Page 27 of Gentlemen of Honor (Bennet Gang Duology #2)

Betrayed

Though her sisters and their mounts walked between them, Elizabeth could all but feel Mr. Darcy’s presence as he followed. She’d read worry in his eyes, perhaps even fear, and she hoped he would not prove a liability. She knew his skill with a blade. She judged him strong of character and resolve as well, but Papa Arthur always said there was no way to judge how a person would react when their life was threatened for the first time. Elizabeth felt she could count on Mr. Darcy to keep a level head and to aid them, but what if she was wrong? It was not only her life, or his, that she risked.

He’d done well enough the day they’d first met, when she and Jane had robbed him and Mr. Bingley, and again on the day of the duel. She doubted he’d felt his life to be at risk on either occasion, however. She’d made no effort to harm him while relieving him of his funds, preferring to taunt him instead, for his arrogance had aggravated her. Or, as on the day of the duel, to keep him distracted while Jane did what needed to be done. Until, of course, Jane needed her. Then she’d taken away Mr. Darcy’s weapon and gone to help her sister.

But she hadn’t taken the spyglass. A foolish, foolish mistake. One that had cost her, though perhaps all would be well. He was here now. He’d agreed to help save Thomas. He was committed. She’d seen the determination on his face.

And just like that, the fissure in her heart had snapped closed, replaced by a glow of warmth that spread through her, threatening to derail her attention from the mission at hand. Mr. Darcy had finally accepted her. That was all she wanted from him. All she required. For him to care for her without demanding to change her.

Not because she would not change. She must, with Jane and Mary both marrying. Everyone, everything, changed, after all. But Elizabeth would change on her terms, because she chose to, not because Mr. Darcy or any other gentleman demanded she do so.

She led the way from the tunnel and across several fields. The clouds split, the sky clearer than the night before, and the moon, just past full, offered illumination both helpful and treacherous. If Elizabeth could see better, so could the men who guarded Thomas.

It seemed to take forever, their slow ride through the colorless landscape of night, and yet all too soon they arrived at the copse she sought. Dismounting, she led Tuck in, but not as far as she had the night before. Mare Marian’s white hide was a beacon in the moonlight.

The moon also marked the passing of time, more their enemy than Elizabeth would like. They needed the cottage secure and Thomas safely away before they confronted Lord Franklin. When he brought food was by far their best opportunity to question him, but only if they had secured Thomas first.

Taking the rope from Tuck’s saddle, she left him and made her way carefully to the edge of the copse, the others following. Her sisters were nearly silent, and Mr. Darcy wasn’t overly loud, but every time he inadvertently snapped a twig or rustled a branch, Elizabeth winced. From the corner of her eye, she could see Mary cast him looks of annoyance .

They reached the edge of the trees and dropped down to peer out across unkempt grass flattened by winter. The farmhouse stood before them, light visible behind the pitted glass, and Elizabeth counted. Soon enough, a man came around each corner. Their pace steady, they passed one another before the front steps, nodding, and then disappeared around the sides. Elizabeth started her count again.

“A count of fifty-five,” Mary murmured as they came around again.

Elizabeth nodded. “More than enough time.”

“We will meet you behind the house,” Jane said quietly. She slipped her mask down, covering the top of her face. She hadn’t added Enaj’s mustache. After all, they were not the Boney Bandits.

Mary murmured, “Keep in mind that he sounds like a wild boar clomping through the woods,” and lowered her mask as well. The two slipped back deeper into the copse.

Elizabeth turned to Mr. Darcy, who frowned at where her sisters had disappeared into the darkness. “On my mark, we move. You go left.” She handed him several lengths of rope, then looped what she carried over her shoulder, not unlike Mary’s bandoleer. “Subdue him. Do not permit him to cry out.”

Mr. Darcy nodded, his expression grim in the moonlight.

Elizabeth pulled out a knife, reversing her hold on the hilt so that she could use the pommel as a weapon.

