Page 26 of Dishonorable Gentlemen (Bennet Gang #1)

A Hero’s Welcome

Elizabeth reached the top of the cleft to the sight of Mary, black-clad and carrying both of Jane’s Bakers.

“When I signal that you should run, you should run,” Mary said tartly as Jane claimed the hilltop as well.

Elizabeth drew her rapier, which she’d sheathed while she ran. “You two go. I will hold them off.”

“Do not be ridiculous.” Mary walked past her and grasped a gnarled piece of wood that stuck out from under a pile of fist-sized rocks. Their linchpin freed, the rocks started to roll. Some went every which way, but the majority clattered down the cleft. “We should hurry,” Mary added as curses echoed up the narrow path.

They rushed across the hilltop, seeking the forested slopes that surrounded Dovemark, and Elizabeth wondered when Mary could possibly have set up those rocks. Today, or had Elizabeth been walking past that stick and pile of stones for years without noticing? How many traps did Mary have, hidden about?

They plunged down the gentler slope on Dovemark’s side of the hills and into the trees, Jane keeping up despite a noticeable limp, and another quandary sped through Elizabeth’s mind. Had Papa Arthur elected to have his tenants keep sheep and hogs, rather than clear the trees for farming and pastures, to maintain the concealment of the trees? Were Elizabeth’s relations even more wily than she’d realized?

Shaking her head to cast such irrelevant fancies aside, Elizabth focused on wending her way through the trees as quickly and silently as she could. Jane, trailing behind, moved with far less grace than usual and Elizabeth winced at every snapped twig and rustled bush. Ahead, ghostlike, Mary flitted through the nearly leafless maze, the forest brown for the onset of winter.

Over the excess of noise Jane was making, which Elizabeth hoped sounded overloud to her due to their desperate need not to be caught, she could hear no pursuit. She imagined that while the rocks, hopefully, hadn’t harmed any of the men chasing them, they’d likely slowed them. Wary of more traps, their pursuers would have forsaken speed. Likely just as Mary planned.

By the time they reached the shelter of their hidden cave behind the stable, Jane’s face was white and sweat beaded her brow, born of pain rather than exertion, Elizabeth knew. They stowed their weapons, and Jane’s, putting the Bakers away in the gun cabinet hidden by their rack of padded gear, and Elizabeth realized that Mr. Darcy still had her sister’s sword. Deciding there would be time to worry over that later, she discarded Azile’s garb and hastily made use of a basin and water while Mary helped Jane with her lawn shirt. The left arm was torn and damp with blood. They would, as they always did with their highwaymen’s clothes, have to clean and mend the garment in secret.

“Bite down on this.” Mary handed Jane a leather strap, waited while she put it between her teeth, and proceeded to clean the long, fortunately narrow gash with cognac, just as Papa Arthur had taught them.

Above her gritted teeth Jane squeezed her eyes closed.

Elizabeth finished dressing as Mary bandaged Jane’s arm, then said, “I’ll help Jane. You get changed.”

Nodding, Mary started to strip away the black highwaymen’s garb she rarely wore, her expression one of relief.

Elizabeth started on the laces on the boot encasing Jane’s uninjured foot first, asking, “What happened?”

“That cad Wickham stomped on my foot like a common brawler,” Jane replied evenly. “I should not have shot the guns from his hand. I should have put a ball through his arm.”

“What you should have done was not charge down there without a weapon.”

“After I shot the second pistol out of his hand, he started for the floor of the valley. I could see that Mr. Bingley was injured, and I did not know if he could defend himself. I had to go down there.”

Elizabeth shook her head but held her peace. She would have gone down as well. Of course, she would have been armed. She was always exhorting Jane to start carrying knives about her person.

Elizabeth pulled the boot free, glad they’d opted for laces. Papa Arthur had always recommended them. Laces, he’d said, allowed for better ankle movement and therefore greater agility, and were easier to remove when needed. Elizabeth wouldn’t want to have to cut Jane’s boot off. It had been enough trouble to get men’s footwear in the first place, via an elaborate scheme that had involved inventing a widow with three sons and sending traces of their feet and measurements to London.

