Elizabeth managed to slip one hand out of the ropes before the carriage hit a deep rut and something hit the ceiling of the coach with an audible thud. A string of curses erupted as the coach veered to one side of the road and slowed. Elizabeth turned her head. The brown-eyed man was sitting on the far end of the other bench looking down, one large hand splayed over the top of his head. Carefully, she positioned her feet under her, one hand on the bench while the other reached out to grasp the cool lever of the door.
The brown-eyed man glanced up, but Elizabeth had already shoved the lever down with force and leapt. There was a moment of exaltation as she flew free of her captors, then a realization that she was not in fact flying, but falling.
Instinctively, she tried to tuck her legs in and duck her head, flipping an instant before she hit the ground. She landed hard on one side with her left arm awkwardly tucked beneath her. She flipped over on her stomach as she skidded down a small incline, her feet slipping through mud, her hands grasping wildly at stones and bushes to slow her descent. She stopped inches from a long, rocky drop into the river, her feet dangling over the edge. Elizabeth caught her breath and then scrambled back up to safety, sending bits of rock and grass over the side.
Above her, she heard the carriage being pulled to a halt—they must have traveled some way before the driver realized she had escaped.
Elizabeth’s bonnet had been shoved away from her head, the ribbons pulling tight across her throat. She ripped it off clumsily and tossed it away so she could see, then scrambled through the drier dirt and blackberry bushes, ignoring the sharp thorns, and pulled herself back up toward the road. There were more bushes and a few large trees there and she hid herself among them, panting with exertion.
Elizabeth numbly tried to take stock. Her gloves were torn and bloodstained, her coat ripped and muddy. She was hurt—after such a fall she must be—but she could not feel any pain beyond a nagging twinge in her left arm. What was wrong with her?
Elizabeth picked her way up to the road and peered out.
She heard men speaking down the road, near where she had jumped. Her heart was beating so hard that each thump hurt. She was helpless here.
“She went over the side!” one called.
The deep voice, the one she thought belonged to the brown-eyed man, replied without emotion, “Never mind. It will work just as well and with less labor for us. Have a look about to be certain.”
They startled as another coach, traveling more sedately, drew to a halt some distance behind them. It stopped closer to her hiding place than the first, and Elizabeth moved slowly towards it while remaining under cover. She glanced back. Her attackers had stopped their carriage in the middle of the road, and the second coach could not pass.
The driver handed off the reins to his partner before he dropped down from his seat and walked up the road with a greeting and an offer of assistance. From her angle, Elizabeth could not see inside the conveyance.
The men all moved away to talk in front of the first carriage, and Elizabeth knew she could not remain. The second carriage would leave, and her abductors would continue to conduct their search. She could not make it home on her own. She was too dizzy to walk and so very tired. This was her only chance.
Get away, her mind screamed. Get away.
With a great deal of effort, she forced herself to her hands and knees. She crawled shakily through the brambles to the edge of the tree line. She checked for the men—they were moving to examine the first carriage now. They were turned away from her, and she crept into the dirt of the road, concealing herself behind the second carriage, where a large boot and several trunks were fastened on the back. She pulled out the strap securing the lid of the boot and tried to pull herself up, but her foot slipped. She tried again, this time managing to lift the lid and slip inside.
Elizabeth fell atop shifting metal . . . things. Tools? Her fingertips brushed a rough blanket just beneath her. Sleep was pulling at her, her limbs growing too heavy to move, but through sheer force of will, she did not succumb until she felt the tell-tale jolt as the carriage began to move. She heard the whisper of wind through the trees, then her eyelids dropped, and all light was extinguished.
Darcy completed his story without mentioning Miss Elizabeth. He sat back tiredly.
“I see,” Aunt Matlock said, appearing thoughtful. She shook her head at a footman bearing a silver tray that held a few calling cards. He turned and exited the room. “You do not have much luck keeping friends, Nephew.”
Darcy rubbed the back of his neck. “It has been an effort, Aunt. One I am not inclined to continue.”
He and Fitz had waited until Lady Matlock’s usual receiving hours were over to speak to his aunt. While they waited, they had canvassed Bingley’s haunts in and around Mayfair.
Fortunately, it did not appear that Bingley had returned to town. Darcy had been surprised, but Netherfield had welcomed a number of guests from London who might wonder if their host departed. Or perhaps Bingley intended to pursue Miss Jane Bennet after all. He might truly be in love with her. Or, his suspicious mind warned, it might be a way to gain footing in the family and discredit Miss Elizabeth. For her sake, he hoped that Mr. Bennet would read the letter containing his fuller explanation of events and heed his warning. Warnings. Fitz dragged him back to the present.
“Darce,” his cousin said reprovingly, before he took a large bite of a seed cake and washed it down with three gulps of tea. Aunt Matlock frowned at Fitz, but he met her disapproval with a wink and a wide smile. She gave him a look that was both reproachful and affectionate.
“Yes, cousin?” Darcy asked wryly.
Fitz set down his teacup and focused his attention on Darcy. “There are good men out there who want nothing from you but your company,” he said seriously. “The leeches have been out since your father’s death, but we will make it clear to all that you know your own mind. And Mother will speak with Henry—he is nearly as adept at putting the word out as she.”
“Indeed,” the countess said approvingly. “Your brother has learned from a virtuoso.”
“Do not close yourself off, cousin.” Fitz’s gaze darted over to his mother and back to Darcy. His words dripped with mischief. “Forget the men. You will never find a good woman that way.”
I hate you, Fitz. Darcy watched his aunt’s eyes widen and her expression grow thoughtful.
“A lively young woman might be just the thing,” his aunt said fondly. “As I cannot seem to succeed with my sons, perhaps I ought to assist you. One of you really ought to marry before Georgiana. Let me think on the matter.”
Darcy leaned over to Fitz. “Angelo’s,” he said calmly. “Tomorrow.”
Fitz’s eyebrows lifted, and his answer rang with delight. “Why not today? Shall we lay a wager?”