Page 11 of Lord Lonbourn’s Daughter

Darcy set out for Ramsgate on a sunny May morning.

He was no longer concerned about her happiness, but he could not deny himself a visit.

And if his sister happened to prefer to accompany him to Pemberley, he would not mind.

He would write a letter of apology to the Earl of Longbourn, and that would be the end of it.

Next Season, she would marry, and… He could not bear the thought and focused his efforts on his riding.

He pressed the flanks of Swiftsilver, who responded by gliding seamlessly from a trot to a full gallop.

The horse thrived when he could stretch his legs.

As did his owner. The ride demanded his full attention, leaving little room for thoughts of vivacious brunettes who did not reciprocate his feelings but thoroughly despised him.

He took a long rest at midday for the benefit of his horse, but the steed was exhausted.

He had to rent another one and paid handsomely for Swiftsilver’s upkeep until he could collect him on his way north.

He felt bad for pushing the animal so hard; even though he had responded willingly, Darcy should know better.

After wearing out two more steeds, he arrived in Ramsgate late in the evening to find the house unnervingly quiet. The girls must be out walking or paying a call. He could not imagine that no sound would emanate from within if Lady Lydia were present.

No groom approached to collect his horse.

He must have a word with Mrs Long. The old woman he had hired as a housekeeper came highly recommended but boasted the most sour-looking expression he had ever encountered.

He had thought her disposition perfect for reining in the exuberant Longbourn girls.

If he was to be fair, only one of them was forward; he should not apply the plural form.

He led his horse into an empty box—there were plenty to choose from as they were all unoccupied—which confirmed that he had arrived at an inopportune moment when the girls were out. He gave his borrowed steed a thorough rub down and fed him before he entered the quiet house.

Where was everybody? He had not hired a butler, but the housekeeper or a footman should have heard him tramping up the stairs.

A quick glance into the parlour revealed it to be empty—not a surprise as the girls were obviously out and the room faced full west, making the heat unbearable and the air stale.

Darcy continued searching the house, though he would not shout to draw attention to his arrival; such coarse behaviour was beneath him.

The entire ground floor was empty—as empty as the first floor.

There were only the servants’ quarters in the attic and the cellar left.

He surmised there must be someone in the kitchen, and he rang the bell, but no footsteps could be heard.

He would have to go down there. The maid must be hard of hearing as he had pulled hard on the bell pull. Quite possibly blind as well.

There was nothing to be done but to lower himself and go down to a place he had not frequented since his childhood days at Pemberley. Then, his penchant for biscuits had overruled any loss of dignity he might have felt. His temper was mounting. Heads would roll because this was unacceptable!

Darcy halted at the bottom of the stairs.

Uncertain in which direction to turn, there were no sounds to guide him.

In addition, the candles had burnt down, and no one had seen fit to replace them; the hall was pitch black.

A sense of foreboding settled. Something was definitely wrong in this house.

Dear Lord, let Georgiana be well . He heard a distant scratch.

It was weak but it was the only clue so far that there was a single soul in the building.

Treading carefully and feeling his way with his hands, he discovered a door.

He found the latch and stepped into what turned out to be the kitchen.

It smelt like rotten food, but at least the windows let in some light.

As his eyes adjusted to the daylight, he heard moaning and scraping from what looked like a storage room.

He opened the door to a most disturbing sight.

Thoughts of the dreadful events that had stirred the entirety of London into a panic December last flooded his mind.

Within the span of twelve days, two separate households on the fringes of Wapping and Shadwell near the New London Dock had been clubbed to death. Seven people had died, including an infant. The Ratcliffe Highway murders…

No, he must not let his thoughts wander down that dangerous path. After the Portuguese and the Irish had been wrongfully blamed, John Williams had been caught. He shook the morose thoughts from his mind. He needed to keep calm; panic would not rescue Georgiana.

“Bloody hell, what happened here?” he cried at the sight before him.

Unintelligible sounds erupted; the servants sitting cramped together on the storage room floor were all tied up with gags round their mouths. He untied the housekeeper first, then Mrs Hill. Neither jumped to their feet as he had expected but rose with great difficulty.

“Good God, how long have you all been here?”

“For the better part of two days. I beg your pardon, Mr Darcy, but my throat is dry. We need water,” Mrs Hill entreated him.

“If you untie the rest, I shall fetch you fresh water.”

He who had almost been too proud to venture below stairs was happy to carry a bucket of water from the kitchen.

“Where is Georgiana?”

His previous policy of no shouting was forgotten with the arrival of gut-wrenching dread.

“The girls have left.”

Mrs Long confirmed his greatest fear, and all sorts of horrible conjectures appeared before his inner eye.

“Left? With whom? All three?”

“We received a letter from the Earl of Longbourn, ordering the girls to return to London immediately. We agreed that Mrs Younge should chaperone them to the appointed inn while I oversaw the packing,” Mrs Hill explained. “The girls departed before we were robbed and were left as you found us.”

Relief washed over him for a mere moment before he remembered that neither Georgiana nor Lord Longbourn’s daughters had returned before he left.

“Did they leave in my carriage?”

“No, Lord Longbourn sent one of his own vehicles.”

