Page 9 of Dishonorable Gentlemen (Bennet Gang #1)

Earlier That Morning…

Darcy had risen long before Bingley and his relations, a gnawing worry over his final conversation with Miss Elizabeth at the assembly ruining any chance of more sleep. How had she interpreted his words regarding fog and the view? He’d issued them in the hope that she might reply with something similar to, ‘Yes. The fog was very dense when I walked there the morning we met you and Mr. Bingley.’ Instead, she’d regarded him askance. At first, he could think of no reason for his question to elicit such suspicion, but upon reflection, he realized that taken in the right light, his words could be construed as an assignation.

If he did not take more care, he was the one who would end up trapped, not Bingley.

Darcy worried about what Miss Elizabeth might think of his parting remarks as his valet fussed over his cravat, and continued to do so as the man helped him into his coat. Nor did the trajectory of his thoughts change as he strode to the stable, where he’d requested his mount be waiting. Not until he was astride and urging his mount down the path away from the manor house did another thought intrude.

What if Miss Elizabeth had taken his words as an attempt to rendezvous, and awaited him atop the hillock even now?

Were that the case, he’d be a fool to go there.

Yet, somehow, that was the direction his mount took. Soon enough, the beast’s shod hooves clattered on the steep trail that wended up into the low line of hills ending near Netherfield Park, and Darcy’s breath quickened. Not at the effort of the climb, for his horse did the work, but in expectation.

Although, to be certain, were Miss Elizabeth atop the hillock admiring the view, that would mark her as simply another husband-hunting miss intent on claiming the Darcy name and fortune. Were she there, he would not deign to have aught to do with her, reverting to cold politeness in public and never permitting her a word otherwise. Were she there …

He claimed the summit with expectation tight in his throat.

No woman, mysterious or otherwise, awaited him atop the hill. Only a view of Bingley’s leased manor house. Darcy looked about, his gaze probing. A sparrow alighted on a scrubby, leafless bush, ignoring him as it cleaned its beak on a nearby branch. Nothing else moved except by the will of the light breeze.

Disappointed, Darcy returned to a breakfast he didn’t much attend to, where he proceeded to pretend interest in a day-old paper and murmur noncommittal responses. His thoughts swirled with visions of Miss Elizabeth Bennet and the woman in the mist.

Were they one and the same? If so, Miss Elizabeth hadn’t thought to take in the view this morning. But then, no fog shrouded the land. Perhaps she only walked the peaks enveloped in a screen of mist? Or, even though he did not intend to meet her atop the hill, had he somehow implied that she should wait for a foggy day?

Darcy mulled over that prospect for the remainder of the morning, and through luncheon. He managed to tamp down musings about Miss Elizabeth for a time after that light meal, as he and Bingley rode about the estate taking stock. But when they returned to change for making calls, Miss Elizabeth Bennet claimed Darcy’s thoughts once more.

His mind remained fixed on the notion that Miss Elizabeth may have misconstrued his words even as Bingley’s carriage rolled to a halt before a tall, modern dwelling about half the size of Netherfield Park. Dovemark, residence of the Bennets and Oakwoods.

“A pretty sort of place,” Miss Bingley allowed. With a slight frown she added, “French inspired, one might think.”

Bingley cast her a quick look. “Doesn’t appear one bit French to me.” He gestured. “Not all cluttered and ornate, is it?”

Miss Bingley turned a condescending look on her brother. “I am speaking of the architecture on the Mediterranean coast.” She smiled at Darcy. “Mr. Darcy’s library at Pemberley has a lovely travel journal with quite intricate renderings. Dovemark reminds me of those. Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy?”

Darcy could only nod, for the clean, simple lines and soaring height of the structure, coupled with numerous tall windows, did speak of the drawings to which Miss Bingley referred.

“I will allow that it sits well against that line of hills.” Mrs. Hurst swiveled to ask her husband, “Do you not agree, Mr. Hurst?”

Mr. Hurst leaned forward to peer out the carriage window past his wife, where a footman could be seen coming down the steps of the house. “Hills. Yes. Quite nice. Tallest bit that, behind the house, is it not? Steep, even. Same line of hills as dominates the northern view from Netherfield, Bingley?”

His attention on the house, Bingley shrugged. “Seems likely. Imposing sort of place, this Dovemark. I approve.”

