A Sneak Peek at Fitzwilliam Darcy, Man of Fortune

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A Sneak Peek at Fitzwilliam Darcy, Man of Fortune

Are you ready for a rip-roarin’ adventure where Mr. Darcy is a swashbuckling hero? Where Miss Elizabeth isn’t a damsel in distress but a competent woman who can defend herself?

Well, then, I have something special for you. Read on…

CHAPTER ONE

London
August 30, 1812

Spilled ale and urine assaulted Fitzwilliam Darcy’s senses. The soles of his boots squished against the floor of The Devil’s Tavern. Adding insult to injury, the putrid water of the Thames lurked a stone’s throw away.
Wishing he could breathe without smelling, Darcy squinted at Wickham in the dim, smoky room and wondered how his old friend had fallen so low. To think he had once considered Wickham as close as a brother.
Darcy never would have found this place had he not coerced Mrs. Younge to reveal Wickham’s whereabouts. How could the profligate bring Miss Lydia to a place like this? Darcy would never expose a young lady he claimed to love to this thieves’ den near the waterways—a tavern inn in the worst part of the east end of town where a man’s coat was valued more than his life.
Darcy had dressed accordingly, careful not to draw attention to himself. He could neither afford to be mistaken as wealthy (a tempting target for thieves), or a seafaring man (a target for the press gangs desperate to fill the Navy’s demand for able-bodied men). Even so, Darcy could not bring himself to sit or touch anything in the establishment. Already, his skin crawled.
In contrast, Wickham lounged against the soot-smeared wall, the rough bench creaking under his weight. Even in his red regimental coat and polished boots, he gave the air of a gentleman on the rocks. Pickpockets would not bother with him.
Leaning forward, Wickham clasped his hands together on top of the turned barrel that served as a table between them. “I have no intention of marrying Lydia when I have an heiress ripe for the taking under my influence. Nothing you can say shall change my mind. I would rather attach myself to a rich, toothless harpy than saddle myself with Lydia Bennet.”
Darcy clenched his fingers into a fist, feeling every muscle in his body tense. Wickham did not have a sixpence to scratch with; nevertheless, he presumed to negotiate. Not for the first time, Darcy was tempted to bash the smirk from his face.
But he was a Darcy. Darcys did not give in to their base desires or impulses.
He controlled his rage and continued with his plan. He would not leave that vile room until the Bennets’ reputation was salvaged.
It was the least he could do for Elizabeth, though she must never know of his interference. She would think he was attempting to buy her affection. He could not bear for her to think worse of him than she already did. Or worse still, to prove her right.
No, he would right his wrongs and live alone with the consequences of his infernal pride that had built a haughty, reticent image of him in Elizabeth’s mind.
Even from afar—in distance and time, even after her impassioned refusal—Darcy loved her. He had thought perhaps there might be hope.
Until Wickham.
Darcy had believed himself free of him, and now Darcy would pay for his error in judgment the rest of his days. He had tried to protect the Bennets from Wickham, but his warning had been too weak, too late. He had failed Elizabeth.
And now he would spare her.
One irrevocable act to appease his conscience. One final interference to ensure she would have a chance of being as happy as he wished her to be.
His one path to redemption was right now, in this moment, and he would not let it slip. For Elizabeth, Darcy would bribe a man he despised and yet to whom he would make himself a brother. “I shall make it worth your while to marry Lydia Bennet on the morrow.”
Wickham chuckled and leaned back, stretching his legs in front of him.
Darcy was not joking, nor would he negotiate his terms. The marriage license was secured, as was the clergyman in Wickham’s parish who, with a few extra coins, was willing to perform the service at such short notice. Darcy would give Wickham no time to think or renege once he agreed. He would accept now or get nothing.
Pulling a thick parchment out of his pocket, Darcy pushed it across the barrel to Wickham.
Wickham jolted forward, grabbing the paper greedily. “A commission in the regulars. How did you secure this?”
“That is of no concern to you.” His cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had called in several favors, and Darcy had paid a premium to obtain the commission as quickly as they could arrange it. The parchment in Wickham’s grubby hands offered not only a reliable living with room to advance, but it also represented the prestige he so craved.
Not giving Wickham time to consider, Darcy pulled a stash of receipts out of his other pocket. He retained every bill he had covered for the leech over the years for protection should Wickham attempt to blackmail him or Georgiana. Never could he have dreamed that his caution would benefit Elizabeth. Dropping the receipts, he let them smack against the table and spread. “Your debts, paid in full.”
Wickham thumbed through the pile, the sum of which was over one thousand pounds.
“Is that all of them?” Darcy demanded.
