Page 13 of Dishonorable Gentlemen (Bennet Gang #1)

Caught in the Act

Darcy conceded, as he and Bingley rode across turned under fields of rich dark earth resting in wait for spring, that the countryside in this region of Hertfordshire was not unlovely. In some respects, it could be compared to his beloved corner of Derbyshire, and certainly the line of low hills that ran from Netherfield Park northeastward to Dovemark and onward were an attractive addition to an otherwise flat countryside.

Approaching Dovemark through the fields, they sighted the stable first and, with a gesture to indicate his plan, Darcy made for the structure. They could hand their mounts off to a groom, brush off the mud of travel, and go around to the front of the house on foot.

“A pretty sort of place, isn’t it?” Bingley said over the plod of hooves on earth softened by the dampness of October.

Indeed, the stacked stone stable, rather than mimic the French Mediterranean style of the manor house, gave the impression of having been built into the hillside generations ago. Narrow windows, their panes too thick to do more than permit diffused light and flanked by green painted shutters, marched along one side. The stable door, tall and set to roll open, was of the same stout wood as the shutters, painted the same time-worn green, which mimicked the moss that pillowed on the stacked stones of the stable and the craggy hillside alike. Beside the stable’s entrance, a smaller green door was obviously meant for non-equine passage. The roof of the structure was densely thatched, and the far side let out into a paddock, the door not visible from where they rode but the whitewashed fence wending away like a swath of lace decorating the base of the hills.

“Charming,” Darcy finally admitted, unable to think of a single structure at Pemberley that embodied a similarly ancient, slightly enchanted feel. Perhaps he would commission a folly of stacked stones and moss, to replicate the fey glory of this place. He had a lovely birch grove in the middle of which one would blend seamlessly into the already pleasant clearing .

They drew to a halt before the stable and the smaller door opened, causing Darcy to begin to revise his impression that the thick window panes didn’t permit sight until Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet stepped out, their faces mirroring Darcy’s startlement at seeing them there.

Both wore utilitarian gowns of drab brown, and both surprised visages glowed with good health and vigor. Miss Elizabeth, her coif slightly askew for all it was tightly coiled, had never looked more lovely.

Her brows drew together, no hint of warmth reaching her dark eyes as she regarded them. “Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley. This is a surprise.”

“For us as well,” Bingley said, swinging free of his mount. “But the most pleasant of surprises.”

“Do you often frequent the stable?” Darcy asked, dismounting as well. Something about Miss Elizabeth’s closed demeanor put him on guard.

“We were riding,” Miss Elizabeth replied at the same time as Miss Bennet said, “We were stowing our gardening tools.”

Bingley looked back and forth between the two, confused, but Darcy kept the bulk of his attention on Miss Elizabeth, trying to read her face.

Miss Bennet cast her sister a panicked look.

Not seeming to notice, Miss Elizabeth slipped into an easy smile. “Jane was gardening but when she brought in her tools, I persuaded her to help me brush down my mount.” She gestured and Darcy took in the traces of straw and horse hair on Miss Bennet’s skirt.

Looking down, Miss Bennet’s face went red. She brushed at her gown. “I ought not to have removed my apron.”

“You brush your own horse?” Bingley asked. “Very industrious of you, Miss Elizabeth. I daresay neither of my sisters have ever held a curry comb.”

“Do you not keep a groom? A stablemaster?” Darcy asked, unable to shake the suspicion that he was being misled.

Miss Elizabeth turned her easy, pleasant expression on him. A facade that did not quite hide the flicker of some less amiable emotion deep in her eyes. “One of the tenants comes every morning to care for the horses, but we have only three, all for riding. When we need to use the carriage, he brings his team.”

“Mama does not care for horses,” Miss Bennet said softly, dropping her gaze to the gravel path. “Not since…” She broke off, casting Miss Elizabeth another look.

“Not since our father was thrown and died,” Miss Elizabeth finished for her, the smile leaving her face. “So, you see, the less trouble our mounts are to our mother, the better, lest she decide that Jane and I do not need to ride at all.”

“You are not dressed for riding,” Darcy stated, wondering at her less than welcoming mood. For all her attempt at pleasantness, she seemed almost confrontational.

Miss Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps if you did not sneak onto our lands and come upon us so unexpectedly, I would be garbed more to your liking, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy took a half step back. His horse, whose reins he loosely held, tossed his head. “I meant only to observe, not to criticize.”

“Then I accept your apology,” Miss Elizabeth said primly.

