The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (42 page)

Edward placed his sword on the small table where he might easily reach it. He had gestured the man they had taken prisoner to a straight-backed chair and had assumed the one directly before him. From the moment the groom had recognized the Alpin horse, Edward could think of nothing but the fact that this man knew something of Georgiana's disappearance. His wife was close. He knew it in his heart, but he could not pinpoint how the MacBethans had involved themselves in Georgiana's survival.

“Tell us your full name,” he said coldly. The Scot leaned back casually in his seat. Although the man had given up quite easily when they had surrounded him, Edward did not fool himself into thinking this man had not a mean streak of his own. He had learned to recognize cunning and bravery. This Scotsman possessed both.

“Munro. Munro MacBethan,” the man said evenly.

“Do you reside at Normanna Hall?” Darcy asked as he moved a chair from the corner to join his cousin in the questioning.

The man did not appear nervous, which bothered Edward extensively. Would this Scot purposely lead them astray?

“Aye, Sir.”

“And how are you related to Domhnall MacBethan?” Darcy continued.

Surprisingly, the man seemed to speak without craftiness. “Domhnall be me cousin. Me father, Ashe, and Domhnall's father, Coll, be half brothers. I come to live among the MacBethans when Islav, the second brother, needed to return to his property in Crieff. Islav ast me to assist Lady Wotherspoon's overseein' the estate. Domhnall jist returned a few weeks ago following 'is father's passin'. His mother, Dolina, be runnin' the estate fer nearly a year as Coll lay ill for many months.”

Edward relaxed his hand on the gun he still held on the man. Possibly, they would not need to use force on their captive. He had witnessed enough brutal examinations to last a lifetime. “How did you come by the horse you rode today?”

“Blane brings him in maybe a sennight prior. I required a sturdy animal for me travels,” the man admitted.

Edward asked warily, “And your travels took you to…”

“Tuv over yer way, Major General.” The Scot smiled smugly.

Darcy leaned forward to emphasize his point. “Did you have a particular destination in Galloway?”

“Me Aunt Dolina tasked me with an errand on her behalf.”

“Did you succeed in completing your charge?” Edward's hackles stood at attention.

The Scot casually stretched his arms behind him to release his shoulder tension. “Other than the miles, it not be a difficult task. Play me some cards. Drink me share. Listen to wot others 'ave to say.”

Darcy cleared his throat. “So you found the stallion in your cousin's stables. Lord Wotherspoon claimed no knowledge of Bracken. Why would His Lordship offer a prevarication?”

“I doubt Domhnall knew of the horse's presence. It not be likely that me cousin saddles 'is own mount. And if'n 'e thought the animal 'ad at one time been at Normanna, Wotherspoon wud believe the animal no longer there.”

Edward leveled a deadly stare on the man. “Explain,” he demanded.

“Me uncle leave Domhnall many debts. Before my cousin returned, Aunt Dolina discovered ways to keep the tax man from the door.”

Cocking his head, Darcy gazed hard upon their prisoner. “I do not understand.”

The Scot offered up an innocent smile, as if he shared an obvious secret that neither Edward nor Darcy comprehended. The expression sent a shiver of dread down Edward's spine. Only on the eve of a battle had he felt such trepidation. He knew the Scot's revelation would change everything. “Normanna depends on the success of its herds. Last year, we experienced first months with no rain and then months with more rain than we cud 'andle. The herd suffered greatly, but Aunt Dolina found a means to supplement the estate's bounty. A few nags. A neighbor's lost sheep or Galloway.”

“Are you telling me,” Darcy clarified, “that your aunt passed off the meat of stolen animals, including horses, as the estate's Galloway cattle?”

“Easy enough to do when Dolina's brother McCullough be the village butcher,” the Scot declared.

A knock at the door indicated their meals had arrived. Darcy rose to answer the summons. A girl entered with a heavily laden tray. Darcy indicated a nearby table. “We will serve ourselves,” he said.

“Yes, Sir.” She curtsied. Twice, in fact. Once with his dismissal and a second time after he handed her a coin for her trouble.

With the door's closing, Edward remarked, “Are these the extent of your cousin's sins?”

The captive craned his neck toward where Darcy dished out bowls of stew. “Ye should know the inn do not buy from Oliver McCullough.”

It took a second for both Darcy and Edward to comprehend the Scot's reference. “Quite humorous, Mr. MacBethan,” Darcy said with a frown.

“I jist thought ye should know before ye took yer first bite. Mr. Shadlow care not for McCullough's ways. They's had quite a row'bout three years prior.” He took the bowl Darcy handed him. “Thank ye kindly. I've not et since I left Ruthwell.”

“Do you know anything of Bracken's rider?” Edward ignored the food Darcy placed before him. He needed to stay sharp, and hunger had always kept him on alert. It was how he had survived so many battles. He refused to eat or sleep before an attack. Others thought him foolish, but he believed the self-imposed fast made him “hungry” to survive.

The Scot shoveled another spoonful of stew into his mouth before he answered. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he said, “Ye be askin' abut the gel. About yer Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

DOLINA STRODE INTO DOMHNALL'S study without knocking. He refused to look up or to acknowledge her lack of respect for his position as the lord of the manor. It remained a truth that he had been slow to claim his title after his father's passing. He had hated to relinquish the life he had carefully crafted in London's Society. Even the birth of his child had not brought him home. Maighread had written. Had begged him not to desert her and their child. But he always assumed that his mother had coerced his wife into demanding his return to his ancestral home. Therefore, he had purposely stayed away. Had ignored his family obligations. Had refused the shackles placed on him by an estate and a title he had never wanted and had always assumed that he could not manage. Not surprisingly, his prediction had proved itself correct.