“What is that for?” Mr. Darcy demanded.

She raised her eyebrows. He may have accepted her, but apparently he did not truly know her. She tapped the base of her skull with her free hand. “I am going to hit him with it, here. Do not worry, I have no plans to use the pointy end. Do you need one?”

He shook his head.

Elizabeth slid her mask down. The men should cross in front of the house again in three…two… One appeared from the left, the other from the right a heartbeat later. They strode forward to cross paths before the lopsided porch steps, nodding. They separated, moving to the front corners of the house. One turned. Then the other.

“Now,” she whispered and shot free of the brush.

Mr. Darcy followed. Making far more noise than she would like, he angled away from her as they crossed the remnants of the lawn. Pitted ground met her soles, testing her ankles, and thick dried stalks snaked around her boots, trying to trip her. Her balance and reflexes keen enough to withstand the onslaught, Elizabeth reached the corner of the house. She sped down the right side after the retreating form.

Before he could reach the back corner, she was on him. She brought the dagger’s hilt down hard to collide with the base of his skull. Just as Papa Arthur had promised all those years ago, he dropped like a sack of potatoes. Elizabeth dropped too, grabbing his arms and freeing a length of rope.

A muffled cry sounded.

She went still, one hand holding the rope and one the unconscious guard’s right wrist. No other sound followed. No noise of a struggle, or alarm raised from the house.

Flying back into motion, she quickly bound the man’s hands behind his back, then tied his feet. She pulled an unmarked handkerchief from her pocket, brought for the purpose, yanked his head back by the hair, and shoved the cloth in his mouth. Letting his head drop back to the frost-flecked dirt, she came to her feet and sprinted around the back of the house.

Jane and Mary were not yet there. Elizabeth rushed around the corner to the sight of Mr. Darcy pinning a man, a knee in his back. He had one of the fellow’s arms behind his back and a hand over the man’s mouth. His sword, Papa Arthur’s rapier, lay in the grass a short distance away.

Elizabeth took in Mr. Darcy’s predicament at a glance. Having failed to render his opponent unconscious, he now couldn’t do so. Not without either releasing the man’s arm or his mouth, each option worse than the last. Dropping beside him as the guard thrashed, trying to win free, Elizabeth brought down her dagger hilt. The body under Mr. Darcy’s knee went limp.

“Thank you,” Mr. Darcy murmured.

“Help me tie him,” Elizabeth hissed, shoving a handkerchief in the guard’s mouth.

Once they had him properly trussed, Mr. Darcy retrieved his sword and Elizabeth led the way around to the back of the house.

Jane and Mary waited, tense and silent in the darkness. Sighting them, Mary tried the door, her movements slow and careful. After a moment, she shook her head. She retrieved her lockpicks from a pocket and dropped to a knee before the door. As Elizabeth reached them, Mr. Darcy at her side, a dull click sounded.

Mary came to her feet, slipping the lockpicks back into her pocket. A glance showed surprise on Mr. Darcy’s face.

Elizabeth hid her grin, and her flash of mirth was gone in a moment as she said, “When you hear me knock out front, go in. Do not let any of them near Thomas.”

Jane and Mary nodded.

“I will go with you,” Mr. Darcy said.

Elizabeth shook her head. “You will be of better use helping to ensure that Thomas is safe. From what I saw, no more than two will answer the door, but more likely only one. The other will go straight to Thomas in case I am not Lord Franklin, and since I am not, he must be stopped.”

“Not to mention the four who should be sleeping,” Mary whispered.

“You can keep four men from passing through a doorway, and once I subdue the one at the door, I will be there to assist you.” Flashing them a grin, Elizabeth added, “Try not to hurt any of them too badly,” well aware that her flippancy would bolster her sisters’ confidence. From the look on Mr. Darcy’s face, her quip had the opposite effect on him, but he remained with her sisters, as she’d instructed, as she retreated back around the house.