Elizabeth took more care with the second boot, but Jane still gritted her teeth in pain. When her stocking was removed, swelling and an already darkening bruise were revealed.

“We will need to sneak you up a cold compress for that, and ensure that no one sees it. Even Lucy,” Mary said, gowned now in one of her usual drab colors.

Jane wiggled her toes. “I do not believe anything to be broken. It was a solid hit, directly to the top of my foot.”

“Still, I doubt you will be wearing slippers for a week.” Elizabeth glared at Jane’s injured foot, but the real focus of her anger was Mr. Wickham.

Whom Mr. Darcy knew, which hardly seemed possible. What had Wickham claimed? That he was the godson of Mr. Darcy’s father?

They helped Jane to clean up and dress, and Elizabeth reflected they were fortunate that the time of year dictated long sleeves. Supporting Jane between them, they made their way to the house, for, as Elizabeth had suspected, she couldn’t get a slipper onto her foot. Fortunately, though their morning had been very eventful thus far, the hour was still quite early. Between the two of them, Elizabeth and Mary got their sister to her room unobserved.

They tucked Jane into bed, then Mary dropped to sit on the end. “That went well enough, I suppose.”

“Jane was injured,” Elizabeth countered.

“And Mr. Bingley was shot,” Jane added.

“But, thanks to you, he survived,” Mary said. “And it appeared as if Mr. Collins is gravely injured.”

Elizabeth joined Mary on the foot of Jane’s bed, a jumble of emotions washing through her at the hope that Mr. Collins might be more than gravely injured. After all, Papa Arthur had survived being shot only to die a week later, and their cousin struck her as a far weaker man. But…did she really wish a man dead? Even William Collins? She rubbed at her forehead, leery to attempt to sort through her feelings.

“I hope he will not die,” Jane said softly, closing her eyes. Resting against her pillows, her bright locks spread loose about her head, for they’d taken out the tight, coiled braids they wore while highwaymen, Jane looked wan and sorrowful .

“I hope he does,” Mary said, her voice devoid of warmth.

Jane’s eyes flew open. “How can you say that? He is our cousin.”

“He is also a horrible person and a tyrant,” Mary said firmly, then went on before Jane could argue, adding, “Now, what should we tell everyone is wrong with you, Jane? Do you think we will have to stage an accident to excuse your foot?”

Elizabeth grimaced at the idea, but offered, “I imagine we will need to tell them that the strain of fearing for Mr. Bingley’s life has rendered Jane ill, and we can keep her ill until such time as she can walk on her foot and use her left arm without wincing.”

Jane sat up straighter. “But if I am ill, I cannot see Mr. Bingley.”

“You can,” Mary disagreed. “Perhaps not today, but we can help you downstairs tomorrow and you can languish prettily on a sofa while he reads to you, assuming he is even up to calling.”

Jane sighed glumly, but nodded. “I imagine that is the best plan.”

Elizabeth thought so too, though it galled her. Regardless of their plan, Jane would not be able to tell Mr. Bingley that she had saved his life. And to go from doing so, to pretending she was so weak of spirit, so desolate at the mere prospect of his demise, that she was too ill to rise from bed…it infuriated Elizabeth.

“It would be better not to be found here, all together,” Mary said, standing. She turned to Jane. “I will see that you get that compress for your foot, though you mustn’t let anyone see you put it there. Pretend it is for your head.”

“Which is not addled, thank you,” Jane replied a touch tartly, then her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon. Pain sharpens my tongue. I know you mean only to care for me.”

Mary smiled slightly. “I understand.”

“We will come to you with any news we receive the moment we may,” Elizabeth added. She wished she could find that Mr. Wickham and trod on his foot. Or better still, persuade Tuck to do so.

They left Jane’s room to the sight of Lydia coming down the hall, yawning widely. Spotting them, she halted. “You two are up early.”

“As are you,” Elizabeth countered.

Lydia looked past them to Jane’s door. “What were you doing in Jane’s room?”

“Checking on her,” Mary said as she continued across the hall and into her own chamber.

Focusing her attention on Elizabeth, Lydia asked, “Why does Jane require checking?”