Miss Bennet still studied the ground, her hands clasped before her, but Bingley looked from Darcy to Miss Elizabeth and back again. “Yes, well, we came across the fields because of Miss Mary’s warning to my sister,” Bingley said haltingly, obviously wishing for a return to cordiality.

Miss Bennet raised her gaze, her smile dispelling all unease from Bingley’s face. “That was very considerate of you.”

“We may stable our mounts and walk with you, then?” Bingley asked eagerly. “I would be pleased to see what you were working on in the garden.”

Miss Bennet’s smile faltered.

“Jane was trimming back the ivy when last she worked in the garden,” Miss Elizabeth said. “It grows so quickly in the spring that it is best to cut it back before winter.”

Miss Bennet’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes. I did trim the ivy.”

Darcy felt as if he were missing half the conversation.

“There is more than enough room for your mounts.” With an elegant sweep of her arm, Miss Bennet turned back to the stable.

She moved to yank open the tall door, but Bingley hurried forward to do so for her. He struggled for a moment, the door apparently heavy, and Darcy wondered how a slight, though tall, creature like Miss Bennet had thought she would be able to handle it. But then, if not the two ladies before him, who did open and close the door when they rode? A footman?

Inside the stable was as picturesque as outside, the stacked stone of the four walls, even the one set against the hillside, braced with stout lintels and beams. In addition to a large tack room and a loft stuffed with hay, the stable boasted over two dozen stalls, though only three were occupied. Two by hot-blooded, capable looking bays and one by a slightly round, white mare.

Catching Darcy’s gaze on the mare, Miss Elizabeth said, “Our sister Mary’s horse. She is not so much of a rider as Jane and I.”

“You once told me that you are not a great rider,” Darcy countered, clearly recalling the exchange. “That you prefer to walk.”

“I believe I told you that I am not known as a great rider.” Mischief danced in her eyes, her mood becoming lighter as she corrected him. “And that I prefer to walk, which is true.”

“Which is yours, Miss Bennet?” Bingley asked, leading his horse to one of the empty stalls.

“This one.” Miss Bennet went to one of the bays, holding out a hand for him to nuzzle.

From the stall across from her, where he was stripping off his mount’s bridle, Bingley said, “A lovely mount. What is his name?”

Miss Bennet smiled fondly at the bay. “Robin.”

“And yours, Miss Elizabeth?” Bingley asked as Darcy took his horse deeper into the stable to an empty stall.

“Tuck,” Miss Elizabeth replied.

“Tuck?” Darcy echoed, finding the name odd.

“As in, Friar Tuck?” Bingley asked.

Miss Elizabeth chuckled. “If you must know, yes.” Darcy looked back to see her gesturing at the horses as, amusement in her voice, she continued, “Robin, Tuck, and Mare Marian.”

A bark of laughter escaped Darcy.

Miss Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up.

Darcy shrugged and returned to stabling his mount.

“From the tales of Robin Hood.” Enthusiasm colored Bingley’s voice. “I used to read those as a lad.”

“Papa Arthur read them to us,” Miss Bennet said, stroking a hand down her horse’s neck. He nuzzled her hair.

Bingley came out of the stall, closing it behind him. “I know Robin Hood is meant to be the hero, but Allen-a-Dale was always my favorite.”

“Mine will always be Robin.” Miss Bennet gave her horse a final pat and turned to Bingley.

“And you, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth called. “Which of Robin and his Merry Men did you like best? Be forewarned that if you select poorly, you will be harshly judged.”

He stepped free of the stall he’d selected to find her at the front of the stable, bathed in the sunlight slanting in through the open door. Her left side was gilded in a golden glow and light streamed in around her, gleaming, giving him the odd sensation that she was not quite real.

“Mr. Darcy?” she pressed.

“I agree with your sister,” he said, striding up the aisle between the stalls. “ May I assume you have a preference for Friar Tuck?”

“Only for my Tuck here.” She cast her horse a smile that, to Darcy’s shame, stirred envy in him, and Tuck’s ears swiveled forward at the sound of his name. “Insofar as the stories go, I am rather fond of Will Scarlet.”

“Will Scarlet?” Darcy tried to dredge up memories of the character.

“He is dashing, skilled with a blade, and quick witted.” Miss Elizabeth studied Darcy with unreadable eyes.

What was he missing? What game lurked beneath their innocent discussion? Darcy had thought on Robin Hood recently, or at least something to do with the tale, but he could not bring to mind what or why. He studied Miss Elizabeth as he drew near, searching her fair visage and his mind for answers.

