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Chapter Thirty

February 20, 1812 Bloomsbury Street, London Winters

“I t is as I suspected. Wickham’s done a bunk.” Jarvis kept his tone even, but Winters, who knew him well, could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface.

“Blast!” Winters slammed his hand on the table. “Now we have a loose end.” He stood and began pacing the room, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, jaw tight. If Wickam talked, he could lose everything.

“Don’t worry, Jarvis said, eyes narrowing. “I’ll find ’im—and when I do, ’e’ll pay for what ’e’s done.” His glare would have made a lesser man flinch, but Winters did not scare easily. He never had. Life had always bent to his will, and he had no intention of letting that change now.

“Handle it yourself,” Winters snapped. “We cannot afford another complication.”

Jarvis gave a slow nod, something like pleasure flickering across his face. “Gimme two weeks. I gotta learn ’er ’abits.”

“Do whatever it takes.” He needed this handled quickly. His creditors had given him until April and time was running short.

With an exaggerated bow, Jarvis turned and left. At least the man did not waste time.

Jarvis

The shadows had ever been his ally. Raised in the slums of London, Jarvis learned young how to pick pockets and lift wares unnoticed. As he grew, his skills drew the attention of smugglers, who soon recruited him into their fold. The entire crew had eventually been arrested, but not Jarvis. No, he had sensed something was wrong as he neared their hideout. He could not have said what warned him, only that something felt off, and he had lingered in the shadows to wait.

And before the night ended, the entire hideout had been raided, the smugglers taken, and their goods seized. Jarvis had watched it all unfold from the darkness. After that, he realized it was time to seek more profitable—and safer—employment.

He worked only for himself. True, Winters might believe he had Jarvis’s loyalty, but that mistake would be his undoing. The man had offered the largest share he had ever been promised—half the proceeds once he controlled every share of the Montrose business.

Jarvis knew about the creditors. Winters fretted over being seen and rarely left his house, as though secrecy were protection enough. The fool did not realize his enemies already knew where he was. They had even employed Jarvis. He would play both sides—collect payment for keeping an eye on Winters and remove obstacles that kept him from seizing the business outright.

Everyone would win. The creditors would have their money, and Jarvis his share. Even Winters would be free of his debts. But the only way forward was to remove the Montrose brat from the picture.

Dressed like a common laborer, Jarvis loitered in Mayfair with the air of a man who belonged there. He kept his head down and eyes sharp, watching Montrose House at all hours. Days passed. Then, near the end of February, an opportunity presented itself.

Perched on a garden wall, half-concealed by a tree, he aimed for the front steps of Montrose House. Every morning at ten, the girl and the old woman left the house together, accompanied by a single servant. Predictable. Foolish.

The door opened, and she stepped outside. Jarvis drew a steady breath and took aim. He squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot rang through the street, the noise bouncing off stone walls. Screams followed. Someone pulled the girl inside. He had missed.

Cursing under his breath, Jarvis dropped from the wall and fled into the alley. Another chance to finish the job would be nigh impossible.

Darcy

“I am well, I assure you!” Elizabeth patted her grandmother’s arm reassuringly. “See? Not a scratch anywhere.”

“There is a bullet hole in our door frame, Elizabeth.” Lady Montrose’s voice quavered. “That was too close for comfort. Darcy, what have your men to say for themselves?”

“Browning reports they are tracking the man now. He believes he escaped cleanly, but my men remain on his trail.”

“How long before this is over?” Lady Montrose sighed and pressed her face into her hand, elbow resting on the chair’s arm.

“Soon, we hope. Let us remain at home today. We can send our regrets to Mrs. Hiddleston.” Darcy’s bearing remained composed, but Elizabeth saw through the calm—beneath it, he trembled with fear.

Jameson entered. “Browning has more news.”

“Show him in,” Elizabeth said at once.

Darcy’s man stepped into the drawing room. Brown-haired and bearded, he bore the air of quiet confidence. Though his eyes held a spark of dry humor, his manner now was all business..

“He has holed up in Seven Dials, sir,” he said. “We will not reach him there. He must come to us.”

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked.

“I propose we set a trap. I know his type. He will alter his appearance and return. In his arrogance, he will strike again, believing we have relaxed our guard. You plan to leave for Hertfordshire in March, do you not?”

“Yes, we shall only be gone a few days. My sister is marrying.” Elizabeth’s face brightened briefly before settling again into solemnity.

“Very good.” Browning cast a purposeful glance about the room. “Encourage the servants to speak of the wedding. He is receiving information from somewhere, and your staff are the most likely source. They mean no harm, your ladyships,” he added quickly, noting their dismay. “You may lecture them on discretion later. For now, we need them to chatter. Once he hears of your plans to leave London, he will do just as I expect.”

“And what is that?” the Dowager Countess asked sharply.

“He will make another attempt on the North Road—mark my words. There are countless places where he may lie in wait. My men will continue to shadow him, and once he settles, we shall tighten the noose.”

“Do you require extra men?” Darcy asked. Richard had offered a few of his soldiers, but Browning, who operated under cover, had declined. Military men, he claimed, stood out—they were too stiff, too precise.

“I have more than enough to meet our needs, sir,” Browning replied with a polite nod. “I had best be off. I have lingered too long already.” He departed with Jameson, no doubt heading to the kitchens to slip out through the mews unnoticed.

“Has he truly been watching us for a week?” Elizabeth asked, wonder in her voice.