The footman opened the door. With a bow, he offered Mrs. Hurst his hand.

As her sister descended, Miss Bingley, who sat across from Darcy, added, “Though it is easy to see that Dovemark is nothing compared to Pemberley.”

Darcy offered no denial as they disembarked one by one. Nowhere compared to Pemberley.

They entered to find the elegance promised by the exterior borne out in an entrance hall done in warm cream, sage, and soft brown wood. Unfortunately, the beauty of the space was almost completely obscured by numerous small, and rather poor, watercolors. Ensconced in ornate golden frames, they covered the entrance hall walls, drifted down the corridor, and climbed up the staircase. Darcy would hazard to guess that over a hundred of the less than lovely renditions met his gaze, which he sought to place on anything else.

After turning over their cards and outerwear, and a brief wait as the butler disappeared and returned, they were escorted deeper into the house. Darcy thought that, perhaps, the paintings threading down the hallway were newer. They seemed to show a very small increase in skill. Regardless, they were not something he would display with such prominence or in such quantity, even if someone as dear as his younger sister had painted them. Fortunately, the watercolors tapered off as they walked, permitting the home’s elegance to once more shine.

They followed the clomping butler, his tread pronounced enough that Darcy wondered if the man sought to convey a level of disapproval. As they passed open doorways, Darcy took in drawing rooms that faced the light at opposing times of the day, a well-appointed library that held no candle to Pemberley’s, what appeared to be a study, two maids within dusting, and a large dining room. He began to suspect that the narrow facade of Dovemark belied the home’s size.

A moment later, Darcy and his companions still following the heavy tread of the butler, a voice threaded up the hall. Mrs. Oakwood’s, were Darcy not mistaken. He made no effort to listen, but soon enough her high, somewhat grating voice coalesced into discernable words.

“…pleased to see Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy dancing with you, Jane,” the matriarch was saying. “And the way Mr. Bingley in particular gazed on yo u, he’s certain to offer for you, just as my sister Phillips said after speaking with Mrs. Lucas and Mrs. Morris. I never thought you would come to anything after you ruined your chance with Mr. Collins, but—”

“Mama,” Miss Elizabeth’s voice cut in.

Miss Bingley and her sister exchanged looks that held a mixture of amusement and condemnation.

“But that, to be certain, matters not at all, as my dear Kitty will reclaim Longbourn for us,” Mrs. Oakwood continued, ignoring Miss Elizabeth’s interruption. “It is Kitty, after all, who is meant to marry well. Ever since she brought Mr. Oakwood to us, I’ve known she was destined for wonderful things. I assumed for Mr. Collins, but that was before that Mr. D—”

“Mama,” Miss Elizabeth repeated, louder. “Footfalls.”

“Do not interrupt me when I am speaking,” Mrs. Oakwood said sharply. “You, Elizabeth, are too impertinent to attract the notice of any man, leastwise not in a welcome way, and so must contain yourself so as not to spoil Kitty’s and Jane’s chances.”

“Yes, Mama,” Miss Elizabeth replied with no hint of remorse in her voice.

As she issued that affirmation, Darcy and his companions drew near a large set of open doors. The butler cleared his throat as he stepped into the doorway. “Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley, Mr. Hurst, Mrs. Hurst, and Miss Bingley.”

Miss Elizabeth rose from a stiff-backed settee, graceful and lovely in a sky-blue gown. Her hair was arranged in a style Darcy had not yet seen on her, the loose curls framing her face in a gentle, almost intimate way. Her gaze, coolly polite, met his, and he wrenched his attention away so he might issue proper greetings to the whole of the room, which he belatedly realized also held Mrs. Oakwood, Miss Bennet, Miss Mary, and Miss Kitty.

Once greetings were exchanged, Mrs. Oakwood invited them to sit and called for tea. As the settee on which Miss Elizabeth perched also held Miss Mary, Darcy found himself in a chair between that furnishing and the sofa occupied by his hostess and Miss Kitty. Bingley predictably took the chair on the other side, sitting as near to Miss Bennet as he could, and the Hursts alighted across from Mrs. Oakwood and her favorite daughter.

But Miss Bingley, rather than taking one of the remaining seats, turned to gesture to the far fireplace, visible past several more seating areas and a pianoforte. “Mrs. Oakwood, is that your late husband, the general?”

