He grunted. His concern was useful. It sharpened his sight, tightened his focus, made him constantly aware of the passing time. But if he permitted his confusion over her situation or his fear for her safety to overcome him, then it would do what the laudanum could not; it would make him reckless. He could not afford to be reckless, not when Elizabeth was in a blackguard’s coach.
He would think on his feelings later. He would untangle them later. He would set them before her and tear them to pieces with her, sentence by sentence, until it all made sense. Later.
First, he must find her.
Darcy turned his eyes to the window. Between the gate at Biggleswade, which they had just passed, and the next at Baldock, he noted every turning that might take a full coach: one that slipped left under a pollard willow into sheltered ground; another half-swallowed by hazel and thorn; a broader road signed for a market town; and, last of all, a rougher track along the higher rise.
The horses’ pace altered. The road rose a little, and over the lift of land Darcy saw the Baldock tollbar. As they drew up, the tollkeeper appeared from his door.
“Good day to you,” he called. “I am Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. I seek news of a particular coach that may have passed this way this morning.” He described Sir Reginald’s equipage. “Three passengers inside, two ladies and a gentleman. It would have been only an hour or two past.”
The gatekeeper consulted his book. “No black coach with three passengers.”
“You are certain?”
“Coaches are my living, sir. I should not forget one,” the man said, with a touch of offence.
“Very well,” Darcy said. “You have been of real service. We shall be turning back but will pay you your fee.” As the tollkeeper wrote “coach and four,” Darcy stepped aside and called Anders down from the box, grateful that there were no other carriages waiting just now.
“They have not passed,” he said, when his coachman stood before him.
”No, sir,” Anders answered.
”Then they have left the road.”
”Yes, sir.”
Four lanes; one carriage. That wassomedirection at least. And Anders knew every turning of the great road within a day of London.
Darcy briefly described what he had seen.
“The willow lane is lonely,” Anders said in reply. “It comes out by a posting inn where the north road joins. It’s a rough place, though. The hedged lane passes cottages and ends at a beer house. It’s tight turns for a coach, but it could be done. The broad road stretches to Little Highland, a market town where there is a posting house and a good deal of business. The high track runs to farms. If they’ve friends there, they could be sheltering.”
Darcy would have said more, but another set of carriage wheels sounded from the London side. A coach swung into view and drew up as the tollkeeper hurried over.
The door of the new coach flew open before the horses had settled. A large gentleman at least twenty years older than Darcy sprang out, then grimaced and rubbed one knee before he straightened.
“My good man,” he cried to the tollkeeper, “I am Sir William Lucas, of Lucas Lodge. We have pressing business.”
“Sir William,” came a dry voice from within, “allow the man to name his fee, if you please.” A second man emerged, neat despite his journey. His coat was that of a modest gentleman, his dark hair grey at the temples, his gaze shrewd and observant. “We have no time to wait should he call the magistrate upon you.” He turned to the gate keeper. “I am Mr. Bennet,” he said. “What is your toll?”
Bennet.Could he be any relation to Elizabeth?
A third man, younger, light-haired, well-dressed and of quieter manner, now descended from the carriage.
Sir William leaned in closer and spoke low. “We are in search of a scoundrel. They are traveling in a black carriage, an older couple and a young woman.”
The toll-collector looked from Darcy to Sir William to Mr. Bennet and then to the unnamed third man. “I have not seen such a carriage today, sir, but if the scoundrel is in a dark coach,” he said cautiously, “then you may all be upon the same hunt. This gentleman”—he nodded towards Darcy— “was asking about such a carriage not three minutes since.”
“Then you are either our villain or our ally,” he exclaimed. “Which, sir? Declare yourself.”
Anders and Johnson were glancing between him and the bluff, blustery Sir William with their mouths agape. Darcy mastered the urge to point outthat the carriages might not be related at all and to ask whether Sir William commonly greeted strangers with accusations of villainy.
“I am Mr. Darcy,” he said plainly, then addressed himself to the other two men. “If you seek a coach with a Miss Bennet inside it, then I am very much at your service and not at all your enemy.”
Sir William’s face lit up. “My dear Bennet, we have cavalry after all.”
Mr. Bennet stepped forward. His eyes, though tired, were keen.