She met his gaze with amused calm.

“Shall we walk in the garden?” Miss Bennet asked brightly.

Acquiescing, Bingley offered her his arm as they left the stable, prompting Darcy to do the same for Miss Elizabeth, and they set out along the neat gravel path to the walled garden. There, the air about them softened by the enclosure’s warmth, they started down the length of walled in greenery, though much of what had been green now blazed red, yellow, and orange.

While Miss Bennet pointed out various plants to Bingley, Miss Elizabeth slowed her pace, obviously giving the two space for conversation. Darcy felt a prickle of concern, but Bingley had come to speak with Miss Bennet, and there was nowhere out of sight in the long, narrow garden.

Giving up worry over Bingley being trapped in any way, Darcy turned his attention to the riddle of the woman beside him. Miss Elizabeth behaved so very differently from other young ladies of his acquaintance. Foremost, she made no effort to engage him at all. Nor, lovely as she was, did she take overmuch care with her appearance. Most ladies would be mortified for him to see them in drab brown with their coif slightly askew.

Once more, the suspicion that she had a suitor welled up, unwanted. The only times he’d seen her take pains with her appearance were at the assembly, and on the day he, the Bingleys and the Hursts had called on Dovemark. For whom had Miss Elizabeth gone to such trouble? Not for him, apparently.

The sourness of that thought surprised Darcy.

Her words quiet, Miss Elizabeth ventured, “A militia has come to Meryton.”

“Yes,” Darcy answered, aware of an odd note lurking in her voice. Did she dislike redcoats?

She slanted a look at him. “I am afraid they will steal many a heart from you and Mr. Bingley. You have become old news.”

“I cannot be disappointed in that.”

“No?” Miss Elizabeth cast him another assessing look. “You do not enjoy being at the heart of every young lady’s aspirations?”

He halted, turning to study her face, and found himself asking, “Every young lady?” He struggled not to hold his breath as he awaited her reply, silly of him, for he had no intentions concerning her. Even if she was his mist-woman, she was also a country miss with ties to trade. She had nothing to offer the Darcy name.

Miss Elizabeth chuckled. “You have me there. I daresay not every. Some.” She pursed her lips in a parody of deep thought. “No, most.”

Though Darcy had asked the question that sent them down this path of conversation, he was at a loss as to how to reply. A different sort of gentleman, a rogue, would ask Miss Elizabeth if she were among most ladies, but he did not want to encourage her hopes. More than that, mockery lurked in her gaze.

She cocked her head to the side. “If you are not pleased with the adoration of the local misses, perhaps you summoned the redcoats here to save yourself?”

Darcy frowned at the note of accusation lurking in her voice. Was her goal to discover the impetus of the militia unit’s arrival? Why? And why suspect that he would know? “I did request their presence. Something needs to be done about the bandits hereabouts.”

“And why is that?”

How could so much steel lurk in so light a voice? He shook his head, uncertain of the source of her ire. “Because they rob with impunity.”

“They robbed you and Mr. Bingley with impunity, true, but they are not known to trouble anyone who cannot afford to be liberated from some of their wealth.”

Darcy did not for a moment believe that. “They did not know us, and so could not know if we could afford to have our money taken.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Do you mean to tell me that you believe them incapable of judging your wealth based on your exquisite carriage and matched team of four? Your driver whose livery is finer than the garb of most of the people in Meryton?”

“It was Mr. Bingley’s carriage, team, and driver,” Darcy said stiffly. So, Miss Elizabeth idolized the Boney Bandits. He should have known. In truth, all three of the elder Bennet sisters likely did, given the names of their horses. “And him employing a fine carriage does not excuse them taking our money at gunpoint.”

“So you sought revenge for the affront to your dignity?”

Annoyance shot through him. “Indeed, no. They are not significant enough to offend me in such a manner.”

“Then you have been imposed upon?” she pressed intently. “You suffer from a lack of funds?”

Darcy could not claim that. He shook his head. “I suffer from being threatened and robbed.”

“Even though rumor has it that what they took from you was used for charity?”

“Charity should be given voluntarily, and I do so regularly.”

“Then you differ greatly from gentlemen hereabouts.” Anger sharpened each word she spoke.

“Am I to understand that you applaud what these bandits do?” Darcy cast back. “You believe that the gentlemen of your community are not generous enough, and that it excuses a pair of Frenchmen flouting English law?”