Struggling to maintain his nonchalance when he knew he had been bought, Wickham sneered, “Your man is thorough.”
As he should be. Darcy remunerated Hastings well for his exertions.
Darcy moved on to the next enticement. “In addition to the commission and paid debts, I shall settle one thousand pounds on Lydia to be paid once you sign the wedding register on the morrow, witnessed by myself and Mr. Gardiner, who shall act as Miss Lydia’s guardian in lieu of Mr. Bennet.”
Mr. Gardiner was as eager as Darcy to see his niece married. He had agreed to hide Darcy’s role from Mr. Bennet, who should not be greatly inconvenienced with the paltry one hundred pounds per annum plus the settlement of Wickham’s debts in Meryton. Darcy would have been happy to spare Elizabeth’s father that expense as well, but he had to lend some credibility to Wickham’s sudden marriage to the gentleman’s most undesirable daughter. Mr. Bennet was too clever by half, as was Elizabeth. They would suspect another’s involvement if it was too easy.
While Wickham considered the offer, Darcy pressed his advantage. “Hastings will ensure your travel costs to Newcastle are covered. Additionally, he will secure suitable accommodations for you and Mrs. Wickham that shall be ready after you have been seen as a properly wed couple and have allowed your wife to bid her adieus to her family. I think a fortnight should suffice.”
Wickham scoffed but held onto the commission firmly, obviously aware that it promised instant relief. “You have thought of everything, as you always do. However, I could really use that thousand pounds tonight. I owe some unsavory men—”
Darcy shook his head firmly. He would not budge. “Once I witness your signature in the register—and only then—shall I pay. That is my final word on the subject.”
And now, the ultimate incentive. Collecting the pile of receipts, Darcy tucked them inside his pocket. “If you do not accept my conditions, I shall call in your debts.”
That had Wickham’s full attention.
“The commission does you no good if you are in debtor’s prison.” If looks could kill, Wickham would have impaled Darcy with his eyes. “Marry Miss Lydia, and you may leave for your new commission free of debts, reclaim your dignity, and be a thousand pounds richer.”
Wickham clenched his jaw and slammed his fist against the barrel. Darcy had won, and Wickham knew it. “Devil take you, Darcy. I am not in a position to refuse,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
“Do we have an agreement?” Darcy folded his arms over his chest and glared down at Wickham.
Bowing his head, Wickham snarled, “You have my word. I shall marry Lydia.”
Darcy turned toward the door. Breaking glass, bawdy laughter, and angry, drunken shouts awaited him on the other side of the street. It was only a matter of time before shots were fired. Uncrossing his arms, he said, “Meet me at St. Clement’s at ten o’clock on the morrow.”
Without further leave, he departed, shoving his way through the odorous bodies, trays of rancid beef, and raised tankards. As wretched as the Thames smelled, it was a relief to breathe the night air outside the tavern.
He would order a bath the moment he returned to Darcy House. A couple of glasses of his finest brandy ought to dispel the remnants of the tavern.
Glancing cautiously about, Darcy walked swiftly to the corner, his gaze roving for a hackney to convey him far away from this unsavory neighborhood. He wished he could have brought his own carriage, but a gang of ruffians would have harmed his men and stolen his conveyance.
He rounded a corner, raising his hand when a hackney came into view, his voice catching in his throat when he heard a scuffle behind him.
Nerves on point, he turned. There was a blur of motion, then his hat flew off his head. At the same time, he heard glass shatter and felt his head part. Blurry and unbalanced, he flung out, catching his assailant with his fist.
“Pretendin’ to be a gent. Almost didn’t recognize him,” he heard in a strange man’s voice.
He felt another hand—a rough one that scratched against Darcy’s shaved cheeks—pressing something against his mouth and nose, smothering him. “Don’t forget how dangerous he be. Stay alert ‘til he sleeps.”
“Busted yer nose proper, didn’t he,” chuckled the other.
Two men. Darcy struggled, but the cloth smelled sweet, and his limbs grew heavy. He felt himself fading into the night.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered before he succumbed to the black void.

Darcy woke hours later—days later. He did not know.
His head swam and throbbed. Careful not to make any abrupt movements, he tested the strength of his limbs, discouraged when his body did not react as he needed it to.
Unable to do much more, he observed his surroundings. Curtains billowed at the small, round windows. Ruffles and frills adorning bright silks and shimmery fabrics were draped over the open door of a closet. A woman’s room.
The ground swayed beneath him, and Darcy groaned. If this was a dream, he wished he would wake.
He thought back, remembering his assault. There had been two men. They had rough accents—Devonshire men. Seafaring men, no doubt. Press gangers? No, Darcy thought as he recalled bits of their conversation. They had spoken like they knew him. But how could that be? He had few friends in Devonshire, and certainly nobody of their sort. Where had they brought him? And why did it look like the inside of a mantua maker’s shop?