“The prospect of Mr. Bingley coming to harm has resulted in Jane becoming unwell. I am afraid she will need to stay abed for some days to recover.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “You know, when you say things like that, I know that you’re telling the truth and yet somehow lying, all at once.”

Elizabeth gave her an enigmatic smile. “What an interesting speculation.”

“It is not a speculation, it is fact.” Lydia continued to glare at her.

Elizabeth smiled back, unperturbed.

Finally, her youngest sister huffed. “Very well. Be like that. Are you coming down to breakfast? That’s where I am going. I couldn’t sleep anymore because I am worried about Mr. Bingley, too.”

“Breakfast would be agreeable,” Elizabeth allowed, the suggestion making her realize how hungry she was. Nothing stirred the appetite so much as an early morning bout followed by a run through the woods.

They made their way down the hall. Behind them, a knock sounded. Elizabeth looked back to see one of the maids, Lucy, at Mary’s door, a folded note in hand. Elizabeth frowned. Lucy must have come up the back stairwell, not odd, but a note being delivered to Mary’s room at all, let alone at this hour, was.

Lydia seemed not to have noticed as she prattled on, saying, “Because, do you realize, if Mr. Bingley marries Jane, he might buy Netherfield Park, and then Mr. Collins wouldn’t be magistrate anymore, and that would be good for everyone, I think. Well, not for the people of Longbourn. They would still be stuck with our horrible cousin, but good for everyone else. I think that’s why he’s been coming around of late. He wants to make certain Mr. Bingley doesn’t propose.”

Lydia’s monologue took them to the staircase, where Elizabeth gave the back of her sister’s head a scrutinizing look as she followed her down. For all her youth, exuberance and chatter, Lydia was obviously not unintelligent. Elizabeth simply had not realized until lately that her sister took any interest in the world beyond ribbons and redcoats.

“I imagine that is true,” Elizabeth said blandly and turned the topic to the latter. Lydia could speak on the members of the local militia at length. That topic was safer than Mr. Bingley and the duel, except for Lydia’s obvious preference for Mr. Denny.

“And you should have seen the newest officer,” Lydia prattled as they walked. “Thomas, Matthew and I noted him in Meryton just yesterday. A Mr. Wickham. He is so handsome, Elizabeth. He is everything an officer should be. I only managed to say hello, but he was ever so charming. I hope to see a great deal more of him.”

Elizabeth contained a flinch. So much for redcoats being a safe enough topic.

They sat for breakfast and their brothers, Kitty, and Mrs. Oakwood soon filed in. Their mother did not eat, however, merely toyed with the food on her plate, her gaze constantly going to the door. Finally, she huffed a sigh and said, “How is there yet no news of the duel?”

Lydia looked up from her plate. “Jane is too ill to come down to breakfast. She made herself sick worrying over Mr. Bingley.”

“Yes, poor Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Oakwood moaned. “That good, sweet man, defending my Jane’s honor. Whatever was Mr. Collins thinking, saying such things about my Jane? Has anyone ever had a sweeter, lovelier, more obedient daughter? The man has obviously taken leave of his senses.”

“I am as sweet and lovely as Jane,” Kitty said testily. She stabbed at a slice of cold roast on her plate.

“Yes, to be certain you are.” Mrs. Oakwood said hurriedly before looking about the table. “But where is our news? I am languishing for news of how Mr. Bingley fared.”

Lydia turned to Elizabeth and asked sweetly, “Elizabeth, is there news?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “How could I possibly know when you do not?”

Whatever Lydia might have cast back was drowned by Mrs. Oakwood’s wail of, “And Jane cannot be abed. Mr. Bingley will surely come to report on the duel. Jane must be in the parlor. He must propose to her. That he means to is the only reason he would defend her honor so.”

Elizabeth dubbed it a sad referendum on their society that her mother was correct on that. A man wouldn’t duel for a woman’s honor simply because she was in the right. He would do so only were he family or intent on becoming so.

Mr. Darcy’s handsome, serious visage formed in her thoughts. He was the one gentleman she’d met who she could see being the exception to that. Mr. Darcy would always do what was right.

