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Darcy was pleased to hear it. He had been halfway convinced this would require a trip somewhere far more unsavory, like Seven Dials, where he knew Wickham had once spent some time. He wrote the note with a flourish and handed it to Forster for safekeeping. The colonel read it, and the infinitesimal lift of one eyebrow led Darcy to believe that the man approved.
“I thank you for your assistance, Colonel Forster,” Darcy said by way of farewell. Forster nodded, still that stoic expression writ upon his countenance. The man was animated enough in mixed company, but his professional demeanor was impressive. Darcy was ashamed that though he had dined with the officers more than once, he had not previously bothered to take note of the colonel. Had he been so assured of his own superiority that he did not even bother to observe the people around him? Elizabeth had been right to chastise him. Fitz was right, too. He was a mutton-head.
Wickham was ushered outside again, and Forster waved a hand at Darcy’s uniform. “I presume there is a reason this man is in military dress, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“There is, Colonel Forster,” Fitz replied. “A good one.”
“I presume he does not intend to spy on Boney?”
Fitz shook his head.
“Good,” Forster replied stonily. “I would fear for us all.”
When they were at last on their horses and heading for London again, Fitz shot a disappointed look at Darcy.
“What?” he asked.
“I cannot believe you gave that cretin more money, Darce,” Fitz complained. “I would have enjoyed taking it out of his hide instead.”
Darcy released a soft laugh. “When Wickham reads my avowal, he will see that the money must first be applied to his debts in Meryton. He will never see a farthing.”
“Debts you would have felt obligated to pay in any case. Well, I feel a good deal better now.” Fitz pushed his mount to a quicker pace. “Let us get you back to your beloved so you can stun her with your proposal.”
“What do you mean, stun her?” Darcy asked as his cousin widened the distance between them. Elizabeth might not want to marry him, but she must have some inkling . . . “Fitz?”His cousin was gone.
“Smug, infernal . . .” Darcy grumbled, and urged his horse on.
As she raced up the stairs, Elizabeth heard a set of tinkling bells being pulled three times, very distinctly. She hoped that it was Mr. Slipworth summoning aid. As she reached the servants’ floor at the top of the house, all was quiet below. There were more doors along the corridor here, but one was smaller than the others. It was stuck. She threw her entire body against it, squeezing through when it gave way a little, and shoved it closed behind her.
There was another set of stairs inside, only half as long as a normal flight, the treads smaller and narrower. Elizabeth’s head ached. Her breaths were short and shallow. She stepped up carefully but with haste and found herself in a dark room the length of the entire townhouse. The ceiling was low, and there were no windows. It was an attic of sorts. At the far end, she could make out a chimney in the center of the wall. As she carefully picked her way closer, she saw that the hearth was surrounded by wooden boxes stacked three high and three across on each side. Several dozen trunks were stacked haphazardly throughout the room.
Where to hide? There was no obvious place. The wooden boxes were too small and appeared to be stuffed with files. Elizabeth tugged at the lid of the trunk closest to her. Locked. She dragged herself to the next one and shook the latch. Locked. She tried a third. Locked.
Downstairs she thought she heard a man shouting.
“Who locks trunks in an attic?” she asked as her fear and frustration grew. Sixth trunk. Locked. Seventh trunk. Locked. Perhaps she could hide behind them?
Finally, on the eighth try, when her distress had nearly consumed her, she tugged on a trunk and the lid lifted. Elizabeth stepped inside and curled up, pulling the lid shut.
Inside, it was dark and quiet. Her legs were cramped, and the clothes were musty, though there was a faint odor of citrus. Elizabeth tried to slow her breathing. She focused on the pleasant scent and the rhythm of her breaths. Her heart was beating so hard that the sound of it filled her ears, making it impossible to hear whether anyone was entering the room. Elizabeth touched the wooden lid only inches from her face and tried to recall happier times, when hiding in trunks was a game, one at which she excelled. As she imagined playing with her sisters, her breathing slowed, and her heart calmed.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She held a hand over her chest, but it was not her heart making the sound. Someone was ascending the stairs.
“Miss Elizabeth?” called a voice she recalled, low and menacing. “I know you are hiding somewhere.”
Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth and shivered.
The floorboards creaked, and she swallowed, closing her eyes tightly. The footsteps stopped. Then there was another step. Another pause.
“We saw the broken bushes. We saw the bits of cloth you left in the brambles,” the male voice sang. “And Darcy’s coachman is very distinctive.”
Elizabeth remained still—she dared not move. She took a tiny breath.
“I heard someone tell you to run up the stairs,” the man continued, and she heard him shake another trunk. “We are not paid until you are . . .” He sounded amused. “Well, best not to discuss that, I suppose.”
Another movement and this one was close—Elizabeth heard the tapping of a foot and a deep sigh of irritation. It was a heavy tapping. Probably a boot. “Miss Elizabeth,” he crooned.
