“Very well, Reginald,” William bit out. “We are safely off with nary an explanation. Care to tell us what this is all about?”
Matlock sighed and withdrew the note. He did not share it but read it carefully once more before folding it and putting it away again. “It is possible,” he answered in a weak voice, “that it is all nothing, but…”
“Who sent the note?” Elizabeth asked. “Where are we going?”
“The note is anonymous, but the content is… if it be true, it changes everything. We are going to Liverpool, and after that, Heaven only knows.”
Darcy scowled in vexation. “I have had enough of this mystery. What are we going to find?”
The earl’s mouth worked, and he glanced between them. “Richard may be alive.”
Liverpool
Despitehiscousin’sobliqueglances and discordant sighs—or perhaps because of them—Darcy hovered protectively over Elizabeth as they entered the ageing harbour-side inn. By the way she leaned faintly into his fingers at the small of his back, the way her neck arched back and her steps dragged each time he paused, he sensed she craved his support as much as he yearned for hers.
Reginald went to the innkeeper and made a low request. When the man shook his head and motioned for them to leave, the earl withdrew several coins and placed them on the man’s counter. More words, more denials, more coins… and with a reluctant grumble, the innkeeper, at last, dumped Reginald’s silver in his pocket and motioned for them to follow him.
Elizabeth looked up at him as they entered the darkened hall. He could read everything in those liquid eyes—fear mixed with hope, denial swirled into concern. Her lips parted. “William,” she whispered… then there was nothing more to say.
Something buried far down in the fathoms of his being tore loose—a shaken sigh, a broken nod, and he murmured assurances he never felt—if only so the dread in his heart did not consume her as well. “Come, love. It will be well.”
The innkeeper stopped them at a door that looked like it led to a storeroom. “‘E were bound for Glasgow. ‘E took sick and th’ captain put ‘im off ‘ere. Been ravin’ like a demon ‘alf th’ nights.” With a glance at Elizabeth, he added, “Best no’ let th’ lady see.”
“I will decide that once I have seen him,” Reginald answered crisply. “Open the door, man.”
The hinges creaked, revealing a narrow room lit only by an old-fashioned lantern. A man’s form lay still as death upon a made-up pallet, and the stink of a putrid fever hung thick in the room. Reginald stepped cautiously in, but Darcy drew Elizabeth’s shoulders to his chest, her head under his chin. A slight whimper escaped her, and he began, unconsciously, to rock her body and hum soft reassurance.
Reginald pulled back a cover, and Darcy heard a gasp of revulsion and horror. The man on the pallet moaned as Reginald leaned over him, picking up the lantern to examine him more closely. Then, Reginald Fitzwilliam, ninth Earl of Matlock, released an eerie cry of anguish and sank to his knees beside the sick man.
Elizabeth started first. Darcy could hardly have restrained her, even if he had not been stumbling forward himself. They nearly charged in together, flanking Reginald. Darcy went to the man’s head and with trembling fingers, brushed a hank of sweat-soaked hair off his brow.
An emptiness gazed back where the man’s left eye used to be.
Darcy nearly yelped in dismay but forced himself to remain steady—though he felt ill just looking upon the poor wretch. Gently, he tipped the man’s face towards him on the pillow, provoking a low groan in a voice as familiar as his own.
He looked up sharply at the others. Reginald’s features were awash with pity and amazement, Elizabeth’s with foreboding and hope. Darcy snagged the lantern out of his cousin’s hand and looked down at the profile on the bed. Scarred and feverish, half-conscious, and ill-nourished, it was a face he would know even beyond the grave. He placed his hand on the man’s brow, and tears streamed from his eyes.
“Richard… good God, what have they done to you?”
Withthehelpofthe innkeeper, they secured a doctor who agreed to attend Richard on his journey to Matlock. He had not roused enough to recognise anyone, and his fevered agony was such that the doctor recommended morphine to keep him more comfortably sedated. The earl hired a special carriage to transport him to the train station, and two private cars all the way to Matlock. They set out at dawn the next morning.
“From what I can piece together,” Reginald told them, “Richard was lucid enough—though barely so—that he paid the innkeeper extra when he arrived to keep his presence secret until he was well enough to travel on.”
“But why would he do that?” Elizabeth asked. “Why did he not send word to us, or come home to be brought back to health?”
To this, the earl could only shake his head.
“What I want to know,” Darcy put in, “is who sent you that note. Obviously, it was not the innkeeper. Did he say what ship Richard sailed on? Perhaps someone knew him from there.”
Reginald had dropped his head into his hands—weary from the sleepless night they had all passed—but he looked up. “The ports are crawling with all manner of men. Gentry, soldiers, and riff-raff alike. Anyone could have recognised him. Does it matter who sent the note? I bless whoever it was.”
Darcy sighed. “As do I, but do you not think something odd in all of it?”
“Look, Darcy, all I know is my brother was lost, and now he is found. I hope that brings you as much relief as it does me.” He punctuated this remark with a hard stare.
“Of course, it does,” Darcy snapped. “How could you think I would not be overjoyed to discover him alive?”
Reginald merely snorted and shook his head. “Right.” He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the side of his box in an abrupt end to the conversation.
