Page 74 of Mr. Darcy's Complex Courtship

“Huh? Oh yes, go on ahead, but ensure Sam accompanies you.” My father swung his arm in the direction of Mr. Baxter’s footman, but his sight never budged from the large, shiny fire-arm in his hand.

With Sam trailing me at an appropriate distance, I strolled along the high street. When I approached the large window of an inn, a gentleman therein reminiscent of Mr. Darcy drew my gaze. He stood in conversation with a tall, slender, well-dressed lady. It seemed I could not help comparing each gentleman I encountered to Mr. Darcy, and each fell short of the mark.

This gentleman, though, bore a striking likeness to Mr. Darcy. So much so that—I gasped, freezing in place. Had I dreamt up an apparition of him or…? No, thatwasMr. Darcy! He had worn that same stylish dark-blue coat to Vauxhall Gardens. What could have brought him here, now—of all places?

And who could this brown-haired lady be? She did not match Charlotte’s description of Miss Rebecca Finch. Could she be a family friend or…?

The lady stretched upwards andkissedMr. Darcy’s cheek.Good Lord.I averted my gaze as my stomach muscles contorted. My palm covered my abdomen, and I willed the possible onset of nausea to abate. For that woman to have initiated such an intimate act in public meant she must be his intended. When had they met? Perhaps he had known her for years. Not that it mattered—I had no claim upon him.

Mr. Darcy had no notion of my presence in Bedford, so I should take care to avoid him. Although I wanted him to behappy, I had no wish towitnesshis joy with another lady. I must retreat before he noticed me.

“Are you well, miss?” Sam moved closer.

“Yes, thank you.” Despite the warm weather, goose-skin erupted on my forearms. I kept my head down and walked back the way I had come. Papa and Mr. Baxter emerged from the gun shop and came to meet me.

My father inspected me with a slight frown. “Lizzy, is anything amiss? You look a bit…odd.”

“I am well.” Feigned cheerfulness infused my speech. “Before I reached the haberdashery, an idea came to me for my story. I am eager to return to the house and write it down.”

“Ah, I see.”

Mr. Baxter took my arm and grinned at me. “In that event, let us hasten back to the carriage. We must not impede your creative energy.”

On our way to the coach, I ventured a quick backwards look. Mercifully, it seemed Mr. Darcy had not emerged from the inn.

Upon our return to the house, I had no need to pretend an interest in working on my manuscript—the activity gave me the distraction I needed and provided a singular form of gratification. I had been writing for an hour or more when Papa came to my guest chamber.

He approached the desk and glanced at my manuscript. “I am pleased to see you continuing to take such a strong interest in this project and shall not delay you for long, but I have a surprise.” A grin brightened his countenance. “We shall attend a concert of Herr Mozart’s work tonight in the public assembly room.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“I thought you would be pleased.” Papa patted my shoulder. “I shall see you downstairs at five for dinner. The concert begins at seven.”

Not until the door closed behind him did it occur to me that Mr. Darcy might attend the concert. Well, at least I had several hours to prepare myself for the possibility. If we crossed paths this evening, I must greet him with at least anappearanceof tranquillity.

Friday, 3 July (One Day Earlier)

Bedfordshire

Darcy

“Help, please!” The plaintive female lament drew me to the coach window. A tall dark-haired lady stood in the road with another man, and they both waved to my coachman, Harry. At the side of the road, a stout older gentleman sat upon a fallen log.

As the carriage slowed to a stop, I opened the door. Hunter pressed closer as though to follow me. I held up my palm. “Stay, boy.” I approached the pair on the road. A tentative smile lightened the lady’s countenance. The man beside her wore the livery of a servant, and his hand gripped his opposite shoulder. I bowed to the lady. “I am Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. How may I assist you?”

She curtsied and pressed her palms together. “I thank you for coming to our aid, Mr. Darcy. I am Miss Barbara Nicholson”—she gestured to the seated gentleman—“and this is my father, Mr. Joseph Nicholson. Two armed men waylaid our coach.” She grimaced. “They shot my father in the leg and our driver in the shoulder.”

“That is terrible. I am sorry to hear this.” I faced the gentleman. “Despite the circumstances, I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Nicholson.”

He raised his hat and smoothed his chestnut hair. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. It is an honour to meet you.” A torn piece of white fabric had been tied a few inches above his right knee.

A baleful expression hardened Mr. Nicholson’s aspect. “Although both my driver, Bill, and I had our pistols nearby, we did not recognise the danger in time to obtain them. We encountered the taller man lying prone in the road. Bill and I alighted from our vehicle to assist him. When we neared the ruffian, he rolled over and brandished a gun. He shot Bill, then directed the weapon at me. The accomplice, a shorter man, emerged from behind a tree and aimed his fire-arm at my daughter. He threatened to shoot her if I made a false move. They ordered Barbara from the carriage and took everything we had—our weapons, jewellery, luggage, and money. Before they left in our coach, the taller man shot me in the leg—I suppose to ensure I could not follow them.”

I met Miss Nicholson’s gaze. “You must have been frightened. I hope you were not injured in any way.”

“No, merciful heavens, I am unharmed.” Her hand rose to her throat. “But the brute who pointed his pistol at me tore my peridot cross from my neck. It had been a gift from my late grandmother.”

“That is a shame. I hope your property will be recovered.” I turned back to Mr. Nicholson. “Did you get a good look at the men?”

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