“I do applaud them, for they act when everyone else is either too filled with greed or fear to do so.”

Darcy took in how she pressed her full lips into a thin line, her eyes narrowed, her displeasure clear. She wasn’t displeased with him because she already had a suitor. Or at least that, were that true, it was not the lone reason. Somehow, she’d learned that he’d requested the militia, and that was the source of the animosity she’d evidenced since sighting them outside the stable. She respected that pair of bandits and did not want them to face justice.

Or did it go deeper than that? Did she know who they were? Was one of them the unknown caller she’d expected? Did a Boney Bandit warrant a lovely gown and extra care with her coif?

“What they do is wrong,” he snapped. “Wrong and against the laws of the land. No amount of good intention justifies such moral and legal transgressions.”

“And yet moments ago, you said that Robin Hood was your favorite.”

“Of the characters in a tale to which I gave little credence as a lad and even less now.”

“I see.” Her eyes almost glowed with the anger that burned in her. “So you used your influence to call in a militia, even though what takes place in Meryton and on the surrounding holdings is none of your concern. ”

Darcy ground his teeth together. “The law is every man’s concern.”

“How weighty the world in which men live,” Miss Elizabeth replied.

Darcy sought about for a reply that would dampen her fury. A glance showed that Bingley and Miss Bennet had reached the far end of the garden and not yet turned back. Seeming to have no care for what the two of them did, Miss Elizabeth stood before Darcy, chin raised and eyes flashing, in an obvious state of pique.

He’d never seen a more lovely visage.

Or an unmarried miss who looked on him with such a total lack of avarice and a considerable amount of ire. How could he make her see that he was in the right? That violating the King’s law was wrong, no matter how terrible the roadways were hereabouts or how unjustly the populace felt they were treated? He required words that would explain his care for all of England and all Englishmen…including her.

As she studied his face, her visage softened. “You truly did not cause a militia to be stationed here out of spite over being robbed, did you?”

He frowned at her. “I had not considered that as a reason. I simply sought to right a wrong. To assist a populace overseen by such incompetence that a pair of bandits can go about in broad daylight robbing carriages. Bingley and I took no harm. We could, as you suggest, afford to lose the funds we lost, but what of their next victim? What if someone is shot? Or ladies harassed?”

“The Boney Bandits have never been known to do such things.”

“And yet they could. They are bandits. By their very nature, they flout the law and all that is right.”

She sighed. The look she aimed at him was touched with what might be pity, but the remainder of her ire drained away. “Walk with me. I will give you a tour of our garden. It will not be as illuminating as Jane’s surely was, but as I have caused you to miss her words, you must make do with mine.”

Darcy nodded, happy for a return to conviviality, though somewhat baffled by the sudden change in her mood, and offered his arm.

They walked down and back several times, crossing paths with Bingley and Miss Bennet at each pass. They spoke of the plants for which the elder three Bennet sisters cared, of hours spent making preserves. Of Miss Mary falling from a tree after trying to climb up after Miss Elizabeth, and of a five-year-old Miss Lydia cutting the heads off all of Miss Bennet’s roses one spring.

Miss Elizabeth’s anger gone, walking the garden with the two sisters turned out to be a lovely way to spend an afternoon, but as he and Bingley rode back to Netherfield Park, Darcy’s mind lingered on the stable, the Boney Bandits, and Robin Hood. He wondered what he was missing.

Once they returned and changed from their riding clothes, Bingley called for a late tea, for they had not set foot inside Mrs. Oakwood’s home and had received no sustenance. Darcy supposed their visit to have been somewhat unorthodox, though nothing untoward had been done or said. Had they come upon the two sisters walking to the village, they could have strolled along a country lane with them instead. Still, if they repeated the experience, he vowed to insist that he and Bingley go around to the front of the manor house. Mrs. Oakwood had a right to know who visited her home.

He and Bingley were settled into the blue drawing room, their tea before them and Mrs. Hurst ready to serve while Mr. Hurst played cards at a table nearby, when Miss Bingley burst through the open doorway. Even Mr. Hurst paused at the exuberance of her entrance, looking up from his solitary game.

She fluttered a thick missive before her. “I have news about the Oakwoods.”

Darcy frowned, uncertain he wished to be privy to gossip, but rather looking forward to tea.

“From Miss Grantley?” Mrs. Hurst asked, pausing in the act of reaching for the pot.

Miss Bingley came around the couches to alight on the other end of the one Darcy employed, across from her sister and brother. Her eyes were so bright, they could have sparked candle wicks. The heavy vellum pages in her hand rattled with excitement. “They are relations to the Earl of Pillory in Nottinghamshire.”

Darcy stared at her, startled. Nottinghamshire…home to the mythical Robin Hood?

“How singular,” Mrs. Hurst said mildly, but tension seemed to leave her frame and she offered Bingley a faint smile. “It seems Miss Bennet is a worthy conquest after all.” Then her eyes narrowed and she turned back to Miss Bingley. “That is, depending on how closely related they are?”

“That is just it.” Glee colored Miss Bingley’s tone. “I think they, that is, Young Master Thomas, is the next earl. Miss Bennet is the sister of an earl.” As she proclaimed that, the pitch of Miss Bingley’s voice rose high enough to set Darcy’s teeth on edge.

“Why, that is better even than being the cousin of an earl,” Mrs. Hurst exclaimed, then colored slightly as her gaze darted to Darcy and away again.

“Indeed,” he said, trying to keep his tone bland. “Far better.”

Bingley cleared his throat, looking from his sisters to Darcy and back again .

“It hardly seems credible, though, does it?” Hurst drawled from his table. “Mrs. Oakwood does not strike me as a woman who would keep such a connection secret.”

“And that is the best part.” Miss Bingley flapped the letter at them. “I do not believe they know.” She slapped the pages down on the table. “Miss Grantley writes that the old earl has been seeking his son, Matthew Rodrik Arthur Oakwood, Viscount Scathelock, for years. Apparently, Lord Matthew, a third son, enlisted without his father’s permission and they became estranged. When he returned, he did not go home. He simply vanished somewhere in England.”

“You mean, vanished into Hertfordshire,” Bingley exclaimed. “Did not Mrs. Oakwood tell us that her late husband was passing through when he sustained his injury?”

“So he met Mrs. Oakwood and…” Mrs. Hurst frowned as she spoke. “And simply remained here, in this backwater, rather than return and claim his birthright?”

“You said he was a third son,” Darcy stated, drawn into the story despite himself.

Miss Bingley nodded, shuffling the pages of the letter. “The elder son died suddenly without issue, as did the second. There was a cousin, next in line if Lord Matthew or his heir are not found, also deceased. His eldest son died as well but he has two others. The older of the two is the heir presumptive and set to inherit.”

“If Lord Matthew or his issue are not found?” Mrs. Hurst repeated, her words a question.

“Precisely.” Miss Bingley didn’t look like the cat who got the cream. She looked like a cat who had just learned how to persuade cows to offer up their bounty at will.

Stunned looks were exchanged about the table. Finally, Mrs. Hurst murmured, “It cannot be true.”

“We shall soon know.” Miss Bingley set to ordering the pages of her letter. “Miss Grantly is acquainted with the twin sister of the current heir. She has written to her. An Isabella Hargreaves.”

Isabella Hargreaves? Darcy frowned. “As in, sister to Lord Franklin Hargreaves, Viscount Scathelock?” A young man about Bingley’s age, Hargreaves was not the sort with whom Darcy would associate. Titled, wealthy, and possessed of a streak of cruelty as wide as a country lane.

Miss Bingley turned to him. “She did not say. Are you familiar with the Hargreaves, Mr. Darcy? I imagine that they would be in your circles, you being the relation of an earl as well.”

“I am familiar with Lord Franklin,” Darcy said crisply in a tone he used when he did not wish to speak further on a topic. He did not care for the viscount, but he would not add to gossip.

Miss Bingley opened her mouth as if she would ask more, but Bingley cut in with, “Well, if a letter has been written, and the earl truly is seeking his lost heirs, I daresay we will know the truth soon enough. How is that tea coming, Louisa?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hurst took up the teapot and proceeded to pour, then handed a cup to Darcy before assembling a small plate for him.

He accepted her offerings with his thanks, but had somehow lost his appetite. If this Isabella Hargreaves was indeed sister to Lord Franklin, he would turn up eventually. Even at only two and twenty, he did not seem the sort of man to permit an earldom to slip through his hands and into those of a mere lad. Darcy sat back and sipped his tea, Mrs. Oakwood’s declaration that her husband had wished for nothing to do with his family clear in his thoughts.

With how much Miss Elizabeth resented his interference with the local bandits, would she be equally furious if Miss Bingley brought estranged relations to Dovemark? Even though Miss Bingley’s theory might make Miss Elizabeth and her sisters relations to a future earl, Darcy could only picture her angry at the intrusion.