Darcy ignored it. “Where is Miss Bennet?” he demanded, fixing Mr. Gregory with a stare that allowed no evasion.
Mr. Gregory’s gaze flicked—quick, involuntary—toward the stairs.
Darcy saw it and took the stairs two at a time. At the top of them the passage ran short and plain, with two doors and a small window at the end of the hall looking out upon the trees.
He went to the nearer door and tried the knob. Locked. He opened the second door and glanced inside. A large bed; little else. It must be the main bedchamber. He left it open and returned to the first.
The doors here were even flimsier than the front had been. He leaned back against the wall and struck out hard with his foot. Wood cracked; the lock gave. He kicked once more and shoved the door wide.
Empty.
The bed was rumpled. The fire had burneddown to sullen coals.
But Miss Bennet was not there.
For a moment, Darcy could not move. Could not breathe. The emptiness hit him like a fist to the chest, stealing the air from his lungs and replacing it with something close to panic.
He forced himself to think. The bed was disturbed. Shehadbeen here. The fire had been lit, recently, perhaps within the last hour. But the room was frigid now. He looked to the window—it was cracked open.
Darcy crossed to it, threw it up, and leaned out. Below, the ground was churned where someone had dropped from the sill and landed hard. Footprints—small, hurried—ran toward the trees.
She had escaped. Ofcourseshe had.
Frustration rose in him, swift and sharp, and with it, an unwilling admiration. Another woman might have waited for rescue. Miss Bennet had flung herself into the freezing weather rather than wait passively for whatever fate Sir Reginald had planned.
It was nearly full dark now. The temperature was dropping. If she had fled without knowing where she was or which direction to travel . . . How long ago had she jumped? Ten minutes? An hour? She could be anywhere by now. Lost in the woods, trying to find the road, or worse, lying injured somewhere, unable to call for help.
His hands curled on the sill until his knuckles went white.
He hurried down the stairs.
Anders had Sir Reginald secured now, bound with what looked like curtain cord. Mrs. Hobart sat tied to her chair with more of the same, still sputtering protests. Mr. Gregory’s hands were bound behind him, his face pale and sweating.
Johnson walked another woman into the room. “The wife,” he said when Darcy looked at him. “Last one.” He set her in a chair and began to bind her as well.
Darcy crossed into the hall and took a lantern from a peg. His hands were steady, but only just. Anders and Johnson followed him out.
“Miss Bennet is gone. Where is Sir Reginald's coach?” Darcy asked.
The men exchanged a glance.
“In the back,” Johnson said. “Near where I was waiting.”
Together they stepped round the rear of the property, where Sir Reginald’s carriage waited on a strip of drive behind trees. Without a word from Darcy, Anders drew the linchpin from the axle and held it out.
Darcy pocketed it. The wheel might hold for a few yards—perhaps it would roll smoothly at first—but the first rut would have it wobbling, then slipping. Even if they had a spare pin, it would take time.
“Take the horses,” Darcy said. “We keep them with us. Even if Sir Reginald frees himself, he will not be able to go far.”
Anders nodded.
Darcy faced the dark line of trees. The sun was disappearing below the horizon, and he lit the lantern. “Now we search,” he said.
“The road?” Anders murmured.
“Perhaps,” Darcy said, though he did not believe Miss Bennet would walk anywhere she would be so exposed. He lifted the lantern. “Spread out. Look for her trail—broken branches, a slide in the mud, anything. If we find nothing, we shall follow the road back toward the inn and search both sides as we go.”
They nodded, faces set.