Darcy tugged his attention from Miss Elizabeth’s profile. At the other end of the large drawing room, which boasted two fireplaces clad in cream marble sculpted into swirls and doves, a portrait hung above a pair of crossed swords. Even from a distance, Darcy recognized one as a service weapon and the other as ornamental, a mark of the general’s office.

Mrs. Oakwood issued a beleaguered sigh. “Yes, that is my dear, dear Arthur.”

The general himself, depicted outdoors, one boot resting on a rock and a cane in hand, appeared a slender, wiry sort of man. Nondescript, Darcy would call him, and remembered Miss Elizabeth’s hint that her stepfather had been a spy. The only thing remarkable about the general, captured to perfection by the artist, was the intelligent, amused gleam in his eyes.

Miss Bingley wandered closer to the painting. “You must miss him terribly,” she said politely but Darcy didn’t doubt that if they could see her face, her visage would reveal startling intensity as she memorized General Oakwood’s likeness.

“I do.” Mrs. Oakwood tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve. “My dear, dear Arthur. I am lost without him.”

“We all are,” Miss Kitty added, producing a small square of cloth of her own.

The two of them, lavender and pink gowns alike covered in copious quantities of expensive Devon lace and imported silk ribbon, dabbed at their eyes and sniffed.

“But this is not to be a sad occasion,” Mrs. Oakwood said brightly, her handkerchief disappearing.

With a startled look at her mother, Miss Kitty shoved hers away as well.

“In fact, this may be a day to be remembered and celebrated,” Mrs. Oakwood continued. She leveled a warm look on Bingley. “This may be the day some of my girls meet their future husbands.”

“Are more gentlemen expected, then?” Miss Elizabeth asked, exchanging a look with Miss Mary. “For we have already met these.”

Miss Mary’s lips quirked.

Mrs. Oakwood cast Miss Elizabeth a quelling glare.

Before the matriarch could speak again, Miss Bennet turned to the Hursts. “How did you find the roads? I have been told they are in good condition for autumn.”

Darcy found the roads hereabouts rutted and pitted, a sign of a poor community. At least, until they’d reached Dovemark’s lands. Whatever else she might be, Mrs. Oakwood appeared to be a capable landlady. Unless young Mr. Oakwood or a steward were to thank.

“They are tolerable within the village,” Mrs. Hurst replied .

Mr. Hurst’s chin had already begun its slow descent to his chest, his eyes glazed over with boredom.

“That is because we have been having such fine weather,” Miss Mary stated.

“Oh yes,” Miss Bennet agreed. “A lovely autumn thus far.”

Miss Bingley came back across the room to join them and they continued on in this vein, Mrs. Oakwood making inopportune comments backed by Miss Kitty while Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, and Miss Mary sought safer ground, until tea arrived.

It surprised Darcy not at all when Miss Kitty, though a middle daughter, sat forward. She turned to him first, batting her lashes, and asked, “How do you care for your tea, Mr. Darcy?”

Before he could answer, a clatter of footfalls filled the hallway. Darcy turned along with everyone else to see a young man with whom he wasn’t familiar rush into the room, a spyglass held in one hand.

“Matthew,” Mrs. Oakwood exclaimed. “Whatever are you about?”

“Lydia turned her ankle in the garden and she needs Jane,” Matthew blurted, his gaze darting about the room. “Right now.”

Miss Elizabeth caught his eye, hers dropping to give the spyglass a meaningful look. Matthew shoved it behind his back.

“Oh dear. Poor Lydia.” Miss Bennet stood.

“I cannot imagine why she would need Jane,” Mrs. Oakwood snapped. “Jane, sit down.”

Miss Bennet, who had already started forward, paused. She cast a panicked look at Miss Elizabeth.

“Mama, if Lydia needs Jane, she needs Jane,” Miss Elizabeth said.

“You go,” Mrs. Oakwood replied with a negligent wave of her hand. “You have no hope of securing a fine gentleman and will be no loss to our tea.”

“Lydia said it must be Jane,” Matthew reiterated, his gaze likewise seeking Miss Elizabeth’s, pleading. “And that Jane must hurry.”

Miss Elizabeth’s brow pinched with thought for a fraction of a moment, then cleared. “If Lydia has turned her ankle, she will need someone strong to help, not only Jane.” She looked past Darcy, her mother, and Miss Kitty, to Bingley. “Perhaps you could assist her, Mr. Bingley?”