Slipping onto the front porch, Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, pulled back her arm, and knocked in the sequence she’d heard through the trees the night before. Inside, chairs scraped back. She hoped only two, but she couldn’t tell. As hard as she could, she knocked a second time, uncertain if doing so was part of the signal, or had been Lord Franklin’s impatience.

The door opened and she lunged forward, slamming the hilt of her knife into the jaw of the large man before her. He stumbled back with a cry of pain. Across a rickety looking table set round with stools, a second, even bulkier man, dove for a door leading deeper into the house. Elizabeth threw her knife at him.

She didn’t have Mary’s skill, the weapon sailing past him to embed into the wall beside his head when her goal had been for the hilt to hit him in the side of the face. Fortunately, he let out a bellow of rage and reversed his direction, charging at her rather than from the room.

Unfortunately, the first man she’d hit shook his head groggily, dropped the hand he’d raised to his face, and took a shaky step forward.

Drawing her sword, Elizabeth backed into the doorway, loath to meet the two in the cottage’s front room, where one could circle behind her. If she could get them to attempt a charge through the open door, the narrowness of the space through which they must pass would put her at a distinct—

Shouts sounded deeper in the house. The man she’d thrown a knife at spun around again. The one who’d opened the door charged.

She stood framed in the doorway until he made a diving lunge for her. She sidestepped, letting him sail through. With both hands, she slammed the guarded hilt of her rapier into his head.

He crashed to the porch, but shook his head groggily, his hands scrabbling as he struggled to push upright. Deciding knives worked better, Elizabeth pulled her second free and brought the pommel down on his head. He struggled to rise, swaying on his elbows.

She grabbed a length of rope and yanked his arms back. His chin slammed down onto the rough wood of the porch. The moment she had his hands tied, she shoved a handkerchief into his mouth. He immediately started mumbling, even though he’d been silent before. She stepped over him and secured his feet with a quick loop, then tied them securely. Leaving him half in the house, half outside, she came to her feet.

Sword in hand, the other man from the front room stood in the hallway that led deeper into the cottage, battling Mr. Darcy, his back to her. Assessing them, Elizabeth noted that Mr. Darcy’s skill nicely balanced the kidnapper’s bulk and reach. She also concluded that given how much larger this one was than the one on the porch, she didn’t have the strength to ensure that a single blow to the base of his skull would take him down.

Instead, she strode up the hallway and shoved the tip of her rapier against his kidney, slicing through fabric and, she imagined, just enough skin to get his attention.

Rather than going still as she expected, he whirled, lunging at her.

Elizabeth jumped back, blocking his blade along hers in a swinging motion designed to deflect without bearing the brunt of his strength. But the confines of the hallway limited her movement, robbing her strategy of its full effect. Pain radiated through her hand and wrist. The man was far stronger than any opponent she’d ever faced.

“Help,” Jane’s voice called from deeper in the house. “Azile!”

Elizabeth looked past her opponent to Mr. Darcy, who had his sword raised. “Go,” she barked.

The giant before her swung overhand, the rapier he held looking small in his grip. Elizabeth dodged to the side, slashing a line across his chest, deliberately drawing blood. She had no desire to kill this man, or anyone, but perhaps if she sliced him enough times, he would think better about continuing.

He swung again, and again she dodged back, scoring another hit. They continued thusly, inching backward. In the opposite direction, the one Mr. Darcy had gone, Elizabeth could hear fighting. She could only pray that her sisters and Mr. Darcy would prevail, for she was doing all she could not to be cleaved in half by the man before her.

Elizabeth spilled back out into the front room of the cottage, the giant kidnapper following her. She couldn’t help but grin as he stepped free of the hallway.

“You believe it is funny that you will die?” he bit out.

‘Breath squandered on talking cannot be used to swing your sword,’ Papa Arthur used to say. ‘Only speak if you can reasonably hope to cause your opponent to make a mistake.’

