Darcy's Journey (6 page)

11

The villa was located midway along the
narrow island of Lido. Having decided to reconnoitre, they sailed down the west
coast, bringing bread and salt cod to eat on the way. Lido seemed to go on for
ever; luckily a tiny island just off the coast provided a landmark, and they
easily found the wharf that Mario had highlighted on his sketch. From there the
villa was a short walk inland.

It was a fair-sized square building of
recent construction, set away from the older terraces and ringed by a garden
planted with Mediterranean pine, cypress, and lemon trees. Observing from
nearby scrubland, which provided good shelter, Darcy remarked to Burgess that
the shutters were open; however, during a ten-minute surveillance, no-one came
or went. Burgess pointed to movement in the back yard, and with his pocket
telescope Darcy saw a maid enter a chicken run, perhaps to collect eggs.

‘I must get closer,’ he said to Burgess.
‘Run back to Luca and make sure he is ready for a fast getaway. Then return here,
and wait for me.’

‘Are you planning to enter the house,
sir?’

‘I see no alternative. We must find out
whether Miss Bennet is here.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, might it not
be better to come back later with reinforcements?’

Darcy sighed. Burgess was correct: they
had not even troubled to bring pistols. But he had to find out whether
Elizabeth was truly in danger. Even if common sense advised caution, it ran
against all his instincts to retreat, when for all he knew she might be inside
those walls, just a few yards away.

His knock was answered by a footman,
whom he recognised from the residence in Venice.

The man bowed. ‘Signor Darcy.’

‘
Buon giorno
. Is Signor Carandini
here?’

There was a frantic hiss from the
passageway and the servant shook his head. ‘
Mi dispiace
. He is unavailable.’

‘And the others? Lady Havers? Miss
Bennet?’

‘Unavailable.’ The footman reached for
the door, but Darcy held up a hand.

‘When are they expected back?’

The door slammed shut. Angry at not inserting
a boot, Darcy retreated past the gate, and waited a moment before circling
round to the side of the plot. Using a convenient overhanging branch he pulled
himself back into the garden, and began a cautious circuit.

There were two main floors, and an
attic. All ground floor windows had iron bars. Above, the windows were shuttered
but unbarred; some had terraces. He sought a tree that would provide access,
but found none. Scanning the upstairs windows, he saw no sign of Elizabeth or anyone
else. Round the back, near the chicken run, he came on a back door, and breaking
cover, gave it an exploratory tug.

The door held firm, probably bolted on
the inside.

Darcy looked both ways before returning
to the shelter of the bushes. He watched, wondering whether he had been seen.

On the floor above, a window opened and
a small face peeped out.

Maddalena. The younger daughter.

She waved, and he moved out a little and
waved back. Fearing she might cry out, he lifted a finger to his lips.

The little girl nodded, held up a hand
as if telling him to wait, and ducked beneath the window sill.

He held his breath. Would she find a way
of opening the door for him? Or summon Elizabeth to the window?

Maddalena returned, holding a cloth doll,
which she launched into the garden not far from where he stood. Could there be
a note attached? He stepped forward to examine the doll. No message. He looked
up questioningly, and she pointed down to the back door.

He thought he understood.

She could not come herself, but had
found a pretext for causing a
servant
to open the door.

Darcy dropped the doll and crept to the
side of the house, where a rose bush beside the door offered shelter. Minutes
passed. A bolt was drawn, and out trotted the maid whom Darcy had seen earlier
with his telescope. He dodged round the bush as her back was turned, and found himself
in a scullery. In the kitchen, a cook stared at him open-mouthed as he passed
through to the hall. There was a cry as the maid returned. A door swung open
and the footman appeared, followed by Gabriele Carandini. They froze, then
Carandini stepped forward, bristling with outrage.

‘Signor Darcy, you have no right …’

‘My entrance was unconventional, but I
might also ask why I was so rudely excluded.’ Darcy turned as another door
opened and Signora Carandini joined her son, with Regina at her flank. ‘I have
been told that Miss Bennet is still residing with you. May I see her?’

Carandini shook his head. ‘Impossible.
Mr Darcy, you must leave now.’

‘Is Miss Bennet here or not?’

‘She is unavailable.’