“He has. Browning is a master at avoiding detection. I have entrusted him with delicate matters in the past, and he has never failed me. And he is no rogue, either, which recommends him further. A thief will betray his employer when it suits him.” Darcy knew from experience that a man who would raise a weapon against an innocent woman could not be trusted to keep faith with anyone.

They remained at Montrose House the rest of the day. The next morning, at Darcy’s encouragement, Elizabeth and the dowager resumed their usual activities. His dear betrothed did so with courage, though Darcy could see that she concealed her fear for her grandmother’s sake.

I can only pray this is over soon, he thought, drawing Elizabeth a little nearer as they walked down Bond Street.

Though their engagement had not been formally announced, word had already begun to circulate. Whispers reached their ears from more than one quarter of the ton, suggesting a match was in the making. The gentlemen at Darcy’s club hounded him whenever he appeared, so he was determined to stay away for the present. Richard reported that the betting books were filled with wagers, and more than one fellow had called Darcy a fortunate dog. All wondered how he had managed to win the suo jure Countess of Montrose before anyone knew she existed. He would tell the tale someday—once the danger had passed.

Jarvis

Jarvis tugged at the too-tight stolen livery, and took up a post beside a wall, doing his best to appear as though he belonged. His scruffy beard was gone—he had even bathed. His once-greasy hair had been slicked back and hidden beneath a powdered wig. White gloves covered his hands, and he wore shoes so impractical he could hardly walk in them. Still, he stood across the street from Montrose House, the picture of a liveried servant.

After lying low for several days, he had devised a new approach. One more day, and he had secured all he required. Now he waited for information. Had the ladies resumed their habits? Or were they cowering in their grand mansion, hoping he had vanished? They had hired additional guards, as far as he could tell. Fools .

A group of giggling girls passed by, trailed by a stern woman and a footman. Then came a pair of gentlemen and a dog. He waited. Time dragged. At last, two maids appeared, baskets in hand, chattering freely as they walked—just what he had hoped for.

“They be leaving London for a few days,” one said. “I’ll be able to go home and see Mother.”

The second maid scowled. “Old Lady Montrose gave you permission, did she? I never thought to ’ear it from her. That ’ouse ain’t got no joy. You ain’tnever been given leave before.”

“‘Tis much better now,” the first insisted. “What with the new young lady, Madam seems quite ’appy.”

“If you say so. When’re they goin’?”

The first maid smiled. “First of March. They’ll be gone for a week or somethin’. I have two days’ leave before I’m to return.”

“Mama will be excited. I shall see if I can change my ’alf day. Then we might surprise ’er together.”

Their voices faded, and Jarvis forced himself to remain still. He could not afford to leave his post. It would draw the wrong sort of notice. After a quarter of an hour, he glanced at his borrowed watch, then waited five more minutes for the hour to strike. At last, he stepped away from his station and slipped through a garden gate he had unlocked earlier. It need only appear that he returned to the house.

Once in the shelter of the garden, which was still far too cold this time of year for its occupants, he stripped off the livery and shoved the garments into a burlap sack. The powdered wig came next. He had half a mind to grind it into the dirt, but prudence prevailed; it, too, went into the bag, just in case it was needed. He freed his hair from the tie and tousled it to restore his usual appearance. Then he watched the street, waiting for a chance to slip away unnoticed.

Two days later, Jarvis walked the North Road with a sack over his shoulder, scouting for a place to lie in wait. His rifle had been stashed beneath a hedgerow, the spot marked by a discreet ‘X’ carved into a tree—visible to only him.

At length, he came upon a broad oak near the roadside and studied it. The trunk was solid, the branches thick and sturdy. Though bare of leaves, it would provide ample concealment. His coarse clothing, all brown and gray, would blend with bark and shadow. It was the perfect vantage from which to carry out his evil doings.

Jarvis retrieved the rifle and climbed into the tree. The night would belong, but he needed to be in position before the Montrose carriage passed. The shot would prove more difficult than the one he had taken outside Montrose House, and he cursed his luck. Never before had his aim failed him. Now, it must not. If he judged it well, he could put a bullet through a carriage window—and if fortune smiled, he might strike Darcy or the old woman as well, reloading whilst they screamed.

He drew a blanket from his sack and wrapped it around his shoulders. His greatcoat provided some warmth, but the blanket helped to stave off the cold. Closing his eyes, he settled back against the tree and tried to rest until his moment came.

Morning arrived swiftly. At first light, Jarvis climbed into position. The rifle rested neatly between a forked branch, angled toward the road. At last, the carriage appeared in the distance. Closing one eye, he squinted down the barrel and waited—steady and still. He held his breath.

A sudden crack rang out—and a sharp bolt of pain shot through his hand. He looked down, staring in disbelief as a patch of red bloomed across his knuckles. What had happened? Dazed and with pain surging through his arm, he scrambled down the rear side of the tree—only to be struck from behind. He hit the ground hard, his arms wrenched back, and a hood thrown over his head. Panic surged through him, and he wondered what he had done to upset his employers.

“Not a word,” someone growled in his ear. Rough hands hauled him to his feet and dragged him away. A carriage door opened, and he was thrown inside without ceremony. No one spoke as the door was closed. A rap on the roof and the conveyance began to move.

“Keep him there,” the first voice commanded.

“Should have locked him in the boot,” growled another. “The floor’s too good for the likes of him.”

A boot pressed down between his shoulders, resting there as though he were a footrest. “I do not believe our friend will give us any trouble,” the first man replied. “But if he does, his lot will be worse when we arrive.”

Jarvis clenched his jaw. He would escape—he must. He would bide his time until they neared their destination—and then he would find a way out.