Darcy believed the man who had spoken up was the groom. He was immediately suspicious as he doubted Lord Longbourn had ordered the girls home or sent his carriage, particularly not without informing him.

“What kind of carriage?”

“A big black barouche, sir, no markings or crest, sir,” a young boy hastily replied.

“Thank you! What is your name?”

“Ralph, sir.”

“Thank you, Ralph, you are a very observant lad.”

“The ’orses were fine, sir.”

The boy must be the stable hand since he had noticed the horses.

“How fine?”

“A perfectly matched set of four greys, sir.”

Which mollified him slightly. No riffraff could afford a matched set of four.

“What about the driver? I assume there were footmen as well. Did you recognise any of Lord Longbourn’s men?” Darcy enquired impatiently.

“I wouldn’t know, Mr Darcy, but it was none o’ our local lads. ’Ad a London accent, they did, I swear, sir.”

“Were you present when they left?”

“Aye, sir.”

“How many were there?”

“I counted four stout fellas, sir, but only the driver left with the carriage. The three ruffians remained, and I ’ad a gag in me mouth before I could talk, sir.”

“Did all the men speak with London accents?” It was best to be thorough and gather as many facts as possible.

“No, sir, the driver was from the midlands.”

“I heard none with a midlands’ accent,” Mrs Hill protested against the groom’s assertions. She appeared agitated and eager to speak.

“The driver didn’t go inside, Mrs Hill.”

“Did you see whether the ruffians engaged with the driver at all?” he asked Ralph. Perhaps the driver and ruffians were unrelated as they had a different accent.

“Not once they were ’ere, but they all arrived in the barouche box.”

Mr Darcy handed him a half-crown for the important information. This was no random riffraff who had happened upon a wealthy-looking house to rob. This reeked of planning, means, and a working mind. He counted two footmen.

“Where is the last footman?”

“I do not know, Mr Darcy. We have not seen him since we were tied and left down here, but he was stationed at the door.”

“I entered from the front and found the door unguarded.” Darcy scratched his head. Nothing made any sense.

“I am concerned that Mrs Younge and Miss Darcy have yet to return, Mr Darcy.” Mrs Hill interrupted his thoughts.

“After we received the message from his lordship stating that the Longbourn girls were needed at home, it was agreed that Mrs Younge and Miss Darcy would escort them halfway to London. Lord Longbourn would meet them at the inn. Your sister and her companion would then return to Ramsgate. The ruffians robbed us after the girls had left, but I cannot help worrying…” Mrs Hill admitted.

Mrs Long sniffed loudly but said nothing.

“Speak, Mrs Long,” Darcy demanded.

“I would not trust Mrs Younge. Something in her eyes, sir. I did not like it, not one bit.”

He doubted the vague accusation held any merit but probably originated from a difference of opinion between the ladies. Mrs Younge came highly recommended with excellent references. That she had travelled with his sister was the only reason his dread had yet to erupt in panic.

“Yes, well, I need to get to the bottom of this if I am to find my sister and her friends. Have I understood it correctly that Mrs Younge left on Monday with all the girls? After they left, you were robbed by ruffians. You have not heard or seen anything else since then?”

They all nodded in agreement.

“I shall question the neighbours as to whether they saw or heard anything. You stay here and have some food and water.”

He strode into the passage, followed by weak protests.

It was then he noticed it. He could not believe he had overlooked the boots protruding from the anteroom when he entered.

He had found the missing footman—too late it would seem.

The man lay in a pool of dried blood, hit over the head with something sharp and heavy.

The robbery had just turned to murder. Frissons travelled over his skin, but his mind remained focused upon the task before him.

“Mr Darcy?”

Someone called after him from the parlour.

“Mr Darcy! You must see this!”

He strode back to his assembled servants. Mrs Hill was waving a piece of paper in the air.

“They must have left this, the robbers. It is addressed to you.”

If he had had any doubts that this was a planned assault, there were none left. He strode to Mrs Hill and ripped the page from her hand.

Fitzwilliam Thorn Alexander Darcy,

I have your sister and her friends.

Go to London and await further instructions.

Do not notify the Bow Street Runners, or Georgiana

will pay the price along with her companions.

The letter was quite telling, especially the inclusion of his full name that he surmised was not common knowledge but could be found in the church register at Kympton. The handwriting was feminine, but that could be a forgery.

“Were there any ladies amongst the villains?” he enquired to establish whether there was a fifth accomplice who was female.

“No, sir.”

He deliberated for a few minutes. On second thoughts, he could see no point in making enquiries round the neighbourhood.

That would only draw unwanted attention to his sister.

If word of this got out, Georgiana would be ruined.

She might already be, but he would not let his mind wander down that path.

He could not afford to wallow in speculative conjectures.

All his effort must centre on rescuing his sister—for as long as there was hope.

Darcy continued to question the servants, especially the young groom, Ralph, about the timing, methods, and a thorough description of the four men. He shuddered when he heard that they had been armed.

He left it to Mrs Long to close up the house and make arrangements with the deceased footman’s family. He told everyone to spread the word in Ramsgate that he had collected the girls a little earlier than planned.

With his notes in his saddlebag, he turned his horse in the direction of town, but the journey proved too long for him to finish. He rested for two hours at the inn where Swiftsilver was stabled and reached London in the early hours of the morning.