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The sub-prefect examined Darcy carefully. At least his encounter with Elizabeth had left his hair disordered, and his clothing was suitably disreputable. Were he dressed like Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, it would be almost impossible to play the fool.
Even so, his heart quailed. Darcy had no pretentions to thespian talent. Disguise of any kind had always been his abhorrence. But Martin had declared Darcy’s insanity, and now his life—and Elizabeth’s—relied on convincingly acting the part.
Darcy did not have extensive experience with madmen, but there had been a young man—the son of a tenant—whose parents often were advised to place him in an asylum. They had been horrified at the thought and, knowing what such places were like, Darcy had supported their decision, ensuring that the family always had enough to make ends meet.
Now he did his best to recall Robert’s outrageous behavior so it could serve as a guide for his own. Letting his mouth go slack, Darcy searched distractedly about the room. “Lucinda?” he mumbled, staring at nothing in particular. “Lucinda? Where is the hedgehog? I need it, you know. I need the hedgehog—and a bucket.”
The sub-prefect’s eyes went wide with alarm, but Martin’s startled grin nearly provoked Darcy’s laughter. Recovering quickly, the doctor twisted his lips into a scowl of disapproval. “I do not know what you mean. Go to your room.”
How would Robert behave when given such a command? He was never terribly cooperative. “No. I want to see the baby Jesus.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “My apologies, monsieur,” he addressed the sub-prefect. “Apparently today is not one of Guillaume’s good days.”
The sub-prefect narrowed his eyes as he stared at Darcy. “So I see.” Did he suspect? In such situations, the doctor’s interest in helping young Frenchmen avoid conscription would work against them.
Darcy needed to be more convincing. What had Robert done? Darcy wished he had paid closer attention. His eye was caught by a tea tray on the table, laden with an assortment of biscuits. Darcy pounced on a biscuit as if it were a mouse. “I caught it!” He held the biscuit up triumphantly. “Did you see?” he asked Martin.
“Indeed.” Martin was suppressing a smile. “No biscuit is safe from you.”
Darcy laughed maniacally. “Except the ones the birds have already eaten!”
Martin shook his head with a great show of chagrin. “Guillaume, perhaps you should retire to your room for a rest.”
“Will Baby Jesus be there?” Darcy asked, assuming an innocent expression.
“Perhaps,” Martin said with a sigh. “You should search your room thoroughly in case Baby Jesus is visiting.”
Edging toward the door, Darcy suppressed a desire to race from the drawing room; nothing could make the sub-prefect suspicious. Cradling the biscuit in his arms, Darcy began to sing a French lullaby to it.
He continued to sing—deliberately off key—as he slowly climbed the stairs and only ceased once he was inside the room he shared with Elizabeth. There, he sank onto the bed. Thank the Lord none of my friends in England observed that!
***
When Elizabeth returned to the room, she fell immediately into a deep sleep, and they never discussed his precipitous departure from the garden. But Darcy had no doubt it occupied her thoughts.
That evening she was well enough to join Darcy and the Martins for dinner in their formal dining room. The doctor regaled her with a description of Darcy’s mad act, and she laughed until tears leaked from her eyes. Darcy was so pleased to see her in good spirits that he could not even protest being the object of the joke.
Once the housekeeper had cleared away the dinner plates, the conversation turned to more somber subjects, particularly Elizabeth’s safety. Darcy had regarded Elizabeth carefully throughout the meal. Her movements were graceful and natural. Dark circles still lurked under her eyes, but her skin no longer had the grayish pallor he had found so alarming. Despite spending several hours outside, she did not seem particularly fatigued. He caught her eye as Elizabeth placed her napkin on the table. “Do you think you are well enough to travel, dear heart?”
She answered instantly. “Yes, if you deem it necessary.”
Darcy had arrived at a reluctant conclusion. “I believe Elizabeth and I should depart,” he told Martin.
The other man pressed his lips together. “Mrs. Darcy is not good enough to travel. Not with enough health.” His English was strongly accented but intelligible.
“I know you would prefer that we waited a full week, but I do not want to risk arrest. It would be difficult for Elizabeth to return to England alone.”
“It is probable the sub-prefect will not come back here,” Martin said.
Darcy sighed, trying to quiet the uneasiness in his stomach. “If
he talks again with someone in the market, he might learn that my description matches that of the stranger who injured his hand. And the longer we are here, the greater the risk of discovery—and the greater danger to you.”
Martin waved this away. “This is our risk.”
“No. William is right. We remain in danger while we are on French soil.” Darcy heard Elizabeth’s words with some surprise. Although they had not discussed the danger, she understood it very well.
“But your health—” Martin objected.