They had claimed he was dangerous, pretending to be a gentleman. Clearly, they had mistaken him for someone else, but for whom? This was a horrible misunderstanding. He had to get out of there so he could make it to the church on time.
Had he already missed the wedding? Would Wickham marry Lydia if Darcy was not there to make him? Bile rose in his throat, and his stomach churned.
Darcy tried to sit up. He needed to find someone and tell them of their mistake.
From the shadows, a woman appeared. “Ye always had a hard head.” She reached down her side and pulled a dagger from her boot. “I’m not ready for ye yet,” she sneered, her voice full of venom as she flung the dagger at him.
He tried to move, but she was faster. He heard the crack of the blunt end of the weapon against his skull before he felt it. Once again, Darcy slipped into oblivion.

CHAPTER TWO

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam paced outside St. Clement Church, stopping only to glance at his pocket watch, then up and down the lengths of the street at increasingly frequent intervals. Still no Darcy.
Wickham had been unwilling to begin the ceremony until Darcy’s arrival, and Richard could not remain under the same roof with the man without doing him bodily harm. The scoundrel was more interested in the thousand pounds promised to him than in salvaging the foolish girl’s reputation he had so thoughtlessly ruined. The vicar had allowed an extra quarter of an hour, but more than that he could not spare.
Richard glanced at his pocket watch again. One minute remained.
It was not like Darcy to be late.
Counting the seconds down in his mind, Richard continued watching, peering inside every passing carriage and observing every passerby and rider. Three, two, one. He peeked at his watch to confirm. Time had run out.
Darcy was not here.
There would be no wedding today.
Heaving a sigh, Richard returned inside to see what he could salvage from the wreckage.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner stood on either side of their niece. Miss Lydia’s bottom lip pouted and quivered, and she crossed her arms tightly in front of her as if she could not decide whether she would rather burst into tears or throw a spectacular tantrum.
He shook his head at Mr. Gardiner, then at the vicar. But though Darcy had failed to make an appearance, he had charged Richard to be there, and Richard would see his cousin’s plans through in his absence. As insistent as Darcy had been, Richard feared something dreadful had happened. Why had he not called at Darcy House the night before? He should have called. What could have happened to Darcy—and when? Last night? This morning?
Darcy had been out of sorts lately, staying up all hours, sleeping at his club, and riding before daybreak. Richard had never seen him so restless. He had stayed with his agitated cousin as much as he could, but a soldier took advantage of rest when he had the opportunity. Now Richard felt guilty for sleeping soundly when he might have helped his cousin.
Shaking the worry that churned in his mind, Richard marched until he stood toe-to-toe with Wickham. In the same tone he used with the men under his command, Richard said, “I will witness the signature with Mr. Gardiner. We may proceed.”
Wickham held up a hand, taking a step away from Richard. “Darcy was clear. I will not get a penny from him unless he personally witnesses my signature. Therefore, I will not marry if he is not here to witness it.”
Gritting his teeth, Richard reminded himself that he was inside a church. Taking a deep breath, he forced his shoulders down and his fists to relax. When he found himself in a boxer’s stance, he crossed his arms over his chest and, once again, reminded himself where he stood. His father would understand his predicament—he despised Wickham as much as Darcy and Richard—but his mother would not excuse him for a lapse of control. Not even when Wickham was on the receiving end of his knuckles.
Miss Lydia let out a wail that echoed off the walls and pierced his eardrums. Mrs. Gardiner shushed her with the help of the vicar, but Miss Lydia would make her displeasure known (albeit at a more respectable volume). Glaring at her betrothed, she whimpered, “He said he loved me.”
If any good was to come of this situation, Richard needed to act. And fast. He asked the vicar, “May we return on the morrow?”
“I have no additional time to spare until Friday. I am sorry. However, should my obligations allow for an earlier time, I promise to inform you of it.”
Richard groaned. “That is well enough. Thank you for your patience.” That did not suit at all, but it would have to do. Addressing the rest, he said, “I will consult immediately with Hastings to see what arrangement might be made. If the settlement was to be paid in ready money, then there is no reason why I cannot act as a witness in Darcy’s stead.”
Perhaps Hastings would know where Darcy might be. It was unlike Darcy to disappear without a word. Over the past week, he had been like a man possessed, working night and day to arrange this patched-over affair in order to give the Bennets some semblance of respectability after their youngest daughter’s reckless behavior.
Richard knew Darcy would want him to see the wedding through. To help the Bennets. To save Elizabeth. He had been adamant. Richard would not give up.
