Elizabeth gasped. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, it is perfect!” She ran her fingers lightly over the jeweled comb. “Thank you.”
She presented Darcy with a rare first-edition book he had not read, and he exclaimed over the fine leather binding. “I look forward to reading it. Thank you, Elizabeth.”
When they had settled themselves and awaited the summons to supper, Darcy turned to Lady Montrose and Elizabeth, his countenance grave. “I bring news, and it is not good.” Without delay, he told them of the plot against Elizabeth. Lady Montrose blanched and clutched her granddaughter’s hand.
“You must hire additional footmen!” she cried. “We cannot allow anything to happen. No! Pray, I could not bear it.”
“Grandmother, I am well.” Elizabeth trembled, though her tone remained composed. “Darcy will not permit any harm to befall me.”
“No, indeed. I believe further protection is essential. We must take care not to tip our hand. Those who conspire against you must not know that we are aware of their plot.” Darcy took Elizabeth’s free hand and pressed a soft kiss upon it.
“What do you propose?” Lady Montrose asked, her voice quivering.
“I have several acquaintances who may be of service—men capable of vanishing when it suits them. It is a rare talent, and one they have employed on my behalf more than once. You and Elizabeth must conduct yourselves as though nothing is amiss. We shall uncover the one who hired Wickham and, through him, learn who desires the extinction of the Montrose line.” Darcy spoke with confidence, concealing the dread he harbored for his betrothed’s safety.
“Will it succeed?” Elizabeth turned to him, her gaze pleading for reassurance.
“I can promise nothing, but we stand a better chance if we take the initiative and bolster our defenses so that we may act, not merely respond. My cousin might be persuaded to escort you about town. As I have been seen often enough in your company, it would not appear strange for Richard to take my place.”
Lady Montrose narrowed her eyes. “Who is Richard?” she asked.
“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, second son of the Earl of Matlock,” Darcy replied.
“Ah. I have not seen the earl or his wife in some time. I had forgotten one of their sons joined the army. Is he proficient, or is he one of those sons of peers who purchased his rank?” Lady Montrose frowned, clearly disapproving.
“My uncle bought him a commission as an ensign. Richard earned the rank of colonel through his own merit.” Darcy’s tone held quiet pride as he spoke in defense of his favorite cousin.
“At ease, both of you,” Elizabeth said firmly, breaking the tension between them. “Jameson, would you suggest anything else?”
Jameson stepped forward and bowed. “I do not believe it wise to add staff to the household—unless they come under the recommendation of Colonel Fitzwilliam or Mr. Darcy. Any sudden additions would rouse suspicion. Lady Montrose has now been in residence with my lady for nearly six weeks, and no new servants have been engaged in that time. However, it would be prudent for either Morton or myself to know Lady Montrose’s whereabouts at all times.”
Darcy grimaced. Ever independent, Elizabeth would chafe against constant supervision. He glanced at her, and she gave a nod, though the set of her jaw made her displeasure plain.
“Promise me you will comply until we can put an end to this conspiracy against your life,” her grandmother pleaded. She still clung to Elizabeth’s hand, and her face looked more drawn and anxious than it had been since their reunion.
With a sigh, Elizabeth gave her word. “That does not mean I must be pleased with the arrangement,” she added, her tone light. “Mr. Darcy, I shall count on you to visit me daily and see to it that I do not fall into a stupor from boredom.”
“On my honor. Richard and I shall escort you to Bond Street, Hyde Park, Vauxhall, the theater…”
She laughed, as he intended. “Very well. You have made your point. Now, is dinner nearly served? I am ravenous.”
As if on cue, the doors opened, and Morton stepped in. “Dinner is ready, your ladyship,” he said solemnly. Darcy rose and assisted both ladies to their feet, offering his arm. As they made their way to the dining room, he silently prayed the matter would soon be brought to a close.
Chapter Thirty
February 20, 1812
Bloomsbury Street, London
Winters
“ItisasIsuspected. Wickham’s done a bunk.” Jarvis kept his tone even, but Winters, who knew him well, could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface.
“Blast!” Winters slammed his hand on the table. “Now we have a loose end.” He stood and began pacing the room, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, jaw tight. If Wickam talked, he could lose everything.
“Don’t worry, Jarvis said, eyes narrowing. “I’ll find ’im—and when I do, ’e’ll pay for what ’e’s done.” His glare would have made a lesser man flinch, but Winters did not scare easily. He never had. Life had always bent to his will, and he had no intention of letting that change now.
“Handle it yourself,” Winters snapped. “We cannot afford another complication.”
