“We ought not delay any longer,” Mr. Bennet insisted.
“Indeed,” Darcy agreed. “Let us search both. My men and I will return to the willow road,and—”
Mr. Bennet and Mr. Gardiner exchanged a glance. Mr. Gardiner nodded. “We shall take Little Highland.”
Johnson, who had been silent until now, spoke. “We ought to be on with it, Mr. Darcy. It looks like snow before the evening, and the roads may be more difficult to travel then.”
Darcy nodded once. “Yes.” Sir Reginald and Mrs. Hobart must know, after the laudanum, that Darcy would be searching, that he had discovered their plan. And if they had no scruples about drugging him, there was no telling the lengths to which they would go . . . He forced the thought aside. Wrath could wait. Action could not.
Sir William clapped his hands as if starting a dance. “Excellent. A rescue party.” He hurried back to the carriage.
“Let us rendezvous at the Inn at Topler’s Hill tonight,” Mr. Gardiner said, naming an inn between the two tollgates. “God willing, Elizabeth will be with one of us. If she is not, then we meet there regardless and decide together how to proceed.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Agreed.”
He climbed into his carriage. Johnson gathered the reins; Anders took Darcy's horse and swung up in to the saddle.
As the bar rose and both coaches creaked into motion, Darcy spared one last glance at the other party. No liveries. No banners. No solemn proclamations, only ordinary men in ordinary coats, bound together by their care for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Let Sir Reginald and Mrs. Hobart speak of crowns and kings. Darcy desired only this: that when Elizabeth Bennet next stepped down from a carriage, it would be to greet those who truly loved her.
Until that was done, he had no intention of yielding the chase.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The cold had worked its way through the carriage planks and floor until it seemed to have taken up residence in Elizabeth’s bones. It occurred to her, with a faint and bitter amusement, that this was the first true service Sir Reginald had rendered her: he had cured her forever of any romantic notions connected with winter journeys.
Her thoughts ran back over the road behind them, mile after mile, inn after inn. Patterns that had seemed merely vexatious at the time arranged themselves with maddening clarity. Elizabeth had supposed Mrs. Hobart’s unwillingness to follow Sir Reginald’s instructions to be an unfortunate but understandable desire to enjoy the comforts she missed from her former life in Thurnia, and her palpitations and nerves like Mamma’s, a bid for attention. Now, with the frost pinching her toes and Sir Reginald opposite her, composed and watchful, Elizabeth saw that it had been calculation.
Mrs. Hobart had been signalling, and she had been stalling.
Every use of “princess” had been her leaving inquiry and gossip, news that would tell Sir Reginald where they had been. Every delay had been to give him time to catch them up.
Elizabeth’s frozen fingers tightened within her muff. Mrs. Hobart, who professed herself so devoted to Elizabeth’s comfort, had been quite content to parade her along the whole North Road, so long as Sir Reginald never lost the scent.
Very well. She could do the same.
The air inside the carriage was close and stale; her head had begun to ache with the motion and the weight of her fears. That, at least, could be useful. She let her head rest back against the squabs and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, she made sure that they would appear hazy.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, allowing her voice to fall softer. “I am afraid the last stage has not agreed with me. The jolting upon this road is worse than I am used to. Might we go a little slower for a while? I am persuaded I shall be better if the pace is checked.”
Sir Reginald’s brows drew together. “I am grieved that you should be distressed,” he said. “Yet we have a long way to go, and I am anxious to see you safe before nightfall. Perhaps a little fresh air would revive you.”
That was not the answer she had hoped for, but she must be agreeable or they would become suspicious. “If Mrs. Hobart does not object,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Hobart, roused by the sound of her own name, patted at her curls. “If the air is needful for you, my dear, you must have it. I feel nothing but vigour. Youth is so easily overset.”
Sir Reginald shifted as though to oblige her. Before he could do more, Elizabeth pressed a hand to her temple and drew a careful breath.
“I am sorry,” she said. “If we could stop for only a few minutes, I believe a little walk would set me to rights.”
She saw the hesitation again—the swift measuring of time and distance. She lifted one hand to her mouth.
In the end, prudence won where compassion had not. Sir Reginald rapped upon the roof.
The coach slowed and drew up as close to the verge as the ruts allowed. Mrs. Hobart squeaked at the cold when the door was opened, and Sir Reginald helped Elizabeth down.