direction. Trembling, Ned stopped to think things through without panicking, and decided it was time to mount Jupiter, from which elevation he could see better and farther.
Two hours later he put his head against Jupiter’s mane in dull despair. Mary Bennet was nowhere to be found. And now he would have to report to Fitz that he had rescued Mary, only to lose her to some new, unknown peril. She had been stolen while she slept beside the bridle-path; nothing else made any sense, for walk off on her own two legs she had not.
“It is not your fault, Ned,” Fitz said when Ned reached him before breakfast on that Monday. “I blame myself and no one else. I gave you Lydia
“’Twas not you who lost her.”
“No, but how could you predict a bellyache? And why would you think her in danger on a deserted bridle-path well beyond Chesterfield? You are a rare man, Ned. You can plan well ahead, then seize the opportunity of a moment in a moment. I can trust you with these exceeding delicate matters, and in turn that leads me to overburden you. What undid both of us was a bellyache, but who could have predicted its outcome? Don’t blame yourself. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. As you say, who could have predicted a bellyache?”
He hesitated, then decided that he would have to tell Fitz about the fate of Captain Thunder and Nellie: a laundered version that would not upset Fitz’s own principles.
“Captain Thunder and his light-skirt are dead. When I found their house, a rather wild mкlйe ensued that proved me better prepared-and the better shot.” He grinned sourly. “In fact, I begin to think that it’s the element of surprise and the pistol already cocked and levelled have made Captain Thunder the terror of these parts for fifteen years. The poor girl threw herself in the way of the first ball to save her love. Blew her brains out. I managed to prime and fire my second pistol while the Captain was still fiddling with his powder horn. He took my ball in the heart. I doubt anyone ever goes near the place-they had even hidden the track to it with a formidable hedge of brambles. With your consent, I would rather not divulge the events. Especially because I have to deal with Lydia for the next few days. Could we simply let the pair of villains rot?”
There was no pleading in Ned’s voice; Fitz considered his tale carefully, and decided he did not disapprove of the way Ned had handled things. Clearly it had been a matter of life and death, and the only other man he knew was as knacky as Ned over the exasperating business of getting a pistol ready to fire was Charlie. Even had their capture been peaceful, he could see where keeping the pair for the hangman’s noose would cause unwelcome publicity. Mary was too involved, and now Mary was missing yet again, which necessitated a new search for her.
Fitz shrugged. “I agree, Ned. Let them rot.” He poured Ned fresh coffee. “Today you must rest. Nurse your belly, yes, but most of all get a long sleep. Charlie, Angus and Owen Griffiths went out at seven this morning in search of Mary. They don’t know your story, but they might find out something interesting. I predict that they won’t return until tomorrow evening, which gives you plenty of time to recover. And yes, I could send someone to bring them home at once, but I would rather not. They will approach the task a different way than you, and we don’t know who took Mary off you.”
“As you wish, Fitz.”
Fitz got to his feet, came around the table and gave Ned a warm hug. “I thank you for your splendid work, Ned. Were it not for you, Mary would have died in the forest. As it is, I think we may safely assume she is still alive. I am deeply in your debt.”
“When do you want Mrs. Wickham escorted to Hemmings?”
“Thursday, I hope. Spottiswoode has had a letter from the proprietress of the agency in York he uses, saying she has someone on her books, but first must thoroughly check the woman’s recommendations. Now go home and sleep.”
Ned rested his cheek against Fitz’s hand on his shoulder, then got up wearily. He departed glowing, despite his sense of failure. Fitz had hugged him, the love was still there. Could anything destroy it? This business had been the most acid test of it, yet still it survived. Oh, Fitz, what would I not do for you?
All of Elizabeth’s time had been taken up in caring for Lydia, whose health was quite broken down. Nor did she see why she should be shifted from Pemberley, where there was always someone else to do the irksome tasks like keeping herself and her clothing clean. Who knew what other premises would yield?
“Lydia, in your heart of hearts you must know,” Elizabeth said, secretly sharing her sister’s sentiments about removal. “Pemberley is Fitz’s seat, famous enough to seem a pinnacle of social achievement. An invitation to stay here is an aspiration fulfilled. He needs Pemberley to further his political career. You did untold damage when you burst into the dining room mouthing disgusting obscenities and accusing Fitz of murder. Your audience included some of the most important people in England-
“Easily,” said Lydia sulkily. She surveyed herself in a mirror. “What dreadful clothes you wear, Lizzie! I want money to buy new things-fashionable things. And I refuse to wear black!”
“You may have the money and the clothes, but not here. Fitz has found a nice house called Hemmings, outside Leek. There you may live in the same sort of comfort as Mama did at Shelby Manor. You may shop for apparel in Stoke-on-Trent or Stafford-Fitz has given you accounts at certain modistes in both towns. Your companion, Miss Mirabelle Maplethorpe, has a list of the shops.”
Lydia sat up straight.
“I think you do, dearest.” Oh, what a wretched situation! Fitz had been happy to explain matters to Lydia himself, but that would have led to such ructions! So Elizabeth had begged to tell Lydia the news herself, thinking it best she wear the witch’s hat. She tried again. “My dear, your health is not what it should be. That means you must have company, if only until you build up your health. We have engaged a respectable lady to look after you-part nurse, part companion. As I have already said, her name is Miss Mirabelle Maplethorpe. She hails from Devonshire.”
Scrubbed clean of its paint, Lydia’s face looked curiously bald, for her fairness was extreme enough to extend to her brows and lashes, absolutely colourless. The puffiness had vanished; she had had no further access to wine or other intoxicants since Hoskins had given her port, and that had been six days ago. Which meant Lydia had now reached craving point, and was ripe for mischief.
“I want two bottles of claret with my lunch,” said Lydia, “and I warn you, Lizzie, that if I do not get it, I will create a scene that will pale the last one to insignificance. Is Fitz afraid of Caroline Bingley, then? Well, not as afraid as he will be of me!”
“No wine,” said Elizabeth, iron in her voice. “Gentlewomen do not drink to excess, and you were born a gentlewoman.”
“You know nothing about either lady, Lydia.”
“It takes one to know one. Is Fitz really afraid of Caroline? He won’t be after I get through with her!”
“Lydia, compose yourself!”
“Then give me claret with my lunch! And if you think that I am going off tamely to Leek or anywhere else with a dragon for my companion, you are mistaken!”
“You go tomorrow, Lydia. Fitz insists.”
“He can insist until he turns in his grave, I will not go!”
Elizabeth fell to her knees, tried to take the clammy, restless, plucking hands in hers. “Lydia, please, I beg you! Go to Hemmings willingly! If you do not, you will go anyway. That fearsome man Ned Skinner is to escort you, and he puts up with naught. Try him, and you’ll be treated as he treated you when Mama died. For my sake, Lydia, please! Go willingly! Once you are ensconced at Hemmings, what you do will be your affair provided you are quiet and discreet. I am led to believe that there will be plenty of wine, though you will not be permitted to entertain men.”
“What a mouse you are, Lizzie! Did the jewels, Pemberley and enough pin-money to buy the Royal Pavilion strip you of all spirit? Fitz snaps his fingers, and you scurry, squeaking. Once you used to stand up for yourself, but no more. You are a bought woman. Well, I would rather be an army wife than the chatelaine of Pemberley! Oh,
