Page 1 of Mr. Darcy’s Victorious Bride

PROLOGUE

Constable Higgins kept his prisoners in a root cellar that smelled of turnips. Lord Braithwaite sat on a bench with his wrists chained in front of him. His ear throbbed under a rag somebody's wife had tied round his head. The pistol ball had only grazed his side, but the wound stung at every deep breath. So he breathed shallowly and pondered.

He would not call it scheming. Scheming was for tenants and peasants. Since being seized, Braithwaite had been bitten by a horse, beaten with a broom, and soiled by a dove. He added each of the offenders to his list.

All would pay.

The list had grown long this year. Catherine headed it, the twit, for sending him a gentleman's daughter and calling her a maid. Her too upright nephew, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, came second. The boy and the mare now shared third place, and the incontinent dove would do for fourth.

Yes, the boy had been a surprise. Who expected a lame mute of six to swing a broom with such force? The mare had been plain ill luck. And yet none of it signified. Braithwaite had kept a second plan behind his first, as he always did.

And in the end, he always won.

The door at the top of the steps opened. One of the constable's men came down with a candle and a wooden bowl. "Pease porridge," the man said. "Missus Higgins sent it. She says even the devil gets his supper."

"How kind," Braithwaite wheezed. "What is the hour?"

"Past four. 'Ent no business of yours, though. You're for London at first light."

"In a cart, I suppose."

"In irons, in a cart." The man set the bowl on the bottom step, well beyond the reach of the chain, and grinned. "You'll want to stretch for it, m'lord."

Braithwaite looked at the bowl and then at the man. He had dined with two dukes in a single week last winter. His cook in Town had trained in Paris. Now a turnip-fed oaf taunted him with porridge. He added the oaf to the list. "What is your name, my good man?"

"Constable said you'd ask. Said I weren't to tell you." The man scratched his chin. "He says you've a long memory and a deal of money."

"Your constable is a clever fellow. I have both." Braithwaite smiled. "I require pen and paper. I must write to my solicitor, Mr. Graves of Chancery Lane. There is a guinea in it for the man who carries the letter."

"You 'ent got a guinea. We took your purse."

"Mr. Graves has a great many guineas. He pays on delivery."

The man considered this for longer than the sum deserved. Then he shook his head. "I seen what you done to Miss Eliza. It were in the papers. My sister read it out." He spat on the cellar floor. "Write your letter in London."

He took the candle with him, and the door shut.

Miss Eliza! Elizabeth Bennet, now Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy. The whole village spoke of her with fond pride. Braithwaite sat in the dark and let his temper cool. Asking to send the letter had mainly been a test to see who could be bought. But Graves had his instructions already, and Graves had never yet needed telling twice.

Braithwaite turned his wrist, and the chain clinked. In the spring he had put a chain on Elizabeth Bennet's ankle. It was a good iron one, worn smooth by the girls before her. Now a country constable had put one on him. The symmetry amused him, and he laughed softly until his side hurt.

Let them have their evening of triumph. Let Darcy kiss his wife, and let the boy sleep beside his broom. By now the youngest Bennet girl lay asleep in a Cheapside lodging house, in a room Braithwaite had paid for. A drunken deserter named Wickham snored on the other side of the wall.

It had cost a great deal less than he expected. Wickham hated Darcy so heartily that he had nearly done it for nothing. The girl had cost three payments and a straw bonnet.

A brand could be explained away. A cellar could be blamed on dead servants, and he had seen to it that the servants were dead. But a sister run off with an officer could never be explained. The Lords would look at Mrs. Darcy on the stand and see the family she came from. Loose girls told stories. Every gentleman knew it.

And if she stood up to speak regardless? Then Graves would see to the modiste and the boy.

Braithwaite leaned back against the cold wall and shut his eyes. A tune came into his head, and he hummed a few bars before he knew it for Catherine's. Begone, dull care. She had sung it as a young wife at Rosings, flat, with great conviction.

Darcy claimed his aunt had named him the culprit. Let her. A woman who had hired a man to be rid of a gentry lady, no matter how low in relative station, could hardly say so before the Lords. Catherine had never in her life done the brave thing when the proud thing was available.

Somewhere above him a cock crowed, early and hoarse. In a few hours someone at Longbourn would knock at a bedroom door and get no answer.

Braithwaite stretched out his foot, hooked the bowl with the toe of his boot, and drew the porridge toward him.

CHAPTER 1