Page 60 of Her Affections and Wishes

“Do you know who made the tea?” Warren asked as he bustled around the room, setting it to rights and finding him clean clothes. He had sweated through and been sick on everything he wore yesterday. “How much did you drink?”

Not enough to kill him. “One sip. I would have been dead if I had finished the cup.” He swallowed roughly. Queasy was not a severe enough term for how he felt. “I think Julia Metcalfe tampered with it when she learnt her mother sent it to Miss Bennet.”

Warren gave a grim nod, then poured him a glass of water from the pitcher. Darcy looked at it askance. Julia was capable of murder, and she would be as angry with him as with Elizabeth.

“I brought it myself,” Warren said gently. “It has not been out of my sight.”

Of course it had not, but being poisoned was not a fright to soon be overcome. He drank, and his stomach clenched in protest whilst his throat sighed in relief.

“Help me get dressed,” he asked, with a gesture for Warren to come near and help him.

“Dressed?” he repeated, incredulous. “Sir, the only place you are going is back to bed. Someone poisoned you!”

He gestured again. “Warren, someone tried to poison Elizabeth Bennet. Do you honestly think I am going to lie in bed?”

This stirred him, and his valet helped him dress. By the time they were done, he no longer felt disoriented. But that did not mean he did not feel terrible.

“Where is everyone? Is Miss Bennet safe?”

“I believe everyone has gone to the races, save for Lady Metcalfe and her daughter. I do not know where Miss Bennet is, but she did not leave with the others for Epsom.”

Darcy nodded, and at least this time, he did not feel like he would topple over. “I must find Miss Bennet. Send for a magistrate, a constable, whomever can be found.”

“And a surgeon?” Warren added.

“If you like.” He had no intention of sitting in bed and waiting for one. Arsenic poisoning was pretty similar both in its effect and its method of cure. He had already vomited every particle in his body, anyway. If what he had drunk was enough to kill him, he would have died by now.

At least, that was what he assumed.

As he went into the corridor, thirst was an ever-present thought. His heartbeat was a distressingly irregular rhythm. His stomach was still bilious, but he no longer felt on the verge of death. Besides, the extremity of this torture was nothing. He had to get Elizabeth away from Julia Metcalfe.

He did not bother surreptitiously going through the dressing room adjacent to Elizabeth’s room. He boldly knocked on her door in the main passageway. After waiting and knocking again, he tested the knob and found it unlocked.

“Elizabeth?” he called. He entered but it was empty. Even her trunks were gone. Maybe she was walking outside. He did not want her alone until Julia was detained.

The stairs were more of a trial than he thought they would be. It was a good thing Warren could not see him. At least his mind was now clear whilst his body fought the effects of the arsenic. He asked the footman if he had seen Elizabeth, and was told she walked out with Lady Metcalfe a few hours ago.

He did not bother with hat and gloves, only strode out the hall door. It was later in the day than he realised. He must have spent twelve hours in delirious anguish.

But Elizabeth was not in sight of the house, nor was Lady Metcalfe. He circled Woodcote twice, with wider and wider sweeps, but did not see her. A building frustration and sense of unease filled him. On his way back inside, he was already in a foul mood as he walked around the house and came face to face with Julia Metcalfe.

“I saw you from the house,” she said dulcetly and with a smile. “You looked like you needed company.”

Darcy exhaled noisily and gripped her arm, walking her backward toward the wall and pushing her against it. “You tried to poison her!”

“I beg your pardon!” she cried. “If you want to put your hands on me, you may try a different way, but I have no objection to the wall.”

It took all of his control not to squeeze her tighter. “You poisoned me instead, but I could forgive that easier than I can forgive you for trying to murder the woman I love.”

“Murder?” she repeated, struggling to pull her arm away. “No one has tried to murder anyone. And what do you mean you were poisoned?”

Was she truly confused, or a skilled actress? “Did you put arsenic in the tea?”

“What tea?” she cried. “And why would I poison you?”

“It was intended for Miss Bennet. It made me ill, but not enough to kill me.”

Her defiant expression fell, and in a less confident tone, she said, “That is a vile thing to accuse me of.”