The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (46 page)

“The Major General will lead the way,” he said as the men lined up behind him. “Stay close and be aware of the hand signals of the person ahead of you. Especially as we approach the actual house.”

As karsts went, Darcy did not think this one much more than a well-developed cave system. He had been in much more elaborate rock formations in the Dark Peaks of Derbyshire. Nor was it
anything like the limestone karsts his father had shared with him near Loch Slapin. He had been nine when his father had allowed Darcy to accompany the elder Darcy on a journey into Scotland's interior. All the karsts of which he knew were on raised shorelines; yet, an underground lake could cut into rolling hills in much the same manner. The day's earlier downpour showed in the water trails that vanished underground. The men lit their lanterns as they started forward into the opening's depths. “It narrows up ahead. Be careful.”

Darcy followed his cousin through the twists and turns, but he also kept a careful eye on the additional six men they had hired as part of their force. Edward had drafted a plan of sorts. They knew how difficult it would be to reach the chambers where the girl they suspected to be Georgiana was kept. They would first fight their way through the cellars and then across the upper halls to the private quarters. Darcy wondered if ten armed men would be enough. The element of surprise would aid them, at least initially, but he doubted they would get through this night without someone being injured or killed. He thought of Elizabeth and Bennet. When his party had departed Alpin less than four and twenty hours prior, he had hopes of quickly locating Georgiana and returning to his family's comfort. Now, he questioned whether they would find Georgiana and whether he might survive the upcoming battle. Not a battle in the strictest sense of the word—not a battle as Edward had experienced—but a battle nonetheless.

He lowered himself to wedge his way through the small opening. Edward waited impatiently on the other side. With both their lanterns swinging from one hand, his cousin stared distractedly into the darkness, as if seeing something not there. Finally, through the tight opening, Darcy rose to stand beside the man he admired and
trusted above all others. “If she is here, we will find Georgiana,” he said softly behind his cousin.

“And if she is not?” Edward asked hoarsely.

“Then we will search elsewhere,” Darcy assured. They stood in silence for several minutes until each of the men they had hired had likewise come through the opening. “We are prepared. Lead on, Cousin.”

“Yes, a room with one high window on the side and a smaller one on the front,” Elizabeth explained.

Mr. Jacks concentrated on her every word. Elizabeth had found plain paper and charcoal in Georgiana's belongings and had sketched the room of which she had dreamed. “It resembles a reivers' hut,” he said as he scratched the day's growth of gray stubble adorning his chin.

“This far inland?” Elizabeth asked. “I thought those were only found along the border.”

“Some clans set up a line of safe places in case they be chased by the English. Mayhap, it be one of them,” Jacks reasoned.

Elizabeth turned the sketch where Jacks might see it better. “I need to know where the closest of these huts is located,” she insisted.

“Let me show this in the stables and see if any of the boys recognize it. It be many years since I be farther than the village.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jacks. This is important.” As she watched him make his way toward the servants' exit, Elizabeth said a prayer that he would return with news of her hunch proving correct. “At least, Mr. Jacks did not consider me deranged,” she said with a chuckle. “Hold on, Georgiana. We are getting closer.”

“Wot be that odor?” one of the hired men whispered. After thirty minutes and more than one missed turn, they now peered through a grated opening into the Normanna chambers.

“Rotting flesh,” Edward said harshly. Anger flared deep in his gut.

Darcy looked over Edward's shoulder at the darkened passageway, which was lined with iron doors. “I had hoped MacBethan had exaggerated,” he said with a resigned sigh. “How should we handle this?”

Edward did not turn his head. His eyes remained fixed on what lay ahead. “I will go through first. Reconnaissance. Depending on what I discover, I will either motion you to follow or send you back the way you came.” They had left three lanterns burning on the other side of a large boulder. Trying to return in complete darkness would be foolish.

“Be careful,” Darcy cautioned. Using their handkerchiefs to muffle the scraping sounds to a minimum, they eased the grate from the crumbling stones. “I will give you no more than ten minutes, Cousin. Then I follow you into this pit.”

Edward nodded before sliding through the opening feet first to land standing in a circle of muted light from a high wall sconce. Without looking back at Darcy, he pulled his gun from his holster and moved away into the blackness.

Edward felt his chest constrict as he moved along the passageway. As he checked each of the locked doors, memories of those pits in which he had found his fellow countrymen flooded his mind. Despite the difference in circumstance, panic filled him. He had tried to save those he had discovered in a makeshift prison outside of Belgium. It had been a fine house, such as this one, in which he had discovered some fifty Englishmen locked in five rooms in the house's cellars. The men lived in filth and surrounded by death. It was some two weeks after Waterloo, and he had led a ragtag unit of men to round up the last of the French who hid in the area. He had
received word one day as he kept vigil beside Southland's bed in a makeshift hospital of a house and a community that had hidden the French during their retreat.