And he had Jane’s sword, thanks to Elizabeth. Could the weapon be traced to Jane? The rapier had been a gift from Papa Arthur. Surely, he would have been circumspect.

“…will have to be ill on the sofa,” Mrs. Oakwood was saying. “I will not have her miss the opportunity to wed Mr. Bingley over a case of nerves.”

“I do not believe Mr. Bingley’s affections so fleeting that one missed chance to speak with Jane will deter him,” Elizabeth felt obliged to point out.

Her expression eager, Kitty added, “Besides, Mama, if Mr. Bingley arrives and Jane cannot see him, that will give me more of a chance to speak with him. I am certain he will choose me over Jane, given the chance.”

“He didn’t fight a duel for you,” Thomas said from the end of the table where he and Matthew sat.

Kitty looked down her nose at her little brother. “Only because he did not have the opportunity. No gentleman insulted me in front of Mr. Bingley.”

“You want a man to insult you?” Lydia asked.

“I’ll insult you if you like,” Matthew offered.

Kitty scowled at them, the expression making her appear alarmingly similar to Mrs. Oakwood.

“A Mr. Collins to see you,” their butler said from the doorway.

Shock radiated through Elizabeth. Their cousin must not have been so badly injured after all.

“Mr. Collins?” Kitty said eagerly.

“Ah, Mr. Robert Collins,” the butler clarified.

“Show him in,” Mary said, gliding into the room. “He can breakfast with us.”

Elizabeth stared at her middle sister, stunned.

Mary’s gown was simple, as always, but a lovely green color that brought out hints of auburn Elizabeth had never noticed that her sister’s locks contained. The color also complemented her skin, which somehow seemed smoother and more luminous. Her eyes, normally appearing a dull brown, appeared green now as well, matching the gown, which, cut better than her usual choices, revealed a figure just as fine as any of her sisters’.

Moreover, beneath flatteringly arranged tresses, there was something about her mien. Some lack of reserve that had been there before. It was as if Mary had been awaiting something and, whatever that thing was, it had happened.

The butler cleared his throat, looking to Mrs. Oakwood, but she was staring at Mary as Elizabeth’s sister took the place beside her at the table. “Ah, yes, Miss Mary,” the butler finally said and hurried away.

“Mary, what have you done with your hair?” Mrs. Oakwood asked, blinking in confusion. She turned to Kitty. “You should wear your hair that way. It is very flattering. Why, that coif makes Mary look as pretty as you are.”

Kitty scowled again .

Elizabeth tried to catch Mary’s eye, to look a question at her, but Mary seemed engrossed in fixing a cup of tea.

Cousin Robert came in, quiet and composed, and they all rose to greet him. Elizabeth didn’t miss the look that passed between him and Mary. Suspicion bloomed in her.

Mrs. Oakwood made Kitty move, giving Robert the place of honor to her right, and declared that coffee should be brought, even though he protested that tea would do. Elizabeth didn’t even know if they kept coffee, as none of them drank it.

Once the footman given that order hurried away, Mrs. Oakwood turned to Robert. “Now, tell us the news. Do not fear. We can endure the worst, but you must know that Jane is above stairs too ill with worry to join us and if you admit to Mr. Bingley’s demise, it will certainly kill her.”

Robert took a moment to digest that, then said quietly, “I am pleased to report that Mr. Bingley, while having taken a wound to the shoulder, is predicted to make a complete recovery.”

“Wounded?” Mrs. Oakwood wailed. “He has lost? Jane is ruined? Oh, Robert, you must take her. Please, do not let her burden her sisters with her fall. You are of age. Marry her. It is your duty as her male relation, for all everyone disparages your parentage. Do not think that will save you from doing right by your cousin. You know Jane’s beauty and sweetness make her invaluable. If you take her, I will gift you five hundred pounds from Kitty’s dowry.”

“Mama,” Kitty squeaked. “You cannot.”

“Hush, child. If Jane is ruined, so are you. I must.”

Robert stared at Mrs. Oakwood, his mouth slack. Beside Elizabeth, Mary carefully buttered a roll. Kitty pulled out a handkerchief and buried her face in it, sobbing theatrically.

Mary set down her butterknife. “Did Mr. Collins prevail, then?” she asked calmly.

