The Deception at Lyme: Or, the Peril of Persuasion (Mr. And Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (35 page)

“I do not think the sea is to blame. In fact, it seems rather to reveal character—it did in the case of Captain St. Clair.”

Georgiana had not looked at St. Clair since their discussion broke up, but now hazarded a glance in his direction. The admiral having departed, he was talking to Darcy, but both men had half an eye on Georgiana. Upon being caught observing her, St. Clair immediately averted his gaze; Darcy questioned Elizabeth with his. He wanted to know his sister’s state, which Elizabeth silently assured him was sound. Or would be. Captain St. Clair’s expression had also shown concern, though of a less brotherly sort.

“I underestimated Captain St. Clair, as well,” Georgiana said. “All in all, I have not proved myself a very good judge of men.”

“Neither have we. Darcy and I were fairly convinced that St. Clair was involved with Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.”

“But see—you knew there was more beneath the surface. He
was
involved with Gerard’s death; he has spent years trying to bring the conspirators to justice—while I was daydreaming about a marriage offer from Gerard’s killer.” She shuddered. “Had my wish been granted, I dare not contemplate what my life would have been as Lady Ashford. Captain St. Clair delivered me from more than the sea.”

That gentleman and Darcy were at that moment also discussing the subject of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death.

“As you said earlier, there was more than one future baronet aboard the
Magna Carta
at the time my cousin died,” Darcy said, “but you never definitively stated which one shot him. Was it Sir Laurence?”

“I wish I could tell you with certainty,” St. Clair replied. “My instincts say it was Sir Laurence, but it could have been either of them. In preparation for battle, the pistol cases were opened, and every man was armed. And as I explained to you before, in the chaos of a boarding action, it is challenge enough to remain aware of all that is happening in one’s immediate surrounds. We are fortunate Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s death was witnessed by anyone at all.”

Anne Wentworth quit the study, her mission threefold: to ascertain whether Mrs. Smith had yet returned from the Cobb, to order refreshments for her guests, and to check on Alfred. Captain Wentworth asked her to send Mrs. Smith to them if she were indeed home. He then crossed to a tall bookcase and lifted down from a shelf an inlaid box.

“This contains all of Mr. Smith’s papers that his widow turned over to me.”

He brought the box to the table. Captain St. Clair, Darcy, and Elizabeth came over. As Darcy rolled up the map and put it aside, Wentworth opened the box and withdrew the papers. They each took a handful and commenced reading. Georgiana remained by the window, her thoughts too full to read anything closely, and unlikely to become more settled by closer proximity to Captain St. Clair.

Elizabeth read through several letters, including a few from Mr. Elliot. The pile held correspondence from other individuals, as well. One sloppily folded letter—apparently from Mr. Smith’s mother—had at some time come into unfortunate contact with a sticky substance of indeterminate origin. After skimming three full pages of trivial family news—no wonder the Smiths had suffered financial woes, if his mother’s letters were always so voluminous—Elizabeth found stuck to the back of the fourth page a torn fragment from a note in a different hand.

Such proof is regrettable, but there is nothing to be done about it. Fortunately, her spouse is determined not to notice, and yours too naïve to suspect. If it comes to it, she can claim her grandfather or some other long-dead relation had red hair.

Elizabeth reread the lines, then shuffled through the remaining papers in her pile. Darcy interrupted his own reading to question her with a glance.

“I am looking for the other pieces of a torn note,” she explained. “Have you any fragments in your stack?”

Darcy set down the letter he had been perusing and started to riffle through the other papers in front of him. He had not gotten far, however, when Anne Wentworth returned to the study.

“Frederick.” Anne’s face was pale, her voice unsteady. “Alfred is missing.”

Thirty-four

“We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is valuable.”

—
Captain Wentworth,
Persuasion

Mrs. Logan was in tears.

“I fed him and put him down to sleep. Then I went out—I needed to go to the market, and I thought to perform the errand while he napped. You were all in the study—it seemed like such an important meeting; I did not want to disturb you—I told Mrs. Smith I was going. I expected to return before her chair arrived, but I was delayed—so many people about on market day. When I got back, I went upstairs immediately to check on Alfred—he was not in his cradle—”

The servants were summoned, but unable to provide any further intelligence. The housekeeper had returned from the market just after Mrs. Logan, and the others, going about their own duties elsewhere in the house, with no reason to enter the nursery, had not observed anything unusual.