His own conscience would not be at ease until he had done his part to put things right, especially since he had been the one to drive a wedge between his cousin and the lady he loved. Not that Darcy had not done a sufficiently thorough job of offending the lady on his own, but Richard owned that he certainly had not helped when he had let it slip that Darcy had “saved Mr. Bingley from the inconvenience of a most imprudent marriage.” Merely recalling the words made him wince. How was he to know that the lady about whom Darcy had expressed strong objections—to a man of deep passions like Darcy, nothing would be worse than his lady’s indifference—was none other than Miss Elizabeth’s sister?
Darcy held little hope of a reconciliation, but Richard hoped where his cousin dared not.
Which made Darcy’s disappearance dashed inconvenient … and suspicious.
Richard watched Wickham. Did he benefit more from Darcy’s disappearance than he stood to gain by marrying Miss Lydia? Richard had never known Wickham to be truly evil, merely opportunistic (which was bad enough). Still…
He steeled his voice and dropped his chin to his chest. “Do not leave town. Stay at the inn where I can find you.”
Wickham’s eyes widened. Be afraid, you no-good blackguard. Be very afraid.
Richard continued, his voice low, threatening, “If I find out you had anything to do with Darcy’s delay, I shall not be as lenient as I have been in the past. You shall pay. Dearly. Nobody will hold me back.” Not like last time.
Wickham swallowed hard, holding his hands in front of him. Squirming coward. “I had nothing to do with Darcy’s failure to appear today. It is blasted—”
The vicar cleared his throat noisily, his displeasure plain.
Another hard swallow. “The delay is a grave inconvenience to me. My circumstances demand immediate payment. I am quite destitute.”
Richard had no pity left for the likes of Wickham.
Miss Lydia emitted another wail, which softened from a scream to a harsh but level tone. “You promised me a fashionable apartment on Bond Street!” She turned to her aunt and uncle, pointing her finger crudely at her betrothed. “I do not want to marry him. He has deceived me, and I will not marry him.” She jutted out her chin and huffed.
If ever there existed two individuals who stood to benefit from a good thrashing, it was this unwillingly pair. Richard tightened his arms over his chest.
Mrs. Gardiner raised her eyes heavenward, no doubt supplicating for forbearance.
Mr. Gardiner spoke firmly. “If you wanted our sympathy, you ought to have acted in a way befitting our compassion. As it is, I cannot pity you. What is more, I shall not permit your sisters to suffer the burden of your foolishness. Your selfishness would ruin them. Do you not see that you have already made your choice? You must marry Mr. Wickham.”
Her face burned red, but she shed no tear. Tantrum it was, then.
“We will have no more outbursts, Lydia.” Mrs. Gardiner patted her niece’s shoulder, but her words were as firm as her husband’s. “Every action has a consequence, and you shall reap what you have sown. This is the only way for you to save your reputation and that of your sisters. Surely you do not wish to drag them down with you?”
With each passing minute, Richard admired the Gardiners more. A firm hand was needed at this moment. They would ensure Miss Lydia’s compliance. As for him, Richard would drag Wickham back to the church by the ear if need be, but he would see the louse hold up his end of Darcy’s bargain. “I will seek out Hastings immediately,” he said, bowing to take his leave.
He hoped Wickham was as desperate as he claimed, or the reprobate would surely ditch Miss Lydia and run. The sooner Richard fixed this mess, the better.
The Gardiners had little choice but to take their niece home with them, where she would likely remain until she wed.
Mr. Gardiner fell in beside him. He asked softly, “Do you really believe Wickham responsible for Mr. Darcy’s delay? I see the necessity of Lydia marrying the man, but I will not attach her to a monster capable of harming another.”
Richard pulled him aside, away from Wickham and the ladies. “Wickham is an irresponsible epicurean, but I have never known him to be cruel or violent. Darcy never would have arranged for your niece to wed him otherwise.”
Mr. Gardiner nodded, his sigh audible. “Thank you, Colonel. I hold no delusion that theirs shall be a happy union. However, it is my hope they will at least learn to endure each other’s company and make the most of it, as I know Lydia has been taught to do.” Standing taller, he added, “We had better let you go. I, too, have an urgent message to send to my brother-in-law.” He bunched his cheeks, the pained look in his eye revealing how little he looked forward to writing that letter. Richard could hardly blame the man.
They ushered Miss Lydia out of the church and into their carriage.
With one final reassurance of further communication with the vicar, Richard once again turned to leave, keeping Wickham in his sight and out of arm’s reach. A man could only endure so much temptation.
