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Richard rubbed his chin. “Perhaps not as a matter of law, but as a matter of morality I would say so. If she is using the profits to buy herself a new bonnet or lace for her sisters’ dresses, that would be an abuse of her cousin’s hospitality and quite wrong.”
Elizabeth would not do such a thing, but then how were the profits being used?
“Have you considered that perhaps she gives the profits back to the tenants?” Richard asked. “Perhaps the tenant families will eat the extra crops, or they will use the profits for their own purposes. Already Longbourn is supporting an extra family in secret. Perhaps Miss Elizabeth operates other charitable endeavors.”
“The cottages were in a disgraceful state,” Darcy said slowly. Even glimpses from horseback had been enough to make the neglect manifest.
“I assume that most of the tenants are honorable men,” Richard said. “And yet they support Miss Elizabeth’s scheme.”
Darcy had not considered that, but he had no reason to believe that Longbourn’s tenants were less honorable than Pemberley’s. Certainly Darcy’s tenants were decent people who would not ordinarily involve themselves in deception.
If only I had asked Elizabeth more questions when I guessed her scheme! If she was indeed using the profits to benefit the tenants or repair the cottages…well, it was an investment in the estate. Could it then be labeled as theft?
However, it was still deception. He could not excuse it. “You know that deception of any kind is my abhorrence. I had believed Miss Elizabeth above such trickery.”
Richard snorted. “‘Deception of any kind.’…. That is a wealthy man’s argument, Darcy.”
Darcy frowned at his cousin. How did his fortune have any bearing on a question of morality?
“Most people need some deception just to live their lives. They cannot afford to be completely honest.”
“I do not unders—”
Richard righted Darcy’s bench and gestured for him to take a seat. “Let me tell you a story from my first campaign.” He poured them both glasses of lemonade. “I was a wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant…”
Darcy sat and took a long swallow of lemonade, wetting his parched throat. His cousin never spoke of his experiences in the war. If he wanted to share something now, the story must be extraordinary.
“The commanding officer of the regiment, a colonel—I will not share his name—was a brute and a blackguard,” Richard said.
Darcy inhaled sharply. Nobody spoke of the “valiant” British troops in such a manner.
“Many of the Spaniards in the area hated us,” Richard continued. “The British soldiers looted and stole crops. The French were not much better, but some of the local residents were sympathetic to them. We had to be wary of everyone. That woman could be bringing you water or planning to knife you. The old man might be selling oranges or poison. But the colonel…he just assumed they were all our enemies. One time an old man approached with some loaves of bread. The colonel whipped out his pistol and shot the poor bastard. He claimed he’d seen a knife.”
“Did the man have one?” Darcy asked.
Richard shook his head. “I never saw one. Some of us ran over to where the man lay in the dirt. He was still breathing, and we wanted to send for our doctor. But the colonel insisted we keep marching, leaving the man by the side of the road. Another time as we entered a town, he entertained himself by shooting at the people who watched us from the windows. I know he hit at least one.”
Darcy swore.
“And his treatment of the men under his command…I watched him knife one poor bastard myself.” Richard stared into the distance as if seeing Spain rather than the Derbyshire countryside. “We all hated him…and feared him. We never knew if he might choose one of us for abuse.”
“Could you not complain to your superiors?”
Richard chuckled. “We did. We spoke to the major general and the general. Two men wrote letters to the War Office. Nothing happened—except the colonel had one of those men whipped. Trained officers were scarce, and he was effective in the field. I hated him, and I hated the situation. I felt so…impotent! Being under the thumb of such a man.”
Richard wiped sweat from his brow and took a gulp of lemonade.
“One day we were fighting the enemy. It was more of a skirmish than a full-fledged battle, but eventually we got the Frenchies on the run. In the aftermath, we discovered the colonel was dead.”
“How?” Darcy asked.
“Shot. But here is the curious thing. He was shot in the back. He was nowhere near the front line, you understand. He stayed behind, on his horse, to give orders. And yet somehow a bullet had found its way to him—to his back.”
Darcy considered this for a moment. “Who shot him?”
Richard shook his head. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t the French. And we all knew it. I knew it. His second in command knew it. Every single soldier knew it.”
“So, what did you do?”