Needing to find redemption for surviving the terror known as Waterloo, Edward had made a command decision. He had gathered men he could trust and set out to know the truth of this alleged betrayal. Signs of the French were everywhere in the house and in the neighborhood, and Edward's long-held temper snapped. He ordered the building burned to the ground after allowing his men to take what they wanted from the house's treasures.

It was not his crowning moment as a leader, and his superiors had not been pleased, but he had not regretted the decision because his impetuous action had saved the lives of some thirty good men and had given honor to the remains of another twenty. “Thank God,” he murmured as he tried yet another lock. This time the door gave way, and Edward noiselessly pulled it from its frame and entered the cavity. The smell of urine and feces choked the breath from his throat, while complete blackness blocked his vision.

To his left, a groan and a creak of furniture said he was not alone, but he could see none of what the room held. “Be someone there?” A raspy voice came from the direction of the previous groan. “Be it time for more food?” The sound of chains straining against the walls spoke of imprisonment.

“Not quite,” Edward whispered through gritted teeth.

A long silence followed. “Ye be English,” the voice accused. “I always thought God be a Scotsman.”

Edward could not help but smile. “Not God,” he said softly, “but you will have to tolerate being saved by an Englishman. Will you mind terribly?”

He heard the man shift again. “I be changin' me allegiance and callin' meself English if that be so,” the hoarse voice whispered.

Edward made no effort to see the prisoner. It was enough to know the man was alive. “That shan't be necessary. For now, rest easy. This may take a few minutes, but you have the word of the son of an English earl that this is the last hour you will spend in this cell. I will return for you.”

The prisoner rattled his chain in a grim reminder. “I be goin' nowhere for now, m'Lord.”

“Soon,” Edward whispered and retreated to the passage. He eased the door closed behind him before slowly letting out the breath he held. His conversation with the prisoner reminded him that there was more at stake than simply finding Georgiana. Others needed him as much as his wife.

Claiming a megrim, the girl had avoided having dinner with Lord Wotherspoon. Her emotions had played havoc with her all afternoon, and she was no closer to knowing what to do than she had been the first day she had awakened in this house. One moment she had thought to trust Lord Wotherspoon and the next she reminded herself that it was he who had ordered her to remain behind when the strangers had arrived at Normanna.

Wotherspoon had rattled her senses. He had shown her a great kindness and true tenderness; yet, the man concealed his mother's keeping prisoners in the cellar. And for what purpose? Why would someone kidnap peddlers and villagers and tradesmen? What good would they be to the estate? How could commoners bring about Normanna's solvency? And Wotherspoon had said his mother had saved the title with her schemes; yet, he had countered with the idea that Lady Wotherspoon had committed the ultimate sin. What did His Lordship mean by “save the title”? What sin, exactly? In her mind, the ultimate sin was murder, but surely Lord Wotherspoon
could not lay such accusations at his mother's feet. Despite her misgivings regarding the woman, the girl knew full well that it was Lady Wotherspoon who had nursed her back to health. And where did she fit into this situation? How would Lady Wotherspoon react to His Lordship's plans to replace her? None of it made any sense.

“Could Lord Wotherspoon's affections be honest?” she wondered aloud. “Or is it all part of a devious plan to baffle me?”

The girl loosened the tumbler holding the door closed and edged it open no more than an inch. She had quickly learned Rankin's habits and knew when he retreated below stairs for a quick meal. Seeing his mat empty, she opened the gap wider and stuck her head out into the hallway to search for Rankin's replacement. With no one about, she slid into the open passageway and silently closed the door behind her. She had taken several pillows and covered them with a blanket to give the impression that she slept; but with a closer inspection, anyone would notice that the three small cushions could not possibly be an actual human form under the coverlet.

Turning to her left, she clung to the wall as she moved stealthily through the shadowy passages. She knew only one way from the house—through the gardens. On foot and with the approaching nightfall, she had not calculated her chances of success as very high, but she had to try. The only way she could ever think clearly was to put distance between herself and this house—between herself and Lord Wotherspoon. Her feelings for the man were tangled in the mystery of this house, and until that was solved she would not know her true regard.

Hiding in an empty room, she anxiously waited until two maids hurried past before she continued toward her single goal of reaching the gardens and the lands she had viewed beyond. She realized that she held no understanding of what lay beyond the groomed lawns
nor which way led to safety, but she reasoned that she could never feel secure while under the Wotherspoon's roof. “Please, God,” she prayed silently. She had just turned toward the stairs leading to the side entrance when an uproar below warned her that her situation had suddenly become dire.
Run
, she thought.
Run for your life
.