Elizabeth had no notion if she could hope that, so she saved her breath for attacking.

And attack she did. Freed of the confines of the hallway, she circled her bulkier opponent. Diving this way and that, she had him turning, spinning left, then right, then left again. Always, she struck light, quick blows. Blood seeped down his back. His chest. His arms. She drew him into another turn, his blade slashing low this time. Elizabeth jumped over it, slipping the very tip of her rapier across his forehead. A line of red appeared, rapidly dripping into his eyes.

He cursed, swiping at his eyes to clear his vision. His hand slick, he dropped his sword. He spun, scrambling. Backing up a step, Elizabeth snagged a stool from the table. As he turned to the sound, blinking to try to see, she kicked the stool forward. He stumbled into it, flipping head over feet to slam into the floor, the ancient piece of furniture splintered beneath him.

Elizabeth had rope in her hand and around his legs almost before he hit the ground. His arms were next, yanked back while he was still too dazed to struggle. For good measure, she strung a rope from his hands, bound behind him, to his tied together ankles and pulled it tight, trussing him. She shoved a handkerchief in his mouth and ran for the back of the house.

She found Mr. Darcy dragging a bound man into the cottage’s small kitchen. Sheathing her sword, she dipped down to grab up the man’s feet, helping. Mr. Darcy, his normally neat locks disarrayed and a tear in the arm of his jacket, nodded his thanks.

In the kitchen, she found three more tied up kidnappers, with Jane, Thomas and Mary coming in, carrying one of the men from outside between them. Relief at the sight of Thomas, unharmed, had Elizabeth bracing a hand against the wall, dizzy. Her siblings dropped the man they carried to the floor with the others.

“We will get the other one from outside,” Mary said crisply.

Straightening, Elizabeth nodded, quick eyes assessing her sisters, then Thomas again. None appeared to be hurt, though Thomas was grimy and the red burns of struggling against rope marked his wrists, sending a jolt of anger through her.

Thomas looked from her to Mr. Darcy, his eyes wide, and Elizabeth couldn’t tell if he knew her.

“Thomas, hurry,” Mary snapped, causing him to start. He spun and followed her and Jane back into the night.

“There are two up front,” Elizabeth said, turning to Mr. Darcy. “I cannot move either alone.” She wasn’t even certain it was worth moving the giant she’d felled, but they definitely needed to get the one who’d answered the door inside so that they could close up the house, making it look normal to Lord Franklin as he approached.

Mr. Darcy nodded and followed her to the front of the house.

They dragged the man in then closed the door. They had him in the hallway when footfalls sounded on the porch.

Elizabeth exchanged an alarmed look with Mr. Darcy. Dropping the legs she held, she drew her sword, whispering, “Alert my sisters.”

A knock sounded. Lord Franklin’s pattern. “Bring the boy out,” he called as Mr. Darcy disappeared down the hallway. “This instant.”

Elizabeth crept forward until she was behind the door.

“I said, bring out Thomas Oakwood. Now.”

There was a strange note in Lord Franklin’s voice. Almost like…panic?

The door swung open, shielding Elizabeth from sight. “Listen you worthless—” Lord Franklin broke off. “Something is wrong,” he called.

He wasn’t alone. Elizabeth drew in a slow breath, trying to keep her muscles loose. Too-tense muscles were the enemy of a swordsman. Or swordswoman.

“None of your tricks, Franklin,” Nathan Hargreaves’ voice said. “Either Thomas Oakwood is on his way out, or so help me, I will shoot you.”

“If you kill me, you will never find him.” Lord Franklin’s voice held enough desperation to convince Elizabeth that he believed his brother’s threat.

She did as well. The real question was, why did Nathan Hargreaves want Thomas?

“I do not have to shoot to kill,” Nathan snapped. “You will talk once I put a bullet or two in you.”

