcy's attention remained fixed on Miss Bennet.
“Why, Morris Fitch!” Mr. Riggs exclaimed, holding up a candle to the man’s face. “Mr. Ellis was quite clear when he told you never to return. Whatever are you doing here?”
“Mamma!” Miss Bennet cried, taking in the scene before her. “Are you well?” Her gaze darted from her mother to Mr. Darcy, who was now hauling the man to his feet and handing him over to Thatcher and Freedman.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy greeted her, his voice tight with exertion. “Your mother has acted quite heroically this evening. Might you see to her while I deal with your unwelcome guest?”
Miss Bennet nodded, uncharacteristically speechless—but just as she reached her mother’s side, Mrs. Bennet let out a small cry.“Lizzy! Good gracious, you are in a dressing gown. Come with me, you must leave at once!” She shooed Miss Bennet out of the kitchen.
As Miss Bennet reached the doorway, she placed one hand on the jamb and turned her head to give Darcy one last look, her expression a mix of apprehension, curiosity, and happiness.
He met her gaze and smiled, but just then, the man he still had pinned to the floor cursed and tried to push himself up. When Darcy was free to look again, Miss Bennet was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
When they had trussed the intruder up so tight he could never escape, the men sat him up. Darcy placed his hands on his hips so they would not curl into fists, his fury unabated even when he registered Morris Fitch’s dejected mien. “Start from the beginning, Mr. Fitch.”
“It was not supposed to be like this,” Fitch began, his voice low and tinged with regret. He sat slumped in his chair, the fight gone out of him. “I never meant for anyone to be frightened. I needed things to sell, but I did not intend for it to go this far.”
“But it has,” Darcy reminded him. “And you are in possession of enough stolen goods to see you hanged.”
The man blanched. “You found my hoard?”
Darcy glanced at Thatcher, who shook his head. Clearly Mr. Fitch was not a master criminal, for he had just implicated himself by admitting that he had stolen and hidden the goods. “What is your connection to this estate?” He knew already, but he wanted to hear it from Fitch himself.
“My wife was Mr. Ellis’s cousin, his only remaining family. Did you know that?”
“I know she died fifteen years ago,” Darcy said. “Long enough for you to make your own fortune and not bother Ellis about his.”
“I had an unlucky turn at cards and owe money to men who are not accustomed to waiting. But when I told them Mr. Ellis was on his deathbed and I was his only remaining family, they gave me more time to pay.”
“Never heard of a man done in by one bad hand of cards,” Thatcher said, and Freedman murmured an agreement. “Tell the man the truth, Fitch.”