Alfred was too small to have wandered off on his own, and a baby was not something one was likely to misplace. Yet they searched the house and garden anyway. He was nowhere on the premises.

They reconvened in the sitting room. Captain Wentworth, his own worry evident, reassured his wife that they would find Alfred. “Do not panic yet. Sir Walter has not seen his son since the christening—perhaps he or your sister retrieved the boy for a visit. It would be very like them not to think to inform us.” Wentworth himself did not sound convinced of this possibility.

“My father would have sent a servant to collect him. And even if he had come himself, he would not have entered our house, gone upstairs to the nursery, taken Alfred from his cradle, and departed without a word to anybody.”

No, Darcy thought, but another Elliot might. He met Captain Wentworth’s eyes. “Do you think perhaps Mr. Elliot—”

“I can name no one else more probable,” he replied.

Mrs. Wentworth glanced toward the entry hall. “He must have come after Mrs. Smith departed for the Cobb, or surely she would have alerted us.”

“Unless he used the rear door and stairs,” Captain Wentworth said. “Someone planning to steal a child would hardly want to make an obvious entrance.”

“I am reluctant to voice this thought,” St. Clair said, “but if Mr. Elliot did encounter Mrs. Smith, she would not have presented a very imposing obstacle. He could easily overpower a crippled woman, particularly if he had someone else with him. Lyme is full of his fellow conspirators—the crew of the
Black Cormorant
alone must number at least two hundred. Any one of them could have accompanied him.”

“Mrs. Smith is the only one of his past associates still alive to incriminate him,” Elizabeth added, “and he knows she bears him ill will.”

“Good heavens, Frederick—he might have taken Mrs. Smith, too.” Mrs. Wentworth sank into a chair. “If only Nurse Rooke had been here with her and not in Bath.”

Captain Wentworth took her hand. “Let us not allow our conjecture to run wild,” he said. “Mrs. Smith could very well be sitting on her bench at the harbor, perfectly safe and utterly oblivious to our alarm. In fact, someone ought to see whether she is indeed there, for if so, she may be able to tell us something that could lead us to Alfred. I would do so myself, but I am going to the Lion this moment to determine whether Mr. Elliot is there with the child.”

“I will accompany you,” Darcy said. “If Mr. Elliot does have Alfred, there is no predicting what he might do.”
Or what he might have already done.

Darcy left that last thought unspoken—Mrs. Wentworth was worried enough—but he could see in her husband’s countenance that Captain Wentworth realized the truth. If Mr. Elliot, or someone acting on his behalf, had taken Alfred with the intention of harming him, the deed had likely already been accomplished—or was taking place now—and in a place more remote than his rooms at the Lion.

Wentworth nodded. “Let us go at once.”

“I will come, as well.” St. Clair’s manner indicated that he, too, recognized the reality of Alfred’s plight.

“You cannot, Captain,” Wentworth said. “You are under the admiral’s orders to stay here.”

“If Mr. Elliot is guilty of the child’s disappearance, I can aid you. I have been watching the gentleman closely—”

“So have I.” Captain Wentworth looked at his wife. “For some time. I know what he is.” He paused, then looked back at St. Clair. “Besides, what possible pretext could you give for showing up at Mr. Elliot’s door? He has surely been in communication with Sir Laurence and knows about your arrest. He thinks you are in a brig. What explanation could you offer that would not raise his guard about all three of us?”

The gentlemen moved out of the room and into the hall.

“You are right,” St. Clair conceded. “My appearance would sabotage not only the smuggling investigation, but also the very rescue I was trying to assist.” He released a frustrated sigh. “And yet I feel I must do something.”