He sounded less convincing that time, and Elizabeth suspected he didn’t have the heart to carry out such a threat.

“What the devil happened here?” Lord Franklin muttered under his breath before raising his voice once more to call, “Someone has been here. My men are missing or…or tied up. I am not lying. Come see for yourself if you do not believe me.”

Silence reigned. Straining her ears, Elizabeth tried to pick out any movement outside, or from the back of the house.

Finally, footfalls sounded on the porch steps. Lord Franklin came farther into the room, deep enough that she could see him from where she hid in the shadow of the open door. A pistol came into view, aimed at his back.

“What happened?” Nathan’s voice asked as he followed his brother in, his hand holding the pistol.

Lord Franklin dropped down to peel back an eyelid of the unconscious giant dripping blood onto the cottage floor.

Inching closer, Nathan asked, “Is he one of your—”

Lord Franklin surged to his feet, snatching the gun from Nathan’s hand and turning it on him. A slow, evil smile spread across his face as Nathan stumbled back. He came up against the door, squeezing Elizabeth tight to the wall and cutting off all sight of Lord Franklin.

“What did you think, Nathan? That you would kill me and the boy, and you would be earl?” Lord Franklin hissed.

“What? No. I have no intention of killing anyone. I just want to return him to his family.”

“I see,” Lord Franklin drawled. “This is all for a bit of skirt. That luscious youngest Bennet girl.”

“It is about doing what is right, not that you have any familiarity with that.”

“No. It is about Miss Lydia. You were never brave enough to do what was right before you met her.”

“You never poisoned and abducted children before,” Nathan snapped.

“That you know of,” Lord Franklin replied with a chuckle.

Outside in the yard, a gunshot rang out.

Lord Franklin screamed as the pistol flew across the room. Dropping to his knees, he clutched his injured hand to his chest. Blood spread out to cover the front of his coat, soaking into his cravat.

“What the devil?” Nathan cried.

“Mr. Hargreaves?” Thomas’s voice called from outside. “Mr. Hargreaves, is it true that you came here to take me home?”

“Master Thomas?” The pressure on the door disappeared. Footfalls sounded on the porch. “Thomas, is that you?”

“It is,” Thomas called back. “The Boney Bandits have freed me. The real ones, and one of them has gone to get Colonel Forster. More are watching from the woods, to make certain you mean me no harm. They want you to come out here.”

Elizabeth wished she could see the progress of the moon. She’d all but forgotten Robert’s role in this escapade. He was meant to go to Colonel Forster, saying that the Boney Bandits came to his home and ordered him to bring the militia captain and his men here. Elizabeth wanted Mr. Darcy and her sisters far away before they arrived.

The silence on the porch seemed louder than Lord Franklin’s whimpers behind her. Finally, Nathan asked, “If I join you in the yard, they will not harm me?”

“They mean you no harm,” Thomas called.

“And my brother?”

After a moment, Thomas called, “They ask that you close the door to the cabin. Lord Franklin is not allowed out, I am afraid. He must wait for Colonel Forster.”

Time ticked by. The porch creaked as Nathan Hargreaves moved.

“Do not dare close that door,” Lord Franklin croaked from where he remained on his knees, clutching his ruined hand to his chest.

The door swung closed.

Lord Franklin’s eyes went wide as he sighted Elizabeth.

She strode forward. He looked so pathetic. So useless, kneeling there with his bloody hand. This man, who’d poisoned Matthew, twice. Who’d kidnapped Thomas .

“Where is the antidote for Matthew Oakwood?” Elizabeth demanded.

A cruel, smug smile twisted Lord Franklin’s lips. “I destroyed it when his mother refused to sign the paper’s my sister presented to her.”

Rage shot through Elizabeth. “You had best tell me you are lying.”

He smirked up at her. “Matthew Oakwood is as good as dead.”

Elizabeth swung her rapier downward.

The hilt collided with Lord Franklin’s head, rendering him unconscious.