Page 7 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)
CHAPTER FOUR
A HUSBAND LOST
Fitzwilliam Darcy drove the curricle as fast as he could despite the mud left by the storm. The smaller vehicle would be less comfortable than his usual equipage, but it had been the only vehicle available on short notice.
He was eager to transport his wife, Elizabeth, in comfort and style to his London house, and yes, he was peculiarly pleased with himself.
He’d been in a foul mood when he’d first met Elizabeth at the Meryton Michaelmas Assembly.
He’d returned from Ramsgate, having fixed Georgiana’s problems with the horrid George Wickham, and had left his younger sister at Darcy House in the care of his aunt.
The fifteen year old was repentant when she’d discovered the true nature of Wickham’s attentions—on her dowry and not her reputation.
And there was Elizabeth and her sisters, gaily clad, laughing and giggling, clearly enjoying the tiny country dance.
He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her, but when he was pressured to offer her a dance, he’d balked at the torture of having to speak to a young lady he was not first acquainted with—especially one who made him feel like a gasping fish landed into a dry rowboat.
Now, that sparkling, charming and thoroughly impertinent wit was his wife.
He couldn’t wait to show her off in London, first of all to his sister, and indeed, he’d dashed off an express while waiting for the pair of horses to be tacked. His young sister would benefit from the guidance of his wife, a learned woman who read for both pleasure and knowledge.
The curricle jolted over a particularly deep rut, reminding him to pay closer attention to the road.
The storm had left its mark on the landscape, with pools of standing water and treacherous mud making progress slower than he would have liked.
Still, they were making reasonable time.
The spire of Barnet church was visible in the distance, and beyond it, if he was not mistaken, the roof of the Red Lion Inn where his new wife, Elizabeth, waited.
Darcy’s heart quickened as he imagined her reaction when she saw the carriage waiting to convey her to London in proper style.
Would she smile, that particular smile that transformed her entire countenance and made her fine eyes sparkle with life?
Or would she tease him for his extravagance, her wit as sharp and refreshing as ever?
Either response would delight him. Everything about her delighted him, and after last night, he’d added her delectable response to his ardor to her wit, intelligence, and dancing eyes.
The inn was less than a half mile ahead.
Darcy urged the horses to greater speed.
The sooner he reached Elizabeth, the sooner they could begin their new life together.
The sooner he could see her smile when he told her about the arrangements he had made.
He slowed to round a bend in the road when he found the path blocked.
Five mounted men had positioned themselves across the narrow road, their horses shifting restlessly. Darcy’s grip tightened on the reins. The verges were too muddy to circumvent the blockade, and turning back would delay his return to Elizabeth .
“Stand aside,” he called with authority. “I have business at the Red Lion.”
One of the men urged his mount forward. “So do we, Darcy.”
The familiar voice froze Darcy’s blood. No random highwayman, then. The rider pulled down the scarf covering his face, revealing features Darcy had hoped never to see again.
“Wickham.”
George Wickham’s mouth curved into that familiar, charming smile that had deceived so many. “The very same. What a fortunate coincidence, meeting on this road.”
No coincidence at all. This was deliberate, planned. But how had Wickham known he would be here? The implications were disturbing.
Darcy’s hand moved swiftly to the pistol tucked in his greatcoat. From his elevated position on the curricle’s driver’s seat, he had a clear advantage—until two of the riders spurred forward, grabbing the bridles of his team.
The horses reared in panic, nearly overturning the curricle. Darcy grasped the reins tightly to control the frightened animals. A third man leapt from his horse onto the curricle’s step, wrenching the whip from Darcy’s hand.
“Whatever scheme you’re hatching, Wickham, it won’t succeed,” Darcy said coldly, fighting to steady his team while trying to shove the intruder from the curricle’s edge.
“Pressing business indeed,” Wickham replied, eyes glittering with malice as he watched Darcy struggle. “A new bride waiting at the Red Lion. How very romantic of you, Darcy. I wouldn’t have thought you capable of such spontaneity.”
Darcy landed a solid blow to the attacker’s shoulder, momentarily dislodging him, and made another attempt for his pistol. But the fourth man vaulted onto the seat, seizing Darcy’s arms from behind.
“You presume too much, Wickham,” Darcy growled, twisting violently against his captor’s grip. With a sharp backward thrust of his head, he connected with the man’s face, earning a howl of pain. But the advantage was brief—the first assailant had regained his footing and now lunged for Darcy’s legs.