From the top of the stairs a tiny voice
cried out, ‘
Non è vero
. She is here.’

The maid scampered up with the cloth
doll, as Darcy turned back to Carandini. ‘Enough. I will see her now.’

‘Miss Bennet is sick, and not to be
disturbed. I must insist that you leave.’

Darcy looked at Regina. ‘Is this true,
Lady Havers?’

Regina threw an anxious glance at her
mother, then at Carandini, before responding in a whisper, ‘My brother is
right.
Elisabetta
has not been well.’

There was no point appealing to the
mother. Darcy span round and mounted the stairs, ignoring the outraged cries of
the family. He found nobody in the upper passage, only six doors, all closed.
From the stairs came a frantic clatter as Carandini and the footman gave chase.
He saw the cloth doll again, on the floor, with its arm extended towards a door.
Coincidence, or a pointer? He ran to the door, pulled, and discovered it had
been locked with the key left on the outside. Quickly he entered, slammed the
door shut, and relocked it.

The room was tiny, with a clammy
atmosphere. Elizabeth was levering herself into a sitting position, blinking in
confusion as if awoken by the rumpus. She gasped as he approached, but said
nothing.

‘My dear Miss Bennet …’ He sat beside
her and took her hand. ‘You are ill?’

She met his eye, and he flinched to see
the pallor on her face. ‘Tired.’

There was a rap on the door, which he
tried to ignore. He leaned close to her and whispered, ‘What is happening? Why
did you not leave with Sir Edward?’

The banging intensified. ‘Signor Darcy!’
Carandini’s voice. ‘I have sent for the police. Unlock this door!’

Elizabeth touched his arm, her brow
creased. ‘I cannot remember …’ The door shuddered as a shoulder was applied,
and she fell back in a swoon.

‘Stop!’ Darcy yelled. ‘I will unlock the
door.’ He made a quick survey of the room, spotted an empty wine glass on the
bedside table, and sniffed it. Replacing it with a grimace, he turned the key,
returning to Elizabeth’s side as Carandini and the footman rushed in.

‘Leave now,’ Carandini said. ‘Or you
will be arrested.’

‘I will leave when Miss Bennet is ready
to accompany me,’ Darcy said.

Carandini took up his familiar bristling
stance, his face beaded with sweat. ‘The
signorina
is too sick to
travel, and you are not responsible for her.’

‘As a friend of her family it is both my
right and my duty to assist her.’

‘On the contrary.’ Carandini waved a
piece of paper. ‘As her
fidanzato
, betrothed, it is
I
who am
responsible.’

Darcy took the document, which held a
lengthy text in Italian followed by an illegible signature. ‘This is meaningless
to me and proves nothing.’

‘I can call my lawyer if you wish.’

Darcy turned to Elizabeth, who had
opened her eyes and was following the conversation with a curious apathy. ‘Is
this true? Did you sign this document?’

She blinked. ‘It seems I did.’ She
looked away dreamily. ‘My father warned me …’

‘Miss Elizabeth, listen carefully. What
do you wish to do? Remain in Italy and marry Signor Carandini? Or return to
England?’

Carandini stepped forward. ‘Miss Bennet
is too sick to travel. Do you not see, she can scarcely follow what you say?
She is receiving the best possible care from my physician, and must stay here.’

Darcy held out a palm to ward him off.
‘Elizabeth?’

Her eyes moistened. ‘I would like to see
my family …’

The crowd attending at the door parted,
and a man in dark blue uniform entered. He recognised Carandini, and there was
an exchange too rapid for Darcy to follow. The man turned to Darcy, and spoke
very slowly in Italian:

‘Signor, you must leave now. The English
lady will stay because she is sick and under the care of a physician.’

There was a whimper from Elizabeth, who looked
imploringly at Darcy before burying head in hands.

‘See, you are distressing her,’
Carandini said.

There was no point resisting. Darcy bowed
to the policeman and followed him from the house.

12

Seated at his desk, Richard Hoppner
attended impassively while Darcy concluded his story. Through the open window
at the consulate a clock tower chimed four. The consul nodded slowly.

‘So what would you have me do?’

‘You tell me. I have reason to think
that an Englishwoman has been abducted, and is about to become the victim of a
forced marriage. What redress do we have? Can we count on the authorities to
investigate honestly?’ Darcy threw up his hands. ‘Who are the relevant authorities
in any case?’

