In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

mood for salutes and genuflecting. His own thoughts were dark today for no reason he could ascertain, and being forced to chastise a rowdy bunch of underlings was not appealing. He was almost past when one of the young men said, “Old rake! Serves him right for carrying on with another man’s wife. With the pretty dainty he is engaged to you’d think he’d be willing to keep his stick occupied with her! Weren’t enough free bits-of-muslin out there to pluck, so Wellson needs to plow a married woman?”

Richard rounded on the fellows, face grey and tight. “What did you say?”

But he could get nothing coherent out of the men then. They were universally too embarrassed by being caught crudely gossiping and passing around a flask of whiskey by a Commanding Officer.

Heart thudding dangerously, he immediately whirled about and headed toward his office building where newspapers were plentiful. The story was plastered on the front page of every paper.

The notorious Lord Wellson was discovered flagrantly fornicating with the wife of a Fleet Street publisher by the name of Mr. Harris, in the man’s own bedroom no less! The man had suspected his wife of dallying with the infamous rogue and came prepared with pistol in hand. It was likely swift and messy, but details of the crime scene were so outrageously exaggerated that the truth would never be fully known. Lady Fotherby’s name was dragged into the circulating clamor, the reality that the poor woman was more a victim than any of the others lost to only a few. The scandal was immense and the gossip titillating.

Suddenly Richard could not circumvent hearing her name, and the associated rumors, as they were the prime discussion. Facts of any substance were scarce and so jumbled within the innuendo and blather that deciphering truth was difficult. But one detail that repeated was the news that Lady Fotherby had all this time been in Hampshire at her father’s estate. No one had seen or heard from her since well before the betrothal was announced. This was extremely odd, and although most folks used this as a launching point for further vulgar jokes, hidden in the discourse was the sporadic speculation that there was something unnatural about the whole relationship from the outset.

Richard felt truly ill. He could hardly think during the remainder of his day and functioning with any sort of normalcy was nigh on impossible. The new recruits and anyone else who crossed his path suffered the brunt of his foul mood. All the sensibilities of the past weeks that he thought he was successfully dealing with surged forth in a tumultuous spin of emotion. He could not focus onto any one long enough to grasp onto it. The reality that Lord Wellson’s death meant she was now a free woman again was not entirely lost on him, but the welter of emotions was so overwhelming and competitive that nothing rational reigned.

As soon as he was able, he left and rode directly to Darcy House. Darcy was waiting, whiskey thrust into Richard’s shaking hands before greetings were verbalized. There was some talking as the evening turned into late night, mostly on Richard’s part, as Darcy comforted by simply listening, but primarily Richard stared into space as his thoughts swirled.

Two days passed with Richard attempting to perform normally. At times the urge was overwhelming to do something, but he had no clue as to what that should be. What was the proper course? She had rejected him, he reasoned, so he certainly owed her nothing. Yet his heart refused to grow cold no matter how he pleaded for it to do so. By the end of those two days, as he rode slowly through the busy streets toward his home, exhausted and sick, the last thing he wanted or expected was to have another shock waiting for him.

My dearest Richard,

How many days and weeks have I contemplated what I would say to you if I was so blessed as to be given the chance! Oh God Richard, I pray you still believe in my love for you! Please, I beg you, do not toss this away as you probably should. I am so afraid that you will do just that and not read what I have to say. I have much to explain, but fear I have no time. As it is, I do not know if my fortunes will prevail long enough for me to finish this letter. I must be hasty.

I need your help, dear one. I am at my father’s house in Hampshire, where we have been since my foolish departure from you in September, under lock and heavy guard. My father and my uncle, evil men I now perceive, held me captive, using my children as blackmail to force me to agree to marry Wellson. Never would I have done it! Never! But my sweet Oliver has been so ill and treatment was declined him ere I relented. I know it must sound implausible, like a badly written play, but it is true. I have prayed incessantly for the slightest glimmer of hope, seeking any crack in the vigilance so I could escape and end the sham. It came finally in the news of that horrid man’s death! Please forgive me, dear Richard, for possessing no mercy, but I can only exalt in the salvation of his demise. The method matters naught to me, nor do I care about the scandal. I am in a state of utter bliss! Father is furious, somehow in his wicked dementia blaming me. He has gone insane, I am certain of it, and I am extremely fearful. Yet the ensuing chaos has given me an opening. At least I hope.

They are not watching me as closely, so I think I can slip this letter into the outgoing mail. I do not dare trying to escape and I refuse to leave my children in the midst of this madness. Please help me, Richard. Help us. I am not asking for your forgiveness, as I do not deserve it for causing you pain. My only prayer is that your compassion, which you possess in abundance, will draw you to me. There is no one else I can trust.

Yours, always,

Simone

Richard read the letter through twice in rapid succession. His weariness abruptly faded with the instantaneous rise of his wrath and fear. He noted the date as written on the day of Wellson’s murder. Four days ago. For four days she was apparently unable to hide the letter to be sent. For four days she and the children were living in a madhouse suffering God only knew what. It was more than he could bear. But, with the conditioned response of the born military man, he wasted no time on fear or anger.

The first order of business was to enlist aid. No hesitation there, Richard riding fast to the house of his best friend from their Academy days and fellow soldier during numerous campaigns, Colonel Roland Artois. Colonel Artois leaned negligently against the doorframe, casually eating a thickly crusted rye roll, while Richard gave a brief, crisp explanation. Then he grinned, brushed the crumbs off his fingers with a slap, and said, “Sounds like fun. Rescuing a damsel in distress and vexing a Lord. My wife will think me so romantic. We have to include Warren or he will never forgive you.”

“My thought exactly. You get him and meet me at the Darcy townhouse.” And with nothing further but precise nods, they parted.

If Mr. Travers was taken aback by Colonel Fitzwilliam’s curt attitude he did not show it. Fortunately, Mr. Darcy was at home, if in a meeting with his solicitor and shipping partners, but it never crossed the butler’s mind to refuse Mr. Darcy’s cousin entrance or immediate access to his Master. Darcy strode out of his library office, meeting Richard in the middle of the foyer and without preamble asked, “What has happened?”

“I have no time to explain. I need your carriage and driver, now.”

Darcy nodded. “Done.” He gestured to Mr. Travers, who waited a distance away, giving the command, and turned back to Richard. “Anything else?”

“My father’s physician, Dr. Angless. Can you send word to him to be on the alert? I may need him, I am not sure, but he is one of the best in London.”

“I will take care of it personally and have him waiting here. You are going after her.”

It wasn’t a question and Richard was not at all surprised that Darcy would piece it together. “Yes. She is in Hampshire being held captive. I know,” he said, seeing Darcy’s raised brow, “it sounds melodramatic and medieval, but she would not lie to me.” He said it with conviction, suddenly realizing how true the words were. The clarity in thought was a heady rush, leaving him momentarily breathless at the wonder of how he could ever have doubted her. The guilt at not fighting harder, forcing the truth somehow, threatened to overwhelm him. But just as rapidly he pushed it aside, regaining control, as he needed to do to deal with the present crisis.

The clomping of horses’ hooves interrupted further explanation. Richard glanced out the open door to see Artois and Warren in the street. To Darcy he gave instructions to send the driver to the estate in Hampshire as hastily as possible, leaving with a faint smile of thanks.

The three men pushed their horses hard. Fortunately, these were battle-trained mounts prepared for much rougher terrain than the well-maintained roads near London, so the distance was traversed swiftly with the animals breaking out in a minimal sweat. The sprawling estate and ancestral home of the Earl of Wrexham was surrounded