He had not wanted to abandon Maighread to the Scottish Uplands, but she had refused to follow him to England. He had offered to find a small manor house in the English countryside. He had no desire to live solely in London, but Maighread had reasoned that her thick accent and lack of genteel education would produce disdain from their English neighbors and, therefore, him. Her adamant refusal had left him no option, for he could not live in a house dominated by his mother, and he could not banish the woman he had once admired from the land she cherished.

However, if he had held any inkling of his mother's pure evil, he would have confronted her in order to protect Maighread and his child. He had not loved his wife, but Domhnall had respected
the woman who bore his name. He had held a deep affection for Maighread. Sometimes, he wondered if he had not been so weak, if Maighread would have survived. He had spent the last eight months trying to forgive his foolish lack of foresight.

Now, Dolina had turned her sights on Lady Esme, and this time he would not fail. He would protect the woman against his mother's manipulations. “What might it be, Mother?” he asked with more contempt than he intended.

She seated herself without his permission. “I understand ye had visitors,” Dolina said coyly.

Domhnall made a vow to dismiss all of the servants and rehire new ones once he had freed Normanna from his mother's grip. He would not have those in his employ who had remained loyal to Lady Wotherspoon upon his return. Once he had driven his mother from his home, he would wipe the slate clean of her influence.

“Two gentlemen sought a missing horse. Someone had reported the animal as having been seen at Normanna. Unfortunately for them, the report was in error.” He had purposely continued his correspondence. Without even raising his head in an acknowledgement of her presence, Domhnall sanded the page and blew on the foolscap to dry the ink faster. He had positioned the paper so that she would have to peer over a stack of books to read what he had written. He realized his mother would not openly appear curious about his communication. Yet, he held no doubt that she would return to the study late in the night to search his desk. Of course, by that time, it would be too late. As soon as he finished with her, he planned to send the message to the inn for the next mail coach.

“That be the extent of it?” she grudgingly asked at last. “No inquiry about the gel?”

“Only of the horse.” He sat back in his chair. “Do you know anything of the animal, Mother?” he asked pointedly. He had made it
his business to discover every fact he could of Lady Esme's sudden appearance in the estate's cells. From the first moment Domhnall had laid eyes on the girl's sleeping form, he had wanted her; therefore, he became quite aggressive in discovering what had truly brought the girl to his care.

His mother's mouth twisted into a mocking smile. “Why would I know of the English pig's horse?” she protested. “Ye 'ave asked me to think deeply on my previous means to support this family, and I 'ave done everything ye required. Likely, those who spoke out agin me in the past 'ave repeated their allegations to these so-called gentlemen.”

“How can it be a coincidence that Lady Esme arrives on our doorstep on foot, and then a short time later these men come calling and asking about a horse with pure blood lines?” He would not tell his mother that he had uncovered her twisted truths regarding Lady Esme's arrival at Normanna.

Lady Wotherspoon's countenance held a strange expression that Domhnall wished he could identify. “If there be a connection between Lady Esme and the missing 'orse, would not the Englishmen ask of the lady's presence?” she asserted.

Domhnall rested his forearms on the desk. “You should know that I intend to ask Lady Esme if she has any knowledge of Major General Fitzwilliam or of Mr. Darcy. If the lady proves part of the mystery, I will return her to her family.”

“And if she be not of the Englishman's line?”

“I plan to cut my younger brother from your plans. I will make the lady my wife and replace you as this house's mistress. I want your legacy erased from Normanna's history.”

“Beware, my son. Erasing my name removes your heritage, as well. We share the same blood,” she warned.

“Your blood runs in streams along stone floors. I will wash it from every brick in this house, and if that means my claim to the title disappears with the cleansing waters, then so be it. I want none of the wealth you brought to Normanna. I refuse to permit your habitual disdain for the MacBethan name to sabotage my life. We will find another way.”

Dolina stood suddenly. “I caution you, Domhnall. Sometimes our most fervent prayers are answered by the Devil.”

Wickham rolled to his side just as the horse skittered away; yet, that was not his most pressing concern. He brought his knees up so he lay like a babe cradled in his crib. He could barely breathe. “Christ!” he groaned as he quickly assessed the situation. No horse. Pouring rain. Substantial pain.

Forcing himself to his hands and knees, Wickham raised his head to survey the area. He had to reach the small cottage. He could not remain on the soggy bog. He had no choice but to fight his way to the only shelter available.

With water streaming down his cheeks and seeping into his neck cloth, Wickham took a deep breath that he hoped would bring him new resolve, but instead it blurred his vision further as a sharp pain shot through his chest. He forced himself to a standing position by walking his hands up his thighs. He remained hunched over, but he was able to take a tentative step forward. He moaned audibly as his boots sunk into the marshy soil, but he kept the cottage in view. It would be his salvation. He would not fail to reach it.

Painfully, he struggled, but would not accept defeat. Instead, he chastised himself with reminders of how much Darcy would enjoy seeing him in such a predicament. How much pleasure his old friend would take in knowing not only of the pain Wickham
suffered, but also of the desperation that had crept into his heart. He used Darcy's imagined scorn to shore up his determination. A way to prove that he could overcome anything God placed in his path. “Anything but a stupid snake,” he growled. “Since the time of Adam