The Deception At Lyme

Georgiana had not looked at St. Clair since their discussion broke up, but now hazarded a glance in his direction. The admiral having departed, he was talking to Darcy, but both men had half an eye on Georgiana. Upon being caught observing her, St. Clair immediately averted his gaze; Darcy questioned Elizabeth with his. He wanted to know his sister’s state, which Elizabeth silently assured him was sound. Or would be. Captain St. Clair’s expression had also shown concern, though of a less brotherly sort.

“I underestimated Captain St. Clair, as well,” Georgiana said. “All in all, I have not proved myself a very good judge of men.”

“Neither have we. Darcy and I were fairly convinced that St. Clair was involved with Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.”

“But see—you knew there was more beneath the surface. He was involved with Gerard’s death; he has spent years trying to bring the conspirators to justice—while I was daydreaming about a marriage offer from Gerard’s killer.” She shuddered. “Had my wish been granted, I dare not contemplate what my life would have been as Lady Ashford. Captain St. Clair delivered me from more than the sea.”

That gentleman and Darcy were at that moment also discussing the subject of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.

“As you said earlier, there was more than one future baronet aboard the Magna Carta at the time my cousin died,” Darcy said, “but you never definitively stated which one shot him. Was it Sir Laurence?”

“I wish I could tell you with certainty,” St. Clair replied. “My instincts say it was Sir Laurence, but it could have been either of them. In preparation for battle, the pistol cases were opened, and every man was armed. And as I explained to you before, in the chaos of a boarding action, it is challenge enough to remain aware of all that is happening in one’s immediate surrounds. We are fortunate Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death was witnessed by anyone at all.”

Anne Wentworth quit the study, her mission threefold: to ascertain whether Mrs. Smith had yet returned from the Cobb, to order refreshments for her guests, and to check on Alfred. Captain Wentworth asked her to send Mrs. Smith to them if she were indeed home. He then crossed to a tall bookcase and lifted down from a shelf an inlaid box.

“This contains all of Mr. Smith’s papers that his widow turned over to me.”

He brought the box to the table. Captain St. Clair, Darcy, and Elizabeth came over. As Darcy rolled up the map and put it aside, Wentworth opened the box and withdrew the papers. They each took a handful and commenced reading. Georgiana remained by the window, her thoughts too full to read anything closely, and unlikely to become more settled by closer proximity to Captain St. Clair.

Elizabeth read through several letters, including a few from Mr. Elliot. The pile held correspondence from other individuals, as well. One sloppily folded letter—apparently from Mr. Smith’s mother—had at some time come into unfortunate contact with a sticky substance of indeterminate origin. After skimming three full pages of trivial family news—no wonder the Smiths had suffered financial woes, if his mother’s letters were always so voluminous—Elizabeth found stuck to the back of the fourth page a torn fragment from a note in a different hand.

Such proof is regrettable, but there is nothing to be done about it. Fortunately, her spouse is determined not to notice, and yours too naïve to suspect. If it comes to it, she can claim her grandfather or some other long-dead relation had red hair.

Elizabeth reread the lines, then shuffled through the remaining papers in her pile. Darcy interrupted his own reading to question her with a glance.

“I am looking for the other pieces of a torn note,” she explained. “Have you any fragments in your stack?”

Darcy set down the letter he had been perusing and started to riffle through the other papers in front of him. He had not gotten far, however, when Anne Wentworth returned to the study.

“Frederick.” Anne’s face was pale, her voice unsteady. “Alfred is missing.”

Thirty-Four

“We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is valuable.”

—Captain Wentworth, Persuasion

Mrs. Logan was in tears.

“I fed him and put him down to sleep. Then I went out—I needed to go to the market, and I thought to perform the errand while he napped. You were all in the study—it seemed like such an important meeting; I did not want to disturb you—I told Mrs. Smith I was going. I expected to return before her chair arrived, but I was delayed—so many people about on market day. When I got back, I went upstairs immediately to check on Alfred— he was not in his cradle—”

The servants were summoned, but unable to provide any further intelligence. The housekeeper had returned from the market just after Mrs. Logan, and the others, going about their own duties elsewhere in the house, with no reason to enter the nursery, had not observed anything unusual.

Alfred was too small to have wandered off on his own, and a baby was not something one was likely to misplace. Yet they searched the house and garden anyway. He was nowhere on the premises.

They reconvened in the sitting room. Captain Wentworth, his own worry evident, reassured his wife that they would find Alfred. “Do not panic yet. Sir Walter has not seen his son since the christening—perhaps he or your sister retrieved the boy for a visit. It would be very like them not to think to inform us.” Wentworth himself did not sound convinced of this possibility.

“My father would have sent a servant to collect him. And even if he had come himself, he would not have entered our house, gone upstairs to the nursery, taken Alfred from his cradle, and departed without a word to anybody.”

No, Darcy thought, but another Elliot might. He met Captain Wentworth’s eyes. “Do you think perhaps Mr. Elliot—”

“I can name no one else more probable,” he replied.

Mrs. Wentworth glanced toward the entry hall. “He must have come after Mrs. Smith departed for the Cobb, or surely she would have alerted us.”

“Unless he used the rear door and stairs,” Captain Wentworth said. “Someone planning to steal a child would hardly want to make an obvious entrance.”

“I am reluctant to voice this thought,” St. Clair said, “but if Mr. Elliot did encounter Mrs. Smith, she would not have presented a very imposing obstacle. He could easily overpower a crippled woman, particularly if he had someone else with him. Lyme is full of his fellow conspirators—the crew of the Black Cormorant alone must number at least two hundred. Any one of them could have accompanied him.”

“Mrs. Smith is the only one of his past associates still alive to incriminate him,” Elizabeth added, “and he knows she bears him ill will.”

“Good heavens, Frederick—he might have taken Mrs. Smith, too.” Mrs. Wentworth sank into a chair. “If only Nurse Rooke had been here with her and not in Bath.”

Captain Wentworth took her hand. “Let us not allow our conjecture to run wild,” he said. “Mrs. Smith could very well be sitting on her bench at the harbor, perfectly safe and utterly oblivious to our alarm. In fact, someone ought to see whether she is indeed there, for if so, she may be able to tell us something that could lead us to Alfred. I would do so myself, but I am going to the Lion this moment to determine whether Mr. Elliot is there with the child.”

“I will accompany you,” Darcy said. “If Mr. Elliot does have Alfred, there is no predicting what he might do.” Or what he might have already done.

Darcy left that last thought unspoken—Mrs. Wentworth was worried enough—but he could see in her