‘Well may you ask.’ Hoppner opened a box
of cigars and pushed it across the desk. ‘Smoke?’

Darcy shook his head. Hoppner clipped a
cigar, lit it, and leaned back. ‘It is like musical chairs. For centuries, this
region was administered by the Republic of Venice. This ended with the French
invasion at the end of the last century, and Napoleon later included the Veneto
in his Kingdom of Italy, and appointed French officers to look after the
police. Last year, just a few months ago, this was changed again when the
Congress of Vienna re-assigned control to the Austrian Empire. Now Bonaparte is
back in France, and who knows what will happen. The prefect is trustworthy, but
he remains a French appointee, now answerable to an Austrian commander. In such
times, the abduction of an Englishwoman will command little attention—even
assuming that we can provide proof.’

‘So how is law and order maintained?’

‘Poorly. Much depends on the local
captains, who are Venetians, not foreigners, and likely to favour their own
kind. They are also susceptible to bribery.’

‘They would stoop so low as to support
abduction and forced marriage?’

The consul blew a smoke ring. ‘It would
depend on the official. The trouble is that we have two rival interpretations
of the facts. Miss Bennet has resided in Venice for months as a friend of the
family. An attachment with Carandini is not implausible. His lawyer is willing
to attest to an engagement. She is plainly sick, and under the care of his
doctor. Against this weight of evidence, I fear you have no case.’

Darcy clenched his fists in frustration.
‘I’m convinced, Hoppner, that Miss Bennet is being held under duress, probably
through the use of drugs.’ He recalled the smell of the empty wine glass at her
bedside. ‘If I am not mistaken, they are dosing her with laudanum.’

Hoppner rested his cigar on an ashtray
and leaned forward. ‘I’m sorry, but it will not do. We have no proof. Laudanum
is often prescribed as a medicine. I see no way to proceed by official
channels.’

Darcy lowered his voice. ‘And what of
unofficial
channels?’

The consul studied him. ‘You care for
this woman? You would risk your life for her?’

‘Certainly.’

‘You have resources,’ the consul mused.
‘Money. Skill with a rapier, I would wager. Did you bring a pistol?’

‘Two, to defend against brigands.’

Hoppner continued in a whisper, ‘I speak
now as a friend, not as an official. Yes, in your place I would seek
reinforcements and attempt a rescue. The administrative chaos of recent months
will work in your favour. But remember, Carandini has resources too. If you
have drawn his character correctly, he will not take this lying down. He will
employ agents of his own and come after you.’

Darcy recalled Mario Carandini’s warning.
‘I will be ready.’

‘One thing I can do.’ Hoppner took a key
from his pocket and unlocked a drawer. ‘Again in confidence.’ He withdrew a wad
of documents. ‘As a precaution I keep false letters of safe conduct for use by
my wife and myself in an emergency. They may prove useful if officials have
been ordered to detain anyone named Darcy or Bennet.’

Darcy glanced at the letters, which
related to a certain Mr Giles Ashley from Cambridge, and his wife Rebecca. ‘Do
you not need these yourself?’

‘I can make two more sets.’

‘This is a kindness I will not forget.’

Hoppner rose and offered his hand.

13

The night was clear, the moon
almost full. Their vessel, a
caorlina
, resembled a rudimentary gondola,
but had a longer interior with space for six rowers. Darcy had taken an oar,
leaning back against a small trunk holding their possessions. In front were two
sailors, Angus and Dougal, whom he had found hanging around the port in hope of
earning their passage to Scotland. Having enjoyed no success that day, the
sailors were glad of the opportunity to earn a ducat apiece. They had co-opted
two drinking companions, Italian fishermen mostly drawn by adventure, but with
an eye to the flagon of wine that Darcy had brought along as an incentive.

It was an hour past midnight, Darcy
estimated, yet traffic still moved over the lagoon, the dark shapes pin-pointed
by oil lamps. As well as manpower, Angus and Dougal provided equipment: ropes,
a grappling hook, an iron lever, a hammock. For weaponry they carried knives;
Darcy had sword and pistols—a necessary precaution, but he knew in his
heart that if it came to a battle, their chances of escape were slight.