Darcy looked past him, through the doorway, to where the ladies yet clustered in the sitting room. Elizabeth had moved closer to Mrs. Wentworth and was offering words of comfort. Georgiana stood a little apart, appearing, to Darcy’s eye, more vulnerable than she had an hour ago. Alfred’s kidnapping made him all the more apprehensive about Mr. Elliot’s fellow conspirator. He did not think Sir Laurence would try to harm Georgiana, but he did not want her former suitor to even attempt to speak to her again. Until Sir Laurence was arrested, Darcy could not be easy about letting Georgiana out of his sight.

He turned to the man who mere days ago he had been determined to keep at a distance from his sister. “Captain St. Clair, only the urgency of Alfred’s disappearance impels me to leave Miss Darcy anywhere but under my direct watch while Sir Laurence remains at liberty, lest he try to contact her. If you would undertake her protection in my absence, I would consider it a great service.”

“Of course.” In those two simple words, an understanding passed between them. Darcy knew he need not have even voiced the request, and St. Clair recognized the trust it represented.

St. Clair walked them to the front entry, offering whatever random points of information he could quickly call to mind about Mr. Elliot and his habits. As they reached the door, where they were entirely safe from the ladies’ hearing, he detained them a moment longer.

“If Mr. Elliot is not at the Lion with Alfred and Mrs. Smith, he may have gone to his property near Sidmouth. There are old quarry caves on the grounds, perfect for hiding smuggled goods.” He paused. “Or…”

The two captains’ eyes met.

“I understand,” Wentworth said.

*   *   *

Captain St. Clair returned to the sitting room to find Georgiana alone. She stood near the window, watching Mr. Darcy and Captain Wentworth recede down the street. The housekeeper had set out tea. No one had touched it.

“Where have Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Wentworth gone?” he asked.

“Up to the nursery. Mrs. Wentworth is terribly distressed, as one might expect, and wanted to wait in there until Captain Wentworth comes back. She wishes she could have gone with him.”

“So do I. It is harder to wait than to act. Why did you not go upstairs with them?”

She took a seat, but perched on the edge of the chair. Except for the briefest of glances, she had not looked at him—not directly—since he reentered the room. “I do not know Mrs. Wentworth as well as Mrs. Darcy does. I felt my presence would be an intrusion at a time when Mrs. Wentworth needs whatever peace she can find.”

She studied her hands, dropped them back in her lap, smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt. At last she rose from the chair but yet maintained her distance, going to the table and bringing a teacup to the pot. She poured, but stopped when the cup was but half full. She set down the pot and simply stared at it.

He took a few steps toward her, but halted when the sound of his approach appeared to distress her. “Are you all right, Miss Darcy?”

“Everybody keeps asking me that.”

“It must be difficult to have had Sir Laurence’s true character revealed to you so suddenly—perhaps the more so for having heard it from me.”

She looked at him then. Her eyes were troubled, but it was not resentment that filled them. “You have been rescuing me since the moment we met. By now you must regret ever catching me on the Walk.”

His answering gaze was earnest and unwavering. “Quite the opposite. You did, after all, save my investigation today.”

“If I have not cost you it.”

“Miss Darcy—” He took another step toward her.

“Lieuten—
Captain.
” She swallowed. “I have not properly thanked you for—I have been trying to find the words—” She turned her head away, struggling to control a countenance that threatened to reveal more than she wanted it to. “The other day, in the water—I owe you such a debt, I cannot express—”

He closed the distance between them. “Miss Darcy.” He reached toward her, but withdrew his hand before touching her. “You owe me nothing,” he said gently. “Pray, do not let a sense of obligation to me cause you more distress.”

“I owe you my life.” She looked up at him. “When the boat capsized, and I was under the water—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed again. “I was never so frightened in all my days.”

“Nor was I.”

She studied his face, her own disbelieving. “That cannot be true,” she said. “You have been aboard embattled ships, with cannonballs flying and wounded comrades falling all around you.”

His expression was all seriousness; his voice, little more than a whisper.

“Yes, I have.”

She was the first to break their gaze, turning to busy herself with the tea things once more.

“I—my conduct toward you when we found Captain Tourner—” She picked up the half-full teacup but did not drink, in need not of refreshment, but something to do with her hands. “Forgive me. I did not know what to think.”