Wickham turned to him with a sneer, but Richard cut him off before he could speak. “Stay where I can easily find you, or, I assure you, you shall have the Devil to pay.” He turned, walking away at a brisk pace.
The sooner he could arrange to have the man shadowed, the better. He could not do it himself. The temptation to bend that perfect, straight nose or run the scoundrel through with his saber was too great, and that simply would not do … at least not until after the wedding.
Richard’s murderous thoughts perversely lightened his heart. He was not so stupid as to ruin a brilliant military career over a ne’er-do-well like Wickham, but he took comfort in the possibility of the vile Don Juan vanishing.
As Darcy had vanished.
Richard hurried to the mews, his footsteps echoing in rhythm to his thoughts, his purpose: Save Miss Elizabeth. Find Darcy.

CHAPTER THREE

Elizabeth Bennet watched her sister Mary sit down at the pianoforte, knowing nothing good would come of it. Nothing could repair the day. Not the fine summer afternoon. Not the scent of roses wafting inside from the garden. And certainly not Mary’s musical attempts.
Lydia was to marry—had doubtlessly already exchanged vows by now—that scoundrel Wickham. Uncle’s message had reached them the evening prior, and nobody besides their mother spoke openly about it.
Mary played a dirge. Of the four Bennet daughters remaining at Longbourn, Lydia’s sin fell heaviest on Mary, who seemed to think the other members of her family ought to atone for her errant sister’s poor choices by afflicting their ears with mournful hymns.
Mama groaned. “Please, Mary, could you not play a happier tune? It is, after all, the day of Lydia’s wedding. Oh, how I wish they could have delayed a day or two so we could join them in London for the festivities.”
Elizabeth exchanged a look with Jane, her eldest sister. While she was relieved to have their reputations spared, Elizabeth could not celebrate Lydia’s union to such a man.
Mary obliged Mama with a heavy sigh, making it plain that she did so against her better judgment and only to appease the mother she was Scripture-bound to respect.
By now, Lydia was Mrs. Wickham. There would be no wedding feast. No cause for rejoicing, contrary to what Mama thought. And although Lydia was too foolish to know it, her happiness was certain to be short-lived.
Kitty pouted on the settee she usually sat on with Lydia, whose empty space Jane attempted to fill with her soft encouragement and gentle attentiveness. “Papa will not let me do anything or go anywhere,” Kitty complained.
Jane smoothed Kitty’s hair away from her face. “You can hardly blame him after what has happened. He loves you a great deal and seeks to protect you.”
“But it is not fair! Lydia got to do everything, and now I am stuck here.”
Mary stopped playing and turned to Kitty, showing more emotion than usual. “How do you not see how close Lydia came to ruining us all? She shall reap what she has sown, and the fruit shall be bitter. Do not wish the same for yourself, Kitty, when it is only thanks to Uncle’s generosity that we have the chance, no matter how slight, of marrying men less self-serving than Mr. Wickham.”
Mama snapped her fan open. “Mary! I will not have you speaking so poorly of your brother; such a fine, dashing soldier! You would do well to make such a catch.”
Elizabeth could not think of a more depressing prospect, and she could not excuse her mother’s willful blindness no matter how well-meant her motive. Mama did not see—or she refused to acknowledge—how the connection to such a man, as well as the circumstances forcing his union to Lydia, would affect her unmarried daughters.
Mama resumed her speech, extolling Lydia’s good fortune. Before she could expound on Mr. Wickham’s merits, Elizabeth stood to leave. She could hear no more.
Mary resumed her dirge, and Elizabeth did her best to ignore her surroundings until she closed herself behind the solid oak door of her father’s book room. It was quieter in there—the quietest room in the house due to its location behind the stairs.
She sat on her usual perch by the window overlooking the rose garden, doing her best to be quiet lest she disturb her father’s reading. She did her best to ignore Mary’s playing, Mama’s voice, and Kitty’s complaining, but the soft rustle of her father turning pages could hardly compete.
Eventually, her mind did wander, and she was back at Hunsford Cottage. Mr. Darcy stood before her, his heart exposed. In these dreams, she always answered more kindly. She would not have accepted him—she could not accept the offer of a man who had interfered with the happiness of her most beloved sister—but she might have asked for an explanation. He might have recognized his error and made amends. Understanding his character as she did now, she suspected he would own to his misunderstanding and make the necessary reparations. Mr. Darcy was everything dutiful and responsible.
And Elizabeth loved him for it.
Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she squeezed her burning eyes shut. Not only had she spitefully refused the only man she could ever love, thus severing all hope of reconciliation, but her sister was now married to Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy would never agree to attach himself to the vile man who had abused his friendship and that of his innocent sister.
Elizabeth would not receive another offer from him.