They found the dock near the villa, and
Darcy checked the coast was clear before passing through to the scrubland.

‘Burgess?’ he hissed.

‘Over here, sir.’ The servant was seated
on a tree trunk shielded from the villa by oleander bushes. He pointed to the
gate.

‘Is the family still here?’ Darcy asked.

Burgess nodded. ‘They’ve posted two
guards.’

Darcy peered through the bushes. ‘I see
no-one.’

Burgess pointed to a hut that adjoined
the villa. ‘One is inside. The other is round the back, patrolling.’

They waited until a man walked stiffly
into view, carrying a musket. Darcy sighed. Some kind of defence he had
expected, but to neutralise two armed men without a fracas would take time, if
it could be done at all. He thought for a while, before leaving Burgess on
watch and returning to the dock.

‘Nae a problem,’ Dougal said. ‘Creep
aside them, one two wi’ the hilt of ma wee knife, and it’s gudnicht to baith of
them.’

‘Or goodnight to both of
you
if
they hear you coming,’ Darcy said. ‘I have a better idea.’ He took a small
bottle from his pocket, and whispered to the fishermen to bring the stoneware
flagon of wine from the boat.

‘I’m hoping that our friends outside the
villa will be bored, and not amiss to a little refreshment.’ He uncorked the phial
and held it to Angus’s nose. ‘Recognise this?’

‘Boggin ’ell, tha’s bitter.’

Darcy up-ended the phial into the
flagon. It was laudanum, the mixture of opium and alcohol he had smelled in Elizabeth’s
wine glass. He had brought it in case she craved the drug; now it had found a
better use.

‘Waste of gud buckie,’ Angus complained.

Darcy shook the flagon and tested the
wine with a finger. Yes, it was bitter, but still drinkable. He gestured to the
fishermen to join them, and in broken Italian issued his instructions.

An hour or so later, Burgess joined
them at the boat.

‘It’s working,’ he whispered. ‘One of the
guards managed a wobbly patrol ten minutes ago, but his mate hasn’t come out.
They’re both in the shed now.’

‘Excellent. Tell us if anything
changes.’

Darcy gave the thumbs up to the
fishermen, who had hoodwinked the guards by pretending to be local revellers
willing to share a flagon of
vino rosso
. The guards were ex-militiamen who
offered their skills to anyone willing to pay. Weary and bored, they were
easily tempted to try one swig, then another, until eventually they traded a
pinch of tobacco for the whole flagon.

‘They winna be out cold,’ Angus warned.
‘Nae on laudanum.’

Darcy nodded. ‘But we have them drinking
in the shed now, and their reactions will be sluggish.’

They sent the fishermen back to the shed.
One guard was now snoring; the other, recalling his job, staggered around the
villa until he reached a tree, where Angus and Dougal jumped him and stuffed a
rag in his mouth to keep him quiet.

Able to move freely at last, with both
guards bound and gagged, Darcy unlatched the gate and led the sailors to a
cypress that he had spotted from Elizabeth’s window. He looked up at the small stone
balcony and rickety wooden shutters.
Had they moved her?
But why go to
such trouble with two guards outside?

The tree was too far from the balcony to
provide access. Angus and Dougal conferred by gesture; then Angus leaned
against the wall while Dougal climbed on his back. Dougal’s fingers reached for
the balustrade, but it was too high. Angus pointed to a rope, which Darcy passed
up; Dougal managed to lob the end over the balustrade and thread it back.
Looking down with a grin, he fashioned a noose to grip the top of the wall, and
jumped down.

Darcy pulled on the rope. It held firm.

Lower down the rope, the sailors had
tied thick knots to serve as footrests. Angus shimmied up, the iron lever in
his teeth, and was probing the shutters as Darcy joined him. He pointed to a
gap, where a fastener on the inside was visible, wiggled the blade of his knife
through, and lifted it. With a creak the shutter opened to reveal a sash window
slightly ajar.

Carefully, Darcy raised the window and
climbed inside. He recalled the clammy air and the faint odour of opium. A
woman stirred, then rolled on to her side, asleep. Darcy leaned over the bed
and saw the familiar dark curls, now unpinned, and the pale skin shiny with
sweat.

It was Elizabeth. She was here.