Bingley sprang to his feet. “I would be happy to.”

The joy on his face was matched by the relief on Miss Bennet’s, but fresh worry surged through Darcy. The majority of the Bennet sisters seemed quite eager to see Bingley go off with Miss Bennet. Such trickery smacked of scores of husband-hunting misses sadly of Darcy’s acquaintance.

“Jane cannot go off with Mr. Bingley alone,” Miss Kitty said quickly.

Young Matthew, perhaps all of eleven, stood tall, spyglass still hidden behind his back. “I’ll be with her.”

“You are a child,” Miss Kitty sniffed.

“I may be a child but at least I don’t look as if a milliner’s wastebin toppled over on me,” Matthew snapped back.

Miss Bingley coughed, trying to stifle laughter.

“Is this truly the impression of us that you wish to give to our guests?” Miss Mary asked in a mild, quiet voice.

Mrs. Oakwood gave no indication that she heard, but she gestured to Miss Elizabeth. “Elizabeth, go with your sister and Mr. Bingley, and tell Lydia that she will answer for this later.”

Appearing surprised, and grateful, Miss Elizabeth stood.

“Lydia is a tall, strapping girl,” Miss Mary stated. “It may take two gentlemen to assist her if her ankle is truly bad. Mr. Darcy had better join them.”

Darcy came to his feet before Miss Mary finished speaking.

“Truly, I do not believe all the gentlemen need attend to Lydia,” Mrs. Oakwood exclaimed. “A footman can assist Mr. Bingley if required. We do not need to impose upon Mr. Darcy.”

“It is no imposition,” Darcy said. “I am pleased to be of service to your daughter.”

“Mr. Hurst will bear us company, Mama,” Miss Mary added.

Darcy crossed the room. No part of him would prefer to remain in this drawing room rather than accompany Bingley and the elder two Miss Bennets, if for no other reason than to ensure that his friend wasn’t trapped in an untenable situation.

Miss Elizabeth joined him, Bingley, and Miss Bennet by the door, saying, “I am certain Lydia will not require us for long.”

“I’ll show you where she is,” Matthew offered, whirling.

Darcy bowed. “If you will excuse us, Mrs. Oakwood, Miss Mary, Miss Kitty.”

Matthew hurried away. Darcy did not need extra urging to follow.

From the room they’d left, Miss Kitty’s voice wailed, “Why does Lydia ruin everything? You will see her punished, won’t you, Mama?”

Mrs. Oakwood’s reassurances faded behind them as young Master Matthew led the way down the hall at a rapid pace, collapsing his spyglass as he went. When they reached the first turn, he said, “Not that way,” as Miss Bennet made to retrace the route Darcy recalled as leading back to the front of the house. “He’s likely on his way in.”

Bingley frowned, casting Darcy a confused look. Darcy could only shrug as they followed Matthew and the eldest two Bennet sisters into another wing of the house, but his worry grew.

“That was good work, Matthew,” Miss Elizabeth told her brother as they walked. “I thought for certain the spyglass would give you away, though.”

The lad shook his head. “Mama and Kitty aren’t observant. Leastwise, not about spyglasses. If I was missing my neckcloth, that they would note.”

Miss Elizabeth chuckled, a rich, beguiling sound.

“You were watching the roadway from the attic?”

Matthew answered Miss Bennet’s question with a nod as they continued to hurry down the corridor.

Their pace surprised Darcy, but their strong strides did not seem to affect the two ladies at all. Nor was he winded, though Bingley appeared a touch so as they finally reached a door that let out into the garden. Matthew passed through, followed by Miss Bennet. Darcy lightly touched Miss Elizabeth’s sleeve. She turned to him as Bingley went out.

“Yes, Mr. Darcy?”

“Before I continue with this ruse, I would like to know from whom we are fleeing, and why your younger brother was spying on the roadway.”

Miss Elizabeth’s eyebrows winged upward, her visage spritely, almost fey, in the rays of sunlight slanting through the open door. About her, glimmering motes of dust swirled as she contemplated Darcy through unreadable eyes.

He set his jaw. He did not care if his question offended her. He would not be a party to pretense. Or worse, to entrapping Bingley, for this collusion between the siblings smacked of an ambush into marriage.