She did not know how long she had been woolgathering, but she noticed when the papers at her father’s desk ceased to rustle. He watched her, a pensive look on his face.
“What is it, Papa?” she asked.
He bunched his lips as though he had something unpleasant to say. “You were right, Lizzy. I would have been wise to heed your warning.”
She shook her head. “I take no pleasure in it when I would rather have Lydia home with us, protected from the likes of Mr. Wickham.”
“As would I,” he mumbled, clasping his hands together on top of his desk and leaning against his forearms. “I hate to think how much your uncle must have laid on that wretch. I shall never be able to repay him, nor do I consider myself worthy of his kindness.” His voice trembled with shame.
“Mama and Kitty do not understand how fortunate we are that Uncle found them and arranged for them to marry.” Elizabeth watched her father’s reaction, praying he would continue to withstand their complaints when they threatened his cherished peace and time dimmed his regret.
He took off his spectacles, wiping them slowly and meticulously with his handkerchief. “Your mother is of a mind that marriage rights all wrongs—a view I might have helped dispel had I not been too indolent to correct her. Kitty knows no better.” Settling his spectacles on his nose, he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “I shall not fail my other daughters as I failed Lydia. Do not fear that their demands will be met, no matter how tiring they become.”
Elizabeth hoped with all of her heart that he meant it.
Galloping hooves and flying gravel interrupted their conversation, followed shortly by a knock on the door. Mary ceased playing, and even Mama went quiet. Mr. Hill’s heavy footsteps grew louder as he traveled from the entrance to the book room door. Holding out an envelope, he said, “Brought by messenger.”
Papa stood. “I shall see to him immediately.”
Mr. Hill shook his head. “He has already gone.”
Elizabeth glanced at the envelope as it passed between Mr. Hill and her father. It was Uncle’s handwriting. Furthermore, Uncle had seen to the expense of sending a message. This was not good news. Had the wedding not taken place after all his trouble?
Panic whipped her heartbeat into a frantic pace, echoing in her ears. Ruin ruin ruin.
Papa opened the letter, his eyes fixed on the page as he groped for his chair. Pale, he fell into it.
It was true, then. Their worst fear. They were ruined.
The door behind them creaked open, and Elizabeth looked to see Jane standing in the doorway, her features etched with concern.
The page slipped from Papa’s fingers to his desk. With teary eyes, he pushed the letter to Elizabeth and dropped his head into his hands. “I am so sorry. Oh, my poor, dear girls.” His voice cracked. “The fault is mine to bear, and yet you shall be the ones to pay.”
Elizabeth took the letter, her eyes catching on the last name she had expected to see her uncle pen.
Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy? She devoured the contents of the page, her heart plummeting and her stomach churning as she read how Mr. Darcy had been the one to find Mr. Wickham and Lydia, how he had arranged for the wedding, paying for Wickham’s commission and settling an additional enticement of one thousand pounds on Lydia. All of it had been arranged, not by Uncle, but by Mr. Darcy.
And now, Mr. Darcy had gone missing and Wickham would not marry Lydia without promise of full payment.
The next paragraph was devoted to Uncle’s concern at this sudden turn of events. Never a steadier gentleman had he known than Mr. Darcy. He had managed the affair with a thoroughness and expediency Uncle praised enthusiastically. Mr. Darcy had even seen to the detail of Lydia’s trousseau, small though it must be, thus adding to the image of a planned union rather than the forced one it was. That he should fail to appear at the wedding was inconceivable.
Uncle ended with some assurance, though it did little to minimize the disaster such a delay created. Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was doing everything he could to step into his cousin’s place, but Lydia was inconsolable and swore she would rather die than marry a man who had to be paid to marry her. Uncle did not say as much directly, but Elizabeth knew Lydia was too much for him and Aunt Gardiner to manage when they had their own children and obligations. He begged Father’s immediate presence in London, whereupon he hoped Papa might persuade Lydia beyond her histrionics to see reason.
Elizabeth’s throat was too tight to read aloud or give a summary to Jane. She handed the letter to her sister.
Papa raised his head. “I trust both of you to keep the details to yourself. Mr. Darcy has shown me more consideration and respect than I deserve, and I shall not be the one to make known what he took great pains to conceal. Your uncle’s concern must be grave, indeed, for him to write as he did.”
Why did Mr. Darcy do it? A small part of Elizabeth dearly wanted to believe he had done it for her, but that was a vain delusion. She had made her opinion of him clear—painfully and articulately clear. Not even the pleasant time she had briefly spent in his company at Pemberley with her aunt and uncle could erase that.
Jane handed the letter back to Papa, her eyes wide, one hand covering her mouth. Tucking it inside his pocket, he said, “I shall have to tell your mother that the wedding did not occur. Otherwise, she shall spread the news all over Meryton.”
Elizabeth groaned. It had taken all of her ingenuity and Jane’s persuasion to keep their mother from calling on Lady Lucas that same day so that she might brag of her success. If Papa left so suddenly for London, Mama would not understand why they could not accompany him in the hope of seeing the newly wed couple.
Uncle and Aunt had already done much more than any relative should be asked to do. They did not need another fitful female given to vexation and nerves to add to their burden.
Elizabeth caught her sister’s eye, and she saw her own concerns mirrored in her gaze. Jane held her look for a moment, then nodded. Good. They were in agreement.
Taking a deep breath, Jane smoothed her skirts and clasped her hands together. “I shall stay with Mama.”
Elizabeth added for their father’s benefit, “And I shall go with you to London.”
He nodded.
They departed from Longbourn one hour later, leaving Kitty stunned, Mary more self-righteous than ever, and Mama wailing. Jane and Mrs. Hill had their hands full, and Elizabeth knew her turn was soon to come with Lydia.
However, the farther away they drove from Longbourn, the less Elizabeth dwelt on her family’s concerns and the more her worry for Mr. Darcy grew. A man like him would not disappear without finishing what he had started.
Where had he gone?
She held on to the expectation that he would resurface by the time they arrived at Gracechurch Street, and that all would be settled before she and her father reached the outskirts of London. Wickham and Lydia would marry on the morrow, and Elizabeth would properly express her gratitude to Mr. Darcy for salvaging her family’s reputation.
They arrived at nightfall. And still, Mr. Darcy was gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

Darcy opened his eyes and waited for his vision to clear. It was dark. He lay on a soft surface. It swayed. Everything swayed.
He did not know where he was, nor did he know the day or the hour. He knew, however, with a certainty that made his stomach knot, that he had missed Wickham’s wedding. Would the ingrate go through with it if Darcy was not there to give him the promised bribe? What kind of a man sold himself for a thousand pounds and a commission?
Darcy’s disgust turned again to frustration. Why had he insisted on being the one to witness the signatures? He could easily have included Richard. The fact of the matter was that the idea had not even occurred to Darcy until that moment. Was he so proud that he believed others incapable? Even Richard—a man who had repeatedly proven his strength of character and proficiency? Darcy shook his head, and instantly regretted it when the throbbing there increased.
Gritting his teeth and holding his head still, he tried to find solace in Richard’s reliability. Richard was competent. He would lose no time making the needed adjustments with Hastings. Richard knew how important this was; he would not fail.
Slowly, gingerly touching the bump on the back of his skull and the swollen protuberance on his forehead, Darcy sat upright.
Moonlight shone into the room through a round window—a porthole. His stomach bottomed out at the implication. He was on a boat, on the water, sailing away to Lord-knew-where.
Spinning around so that his feet touched the smooth wooden planks, he found his boots by the bunk, wiggled his feet inside, and then looked for the door. His examination of his surroundings came to an abrupt halt when he saw a shadow.
He was not alone in the cabin.
A large man with skin the color of the night blocked Darcy’s escape. The ship dipped, casting the moon’s rays over the stranger. A leather vest covered his muscled chest. Canvas trousers frayed above his ankles. The curved scimitar at his side discouraged Darcy from attempting to wrestle his way through. Besides, there was a good chance that more men like him were on the other side of the door. Darcy would not get far.
The man uncrossed his arms, dropping his chin to his chest. “You, stay.” With that, he left the room, securing the door behind him.
Darcy listened for footsteps. Were there guards outside the door? Where was he? What kind of ship was this?
He stood, trying to gain his balance, and looked about the cabin for clues: the gowns draped over closet doors, the ruffles on the curtains, the faint smell of perfume. A woman’s quarters.
Strange. Sailors were a suspicious lot, and most would agree that a female aboard a ship was asking for trouble. Naval ships did not allow women on board. Most pirate ships avoided them, although every Englishman knew the stories of Lady Killigrew, Anne Bonny, and Mary Read. It could not be Ching Shih, could it? Darcy swallowed hard. The fearsome Queen of the South China Sea had been granted amnesty two years before, but with a fleet numbering into the thousands, she had many who would be willing to expand her floating empire in her stead. Or had she joined forces with the Navy?
A penknife on a desk built against the opposite wall offered a small but effective weapon. Darcy grabbed it, losing his balance on the way and knocking his shins against a chest.
Before he could see if the chest contained a better weapon—what he would give for a sword!—the door opened.
Concealing the penknife in his palm, Darcy fingered the weapon up his sleeve as the big guard crossed the room and patted him down.
