Then he reached for the latch of the carriage door. Swung it outward. Began to step down.
Elizabeth held her breath.
And upon the quiet winter air there came, sharp and unmistakable, the metallic snap of a pistol being cocked.
Chapter Twelve
The single, perfect click of a pistol brought to the cock set every nerve in Darcy’s body on edge.
He paused where he was, one foot upon the coach step, his hand upon the door. The sound had come from his left, near at hand. The man with the pistol had waited until the door swung open and his prey was half out, committed to the descent.
Very prudent.
He released the latch and raised his hands, palms outward, away from his body. The movement was unhurried. There was no need to tell an armed man that he had a pistol under his coat, secreted in an inner breast pocket.
“Very sensible, your honour,” called the same rough voice that had ordered Anders to hold the reins. “Now step down. Slow. Keep those hands up. I should not like to spoil that fine coat.”
Darcy stepped down carefully, his hands raised level with his shoulders.
The road beneath his boots was iron-hard and rutted, the snow packed and spotted with the frozen droppings of horses. The road where they stood was narrower than he liked; the fallen limb barred the way ahead from hedge to hedge.
His eyes took in the scene. There were four men that he could see; two stood between him and the limb that blocked their passage, one with a pistol, one with a club. A third perched upon the bank, acting as a lookout. The fourth was near the horses’ heads, his pistol trained, Darcy had no doubt, upon Johnson and Anders. There might be more behind the gorse on the rise or lying low in the ditch. He could not assume these four were all.
Both pistols were common travelling pieces, single-barrelled. His own, snug beneath his coat, carried two charges.
Darcy did not look back at the coach. He could feel it, the dark bulk of it at his back, the faint creak as the springs stilled. He could sense rather than hear the women within.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I am afraid you have chosen a poor place for conversation.”
The man immediately before him with the pistol laughed. He was thick through his chest and shoulders, his coat pulled tight across his back, his hat jammed low. A ragged scarf half hid his neck. His face, what could be seen of it, had a ruddy colour, that of a man who spent more time outdoors than in and who drank more than he ought.
“We like it well enough,” he said. “No one here to meddle. No one to call the magistrate.”
“Ah, but there is no need for anyone to call,” Darcy returned. “ForIam a magistrate. I am bound for London on business connected with that office. If you are wise, you will clear the road at once and permit us to pass, before you invite the sort of trouble that will follow you home.”
There was a brief silence. The man examined him with a look in which calculation sat alongside amusement.
“Hear that, lads?” he called over his shoulder. “We have a justice of the peace among us. A proper fine gentleman. Did you hear how he said it? Bound for London on business. None of your cheap tradesmen, this one.”
A chuckle came from the hedge. The man near the horses shifted his stance. The pistol did not waver.
Darcy’s hands remained where they were. He felt no inclination to join in their laughter.
“You overrate your own importance, sir,” the leader went on. “It is of small moment to us what business you have in town. We are concerned with other matters.” His grin widened, showing two brown teeth. “We know there is a lady in your carriage.”
Darcy kept his voice cool. “I am travelling with two ladies. Both are under my protection.”
“Under your protection,” the man repeated with a leer, as though rolling the phrase upon his tongue. “For what good that’ll do ’em, eh?” He turned his head and spat into the snow.
“We’re here for the princess,” said the man closest to him. “Turn her over and we’ll be gone.”
“Princess?” Darcy asked, feigning confusion. “Inmycoach?”
“We know all about it, Mr. Magistrate.”
The other men snickered.
Darcy struggled to keep his composure.Of coursethere was talk of a princess upon the road, with Mrs. Hobart proclaiming Miss Bennet as such at every inn. Her delight in the word, her endless rehearsing of “Her Highness” to any who would listen, had furnished these men with all the encouragement they required. He had observed Mrs. Hobart to be vain, foolish, importunate; her loose tongue had now put them all at risk.