“Ah, no.” Robert shook his head. “My brother is dead.”

Shock radiated through Elizabeth, followed hard by guilt, for a part of her had hoped for that news. She had thought it would take days, though, like with Papa Arthur.

Kitty halted mid wail, raising dry eyes from her handkerchief. “You are master of Longbourn?”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. Kitty was correct. Robert would be master of Longbourn now. Their childhood home. Their father’s estate, entailed to keep it in the male line. To keep the bloodline pure. What would Mr. Bennet think of a man everyone knew was not actually related to him receiving his estate?

Elizabeth suspected he would be amused.

Mrs. Oakwood drew herself up, her matronly form formidable, and glared at Robert. “You cannot be master of Longbourn. Everyone knows you are no true Collins, no matter what the parish records say. You must step aside and return Longbourn to Thomas.”

Where he nibbled on a sweet bun and watched the scene before him in fascination, Thomas put in, “I am not a Bennet either, Mama.”

“You are as much a Bennet as Cousin Robert,” Mrs. Oakwood snapped.

“Cousin Robert is far too handsome to be a Collins or a Bennet.” Kitty batted her lashes at him as she spoke.

Robert appeared horrified.

“Enough,” Mary said crisply, setting down her roll. “Robert has lost his brother this morning, and is being shown an appalling lack of consideration for that. Moreover, in view of that loss, Robert is now master of Longbourn. No matter what speculations there may be about his birth, he is the legal heir.”

“Oh, I agree,” Kitty said, leaning forward across the table. “The very intelligent, deserving, tall and comely heir.”

“And, when his three months of morning are over, the banns will be read for us,” Mary continued, ignoring her younger sister.

Elizabeth took in that declaration with a growing sense of inevitability, but everyone else except Robert stared at Mary in shock.

Kitty’s shrill laugh broke the silence. “You believe that simply because you put on a different gown today, Robert will choose you?” She gave Mary a pitying look. “He has known you for years. He knows how dowdy you are, and how lovely I am. Or do you believe that speaking French and playing the pianoforte will sway him? I can fill our home with beautiful paintings. My paintings can be enjoyed at leisure, not simply when one is playing or needs to speak to a modiste.”

“I believe you will find that Robert prefers my playing over your paintings.” Mary calmly picked up her half-eaten roll.

Kitty opened her mouth but Mrs. Oakwood held up a staying hand. She turned to Robert. “Is this true? You intend to offer for Mary?”

“Miss Mary is correct.” Robert turned to her and, like clouds clearing from the sky, a gentle smile broke over his face, though it didn’t push all the sorrow from his eyes. “We came to an agreement some time ago. The reason I have come here this morning is not to impart news of the duel, but to inform you of my intentions, Mrs. Oakwood.”

Their mother came to her feet. Her face crumpled into tears. She hurried around the table and grabbed Mary, pulling her, still seated, against her generous bosom in a fierce hug. “Oh, my dear, sweet, clever child. I always knew I need not worry over you. You are a smart one, to organize such a matter yourself.”

Mary, one arm holding the last bit of her roll out of danger, her face smushed against their mother, slanted an alarmed look at Elizabeth. Kitty’s voice rose in angry complaint, and Thomas and Matthew both rose to go around the table to offer well wishes to Robert. But what captured Elizabeth’s attention was the expression on Lydia’s face. The narrow-eyed, gleaming, suspicious way she studied Mary.

Elizabeth, too, saw their sister’s error. A very un-Mary-like error. One obviously made in an excess of excitement, despite Mary’s calm facade.

Mary’s gown, her hair, it all pointed to her suspecting that Robert would attend them, and knowing what he would say. That would not be overly suspicious, since she apparently knew their cousin better than anyone had suspected, except that Mary’s expectations for Robert’s behavior hinged on, at their root, Mr. Collins’ demise. A demise about which Mary should not yet have heard…except that Lucy had brought her a note.

Lydia caught Elizabeth watching her and raised an eyebrow. Elizabeth gave a slight shake of her head. Lydia shrugged, the suspicion on her face easing, but Elizabeth knew their conversation on the matter, if such it could be called, was not yet over.