“What is most important right now,” said Mr. Withrow, “is finding this impostor. I will have the groom prepare our horses.”
“Wait,” said Lady Trafford. “If she is still on a horse, she could be miles away in any direction, hiding countless places in the woods.”
“We can check all the inns. Get in touch with our contacts.”
“We may need to do that,” said Lady Trafford. “But first, let us take a moment to think before we act. Who could possibly be imitating Miss Bennet, and, more saliently, how would this woman know when and where to intercept Mr. Stanley?”
They were quiet, and Mary had a chance to process her thoughts. She had hoped to learn more by eavesdropping, but instead everyone was trying to figure out her identity. She really should not have given her own name—that was a huge mistake. Now they would check to make sure she really had gone to town, and of course, no one would have seen her there.
“Fetch me my tool set, Henry,” said Lady Trafford, and Mary leaned closer to the grate to try to figure out what they were going to do. But they said not a word.
A minute later there was a quiet, twisting sound, though she could not tell what it was. Despite the fact that it was quiet, it was very close, as if right outside the grate.
Mary inhaled suddenly. They must know where she was—they must be opening her hiding place.
She stood and grasped for the rope ladder. She climbed as quickly as she could, heedless of the noise it caused. Silence did not matter now.
As her hands reached the top of the ladder there was a creaking noise, and a large, strong hand grabbed tightly onto her ankle.
“Whoever you are, come down here, right now,” said Lady Trafford.
“Or I will drag you down.” That would be Mr. Withrow.
She could kick and try to force her way up, but Withrow could easily overcome her. Even if she did get out of his grasp, Lady Trafford would know the exit. They would find her; there would be no escaping.
“I will come down,” said Mary.
Withrow did not release his grip on her ankle until he had grabbed a hold of her arm. She slowly descended.
The only way out of the space from this direction was a hole near the floor that had held the grate. “Ladies first,” said Withrow gruffly. She could not see his face or his expression at all, but she still felt humiliated as she crouched on the ground and crawled through the hole into the library.
Upon exiting, Mary tried to stand tall and composed, with her chin held high as Elizabeth did, always managing to be impervious to the judgment of others.
“Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Stanley, and she thought she saw a quick smile.
Mr. Withrow crawled through the hole and leapt up. His face was drawn and angry. His eyes lingered on her face and then moved down her dress. “What have you done to yourself?”
Lady Trafford eyed her appraisingly. She fingered the fabric of Mary’s dress, then stepped directly in front of her, examining her face in close proximity. Then, to Mary’s great surprise, she laughed, and her laugh was long and buoyant.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“From the assembly of military men at Frankfurt…we think it reasonable to prognosticate that some grand operations are on the eve of being undertaken.”
–The Times, London, December 9, 1813
“WANTED, a Steady, Active, Young Woman…An undeniable character will be required.”
–The Morning Post, London, December 9, 1813
“Take a seat, Miss Bennet.” Lady Trafford gestured to an armchair. “Stanley, pour her some tea.”
Mary sat stiffly in the chair. When Mr. Stanley passed her a cup of the hot liquid, she held it but did not drink.
Lady Trafford poured herself tea and drank. “It is not poison, Miss Bennet.”
But still, Mary did not drink. She sniffed, feeling the cold of the room, and wishing this chair were closer to the fire. And then, once she had composed her words in her mind, she spoke.
“I will not let you get away with this. I will write a letter to Sir Pickering. And if you do not let me write, or if you lock me up, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley and my uncles will come looking for me.”
“What exactly is it that you think we have done?” asked Lady Trafford.
Mary stared in her teacup, then finally gave in and drank. The warmth filled her with determination. She set down the cup and stared straight at Lady Trafford.
“You asked Mr. Holloway to steal my family’s mourning rings. You tricked me into coming to Castle Durrington because you hoped to use me for your own purposes. We probably are not even related. You lie constantly about your trips and what you are doing. You entertain visitors in the middle of the night. You have been reading my letters. You are one of the leaders of a major criminal organization that is attempting to undermine the people and the government for your own economic gain. And your nephew has been meeting with one of Bonaparte’s soldiers.”
Mr. Withrow grimaced. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and refined, yet there was something underneath, a negative undertone. “If all of this were true, what makes you think we would give you a chance to share what you know with the world?”
Despite all that Mary had learned, she knew very little of how far they were willing to go to meet their ends. Why would they lock her up or risk her writing a letter when they could simply eliminate her and then tell her family there had been a tragic accident? Colonel Radcliffe might not be the only person willing to murder to keep his secrets. Almost all the servants were gone for the day, nothing could stop them from hurting her, and she was many, many miles from anyone who would know and care what happened to her.
She stood, stepped away from the chair, then dashed to the
