The window lowered slightly, revealing the skeptical face of a gentleman’s valet. “And why should that concern us? We’ve been waiting longer.”
Elizabeth drew herself up, channeling every ounce of imperious dignity she had observed. “Surely your master would not wish to inconvenience so distinguished a personage as Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”
“My master inconveniences whom he pleases,” the valet replied tartly, “and has no acquaintance with any Lady Catherine.”
Elizabeth leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Consider, sir, that your master might wish to cultivate such an acquaintance. Lady Catherine’s influence in London society is considerable. A small courtesy now might open doors previously closed.”
The valet hesitated, visibly weighing this logic.
Elizabeth slipped a half-crown into the valet’s palm. “For your trouble. And perhaps to refresh the coachman’s memory as to the proper order of carriages.”
The valet’s fingers closed around the coin with practiced discretion. “I shall speak with him directly. Lady Catherine’s carriage should indeed receive proper consideration.”
Elizabeth moved to the next carriage, and the next, repeating her performance with variations tailored to each audience—appeals to charity for a clergyman’s family, suggestions of mutual acquaintance for the gentry, and for all, the discreet press of silver into waiting palms. Her small purse of bribes dwindled rapidly, but the results were immediate. Carriages shifted, making way for the grand de Bourgh coach to advance.
All the while, she worked her way down the line, methodically increasing her distance from Wickham’s watchful eye. The rain provided excellent cover, as did the clusters of travelers who had emerged from their vehicles to stretch their legs despite the downpour.
Her heart leapt when she spotted a familiar crest on a carriage in the middle of the queue—Bingley’s family emblem, a beehive surrounded by industrious bees. Could it truly be so simple? Had her rescuers already found her?
Elizabeth glanced back toward Lady Catherine’s coach. Impatient, Wickham stepped from the carriage, his expression growing increasingly suspicious as he tracked her progress away from him. Their eyes met, and something in her demeanor must have betrayed her, for his face contorted with sudden understanding.
Elizabeth abandoned all pretense. Gathering her sodden skirts, she ran toward Bingley’s carriage, slipping and sliding in the mud.
“Help!” she cried, her voice nearly lost in the drumming rain. “Mr. Bingley! Mr. Darcy!”
The tall figure she spotted earlier staggered into motion, one arm cradled protectively against his chest, the other gripping a walking stick. Darcy.
“Elizabeth!” His voice cut through the storm, raw with emotion.
She had almost reached him when a shot cracked through the air. Horses reared in panic, travelers ducked for cover, and Elizabeth stumbled as mud sucked at her half-boots.
Wickham advanced, pistol raised. “Stop right there, Miss Bennet.” His handsome features twisted in rage. “This touching reunion is premature.”
Darcy pushed Elizabeth behind him, positioning himself between her and Wickham despite his injury. “Lower your weapon, Wickham.”
“Always the hero, aren’t you, Darcy?” Wickham’s laugh held no humor. “Even with one arm useless. Step aside. The lady and I have an appointment in Scotland.”
“The lady,” Darcy replied coldly, “goes nowhere with you.”
Elizabeth, sheltered by Darcy’s taller frame, felt a peculiar calm settle over her. The worst had happened—she had been taken, her reputation compromised—yet here stood Darcy, protecting her without hesitation.
“I warn you, Darcy,” Wickham continued, advancing through the mud. “I will not be thwarted this time. Lady Catherine has assured me?—”
“Lady Catherine has assured you of nothing that she can deliver,” Darcy interrupted. “Do you truly believe she would risk her own reputation by openly supporting your schemes?”
Uncertainty flickered across Wickham’s face, quickly replaced by determination. “It matters little what she delivers, so long as I am compensated. Now, step aside.”
“No.”
The standoff stretched between them, rain sheeting down, horses whinnying nervously in their traces. Elizabeth felt rather than saw Bingley emerge from the carriage behind them, taking a position at Darcy’s side.
“Two against one, Wickham,” Bingley observed conversationally, as if they were discussing cricket rather than facing a loaded pistol. “And I suspect the ostlers would happily join our side. They’re a protective lot when it comes to young ladies in distress.”
Indeed, several burly men had begun moving cautiously toward the confrontation, drawn by the commotion and the sight of Wickham’s weapon.
“This isn’t over,” Wickham snarled, his eyes darting between the advancing men and his increasingly precarious position.
“On the contrary,” Darcy replied, shifting his walking stick to a more offensive grip, “it is entirely over.”