“On the contrary.” Wickham urged his horse closer. “You destroyed my prospects with your sister. Seems only fair I should take an interest in your marital happiness.”
The third man twisted Darcy’s arm behind his back. Together, the two assailants dragged Darcy from the driver’s seat, landing him hard on the muddy road.
“Take my purse if you must,” Darcy said, managing to land another solid blow before being overwhelmed. “But be quick about it. I’ve no time for your games.”
“Oh, but I do so enjoy games,” Wickham replied. “Especially when I win.”
The men ripped off his coat, searching the pockets for cash while others shoved his face into the mud.
“What have we here?” The thief extracted several items from Darcy’s pockets—his purse, his watch, and most alarmingly, the folded papers that confirmed his marriage to Elizabeth.
“A special license?” Wickham said, examining the documents with evident delight. “Marriage lines? My, my, Darcy. You have been busy.”
Cold dread flooded Darcy’s veins. Those papers were Elizabeth’s security, the proof of her status as his wife. Without them, her position would be precarious at best.
“Return those immediately,” Darcy demanded, renewing his struggles. “The money is yours, but the documents are of no value to you.”
“No value?” Wickham tucked the papers into his coat with deliberate care. “I disagree. Information is often the most valuable commodity of all, especially when it concerns the great Master of Pemberley and his… unexpected alliance.”
One of the men still holding Darcy’s horse’s bridle spoke up. “What now? We’ve got his valuables. ”
“Now we ensure Mr. Darcy doesn’t interfere with my plans.” He drew closer, voice pitched for Darcy’s ears alone. “You took Georgiana from me. My chance at fortune. Seems only fair I should take something of value from you in return.”
“If you harm Elizabeth—” Darcy began, fury overwhelming caution.
“Harm her?” Wickham laughed. “Now why would I harm the potential Widow of Pemberley? Such a tragedy that would be—the new bride, widowed before she even reaches her husband’s home.”
Darcy’s heart lurched. This wasn’t highway robbery at all, but something more sinister.
Revenge.
Darcy lunged forward, a desperate bid for freedom, but two men held him firmly while a third waved a heavy iron bar.
“Consider this payment for Ramsgate,” Wickham said, his voice hardening. “For interfering where you weren’t wanted.”
“You targeted a fifteen-year-old girl for her fortune,” Darcy spat, still struggling. “You deserve far worse than what I dealt you.”
“Perhaps,” Wickham shrugged, unmoved. “But it seems I’ll have the last word after all. Your lovely bride will need comforting when she hears of your tragic accident. I’ve always excelled at comforting distressed ladies.”
The mention of Elizabeth galvanized Darcy’s strength. With a desperate surge, he nearly broke free, managing to land a solid blow to one assailant’s jaw before the others subdued him.
“Enough!” Wickham barked. “Finish it!”
Darcy saw the iron bar rise in his peripheral vision. In that moment, his thoughts were not of his own safety but of Elizabeth—alone at the Red Lion, waiting for his return, vulnerable to whatever scheme Wickham had devised.
“Elizabeth!” he shouted, a desperate warning to a woman too far away to hear.
The bar descended with brutal force. Pain exploded through Darcy’s skull, white-hot and all-consuming. He felt himself falling, darkness crowding the edges of his vision.
New voices emerged in the clouds—not Wickham’s men. He’d heard them ride off, but others. Travelers perhaps, drawn by the commotion.
“What’s happening here?” someone called.
Darcy tried desperately to speak, to warn them about Wickham, about Elizabeth. His lips formed her name, but no sound emerged.
“Highway robbery,” came Wickham’s voice, full of false concern. “This gentleman has been attacked. I tried to stop them, but they’ve fled.”
“He’s badly hurt! Someone fetch help!”
“Does anyone know who he is?”
“I’ve seen him at the Red Lion,” someone else said. “Something about his wife waiting there.”
“I’ll see to it she’s notified,” Wickham’s voice again. “I’m Mr. George Wickham, steward of Pemberley. I’ll take full responsibility for him and inform his wife of this unfortunate incident.”
No! Darcy’s mind screamed but no words sounded.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him completely was Wickham’s face, leaning close with mock concern, the marriage documents partially visible in his pocket. Then nothing but blackness, and one final, agonizing thought: Elizabeth. I have failed you.