Wickham regarded her with barely disguised contempt. “Wrong place, wrong time, Miss Lydia. That is all.”
The sailors hauled them up, unceremoniously, onto the deck of the sloop. The air was thick with tar and salt, and the shouted orders of the captain—a swarthy man with a scar down one cheek—who barked at his men in a mixture of English and French.
The women were herded towards a storage locker at the bow of the vessel; the door slammed shut behind them. For a moment, all was silent save for the creak of the ship and the slap of waves against the hull. Outside, the anchor was hauled up, the sails unfurled. The sloop turned her bow to the open sea.
* * *
She waited only long enough to see the sloop push off, the sails flapping uselessly as they sought to catch the wind. Then she ran, skirts gathered, feet pounding the cobbles as she came to the Steyne. She needed help—someone who would act, not merely wring their hands and weep.
She spotted them walking down South Parade: Colonel Fitzwilliam, tall and straight-backed in his regimentals, and Mr. Darcy, his eyes narrowed in concern as he spoke forcefully to his cousin. Harriet did not hesitate. She burst into their midst, breathless, her words tumbling out in a torrent.
“They’ve taken them—Lydia, Elizabeth, and Georgiana! Wickham and a band of men—down to the beach, they’ve rowed out to a sloop. Please, you must help!”
Darcy’s face drained of colour. Fitzwilliam’s jaw set like iron. “How long ago?” he demanded, already striding toward the water.
“Moments only,” Harriet gasped, falling in step beside them. “The wind is poor—they are not far.”
They reached Marine Parade, breathless with urgency. The sloop was still visible, its crew labouring against the tide, sails slack. On the water nearby, a British brig rode at anchor, its White Ensign billowing.
“Mrs. Forster, can you find your husband? He must be told what has happened. We’ll make pursuit, as best we can.”
“Of course, I will run to the Barracks. But there’s something more afoot, for I heard some of the men speaking French. Oh, I do fear for them!” With that, Harriet lifted her skirts and hurried up the Parade towards Marlborough Place.
“Dammit! You persuaded me it was safe to allow Georgiana in Miss Bennet’s company. And now Wickham is here—I’m awfully tired of these coincidences.” Darcy banged his fists against therailing in frustration. “Cannot you see it, Richard, that the lady—if she is such—must be in league with the dastard!”
“Enough, Darcy!” roared the Colonel. “She is one of the finest ladies of my acquaintance. You understand nothing of what has happened—yet you stand ready to accuse her. Of what? That she rescued Georgiana from Wickham’s clutches before—when you had left her in the company of a companion with forged references. If I recall, it was you who let him go, after we caught up with him out of Baldock. If it were not for Georgiana—and Miss Bennet and Miss Lydia—I would plant a facer on you! Get a grip, man, there’s still a chance we can catch them.”
They watched as the six oarsmen in the cutter began to slowly pull the sloop toward a ripple on the water, where a slight breeze had come up. There was no sign of the ladies, presumably confined below decks.
“Gentlemen, you are taking a great interest in that sloop. As am I… It flies a Red Ensign, which is most strange—the Red Squadron left for Bermuda several months past.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam turned towards the man, a lieutenant in the navy, who was peering at the vessel with some curiosity.
“Lieutenant… Colonel Fitzwilliam. You may be of great service. That sloop is crewed by French-speaking sailors, and three gentlewomen have been taken forcibly aboard. We know not why, but their leader—Wickham, an Englishman—an accursed man well known to us.”
“Kidnapped, just now on the Parade. What gall!” The lieutenant’s eyes darkened. “I am Lieutenant Lanyon… How so, Colonel, a Frenchie in Brighton, and the Regent arrived but yesterday! And the ladies?”
“Miss Bennet, Miss Lydia Bennet, and Miss Darcy. They are known to us. Miss Darcy is Mr. Darcy’s sister, the other two ladies are under the protection of Colonel Forster. PerhapsWickham is seeking a ransom—yet, it’s a risky business.” Colonel Fitzwilliam grasped the railing in anger. “I have no authority, Lieutenant. Do you command a vessel here? Anything to pursue them!”
“Sir! Your rank is equivalent to post-captain. While not in my chain of command, I would be pleased to lend assistance. TheWaspis at your service.” He ran down the steps and along to another boat, similar in size to the cutter, which was pulled up on the beach. “Cox, we are about to cast off! Mr. Smithers, take this note to the Commodore. We’ll be gone by the time you return—place yourself under his orders.” He spoke to a young midshipman of about ten years, quickly writing a brief note for the boy to carry to the naval station.
“My brig can overhaul her with a fair wind, but we have barely a half-dozen marines aboard. I cannot guarantee we’ll take her by force, even if we draw alongside. And we cannot use the carronades for fear of injuring the women.”
Further along the Parade, Darcy noticed a ragged company of riflemen, green-jacketed, dragging their feet, clearly having marched some distance from the direction of Rottingdean.
“Richard, is that sorry lot any use to form a boarding party?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not hesitate. He strode onto the street, raising a commanding hand. “Lieutenant… Colonel Fitzwilliam. We have need of your men—immediately. If you please, your orders?”
Newly commissioned Lieutenant Will Goulding’s eyes widened. “Colonel Fitzwilliam?” He fumbled, opening a pocket on his jacket. “Of course, sir!”
Fitzwilliam took a pencil and quickly scrawled on the company’s orders. “You are now under my command, Mr. Goulding. Quickly, we must ride out to that brig—you are become a boarding party!” He turned to the naval Lieutenant. “Captain, can your barge carry us all?”
Within minutes, the riflemen were stowed aboard theWasp. Fitzwilliam and Darcy conferred with Captain Lanyon, laying out a plan: they would overtake the sloop and, if possible, board her before she could escape into the Channel. The brig’s crew sprang into action, anchors raised and sails trimmed to catch what little wind there was.
On the deck, Darcy gripped the rail, his knuckles white. The thought of Georgiana—his sister, so gentle, so easily frightened—once again in Wickham’s clutches chilled him.
Fitzwilliam, for his part, was all resolve. He moved among the riflemen, checking their rifles, issuing instructions. “We may have only one chance,” he told them quietly. “We must not fail.”