He tried to hide the knife, but the man found it. Pulling it out from its hiding place, he held it in front of Darcy’s face. “If you lay a finger on her, I shall cut you from navel to nose.”
Darcy did not doubt he could do it, but he risked the guard’s ire. He needed information. “Who is she? Why am I here? Where are we?”
The man ignored him, shoving Darcy in front of him and jabbing the knife against his back, reminding Darcy of his disadvantage. Up a set of stairs he prodded Darcy, who bounced against the railings like the landlubber he was, until they reached the helm.
A woman stood at the wheel, her long, black hair braided down her back. She wore a loose shirt spilling with lace frills down the front tucked into dark breeches, high boots, and a bejeweled dagger gleaming at her thigh. She did not appear to be Chinese.
She shouted an order—she did not sound Chinese either—and two men immediately scrambled up the masts like monkeys to tie up the sails, shouting, “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
Captain?
She turned to him, stance wide, chin high—a woman confident of her command.
Darcy felt his chest puff, and he drew himself to his full height. She might be the captain of this ship, but he would not allow her to command him.
The goon behind him pushed him forward, sending Darcy sprawling toward her as the boat underneath him rolled. He righted himself, doing his best to appear dignified when his legs were as steady on the water as a newborn foal’s. Knowing full well that the strength of his intimidation was in his glare, he leveled his eyes at her and communicated the depth of his displeasure with a firm stare.
Freckles dotted her nose—darker and more plentiful than the light spattering over Elizabeth’s nose and cheeks. Blue-gray eyes, harsh and steely like the edge of a blade, inspected him in turn. Like Elizabeth, this woman was not easily intimidated.
The scimitar-wielding man slipped by Darcy and whispered into her ear, then took his place between them, his hand poised over his curved sword.
“Jaffa says me men must’ve knocked out yer senses, Nicholas,” she said.
Darcy bunched his forehead, trying to perceive her meaning. “Why do you call me Nicholas?”
She nodded at Jaffa. “I see what ye mean. He’s even talkin’ funny.”
Darcy did not know what she was talking about, but if she had mistaken him for another man, then there was no reason for her to hold him on her ship. “My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy of Derbyshire.”
Her eyes narrowed, her gaze raking over him from head to toe.
He was grateful he had dressed in more simple attire. Glancing at the cutthroats crowding the lower decks, any one of them would have killed him for the diamond he usually wore in his cravat. He would prefer to leave the ship alive and in one piece, thus his omission of Pemberley. He would only use his wealth if he could use it to purchase his freedom.
The woman captain swaggered up to him, her finger tracing up his arm and over his chest. “Ye sound like Nicholas. Ye always was good with accents.” She trailed her finger up the center of his neck, her nail scratching a thin line up to his chin.
Darcy sensed her danger to him, but it was not in his nature to back down. He met her gaze boldly, planting his feet wide and steady. “I assure you, I am not whom you claim me to be.”
“Yer glare tells me otherwise.”
“I do not lie.”
She crossed her arms, and watched him warily. “Every man lies. I’ll get the truth from ye … one way or ‘nother.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. Blast, she was stubborn.
Slowly, her look boring through him, she asked, “Does the name Alexandra Lafitte mean anything to ye?”
Darcy breathed in slowly, restraining every part of his body to hide his alarm. He had read the stories, heard her incredible adventures read at the broadsides and shouted in the streets. A female pirate so fierce, she was claimed to have ripped the hearts of her victims out of their chests while they yet breathed. Not to mention her brothers, Jean and Pierre Lafitte, the plagues of the southern colonies. A pirate dynasty.
And Darcy was on La Femme Lafitte’s ship, where her word was law and his life was dispensable. He felt the blood drain from his face, and he praised the heavens for the darkness concealing his discomposure. “La Femme Lafitte,” he repeated the name given to her in the papers and pamphlets.
Her eyes hardened. “Call me Alex. Unless ye make yerself difficult, then ye’ll call me Cap’n.” She walked around him, continuing her inspection. “I don’t believe ye’re not Nicholas. I know yer voice. Yer face.” She twirled around him, trailing her finger around his shoulders. “Yer body.”
Darcy struggled to keep his limbs loose when every nerve stretched taut.
She tilted her head. “Do ye have family? A brother?”
“No. It is only me.” Whatever the lady pirate’s plan was, he would not involve his family. He would rather die than put Georgiana in danger.
She tsked, her raised eyebrows settling into a smirk. “No secret, twin brother?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I wouldn’t mind havin’ two of ye at me beck and call.” Her breathy voice turned sharp, and she jabbed her nail into his chest. “There’s only one way to settle this. Take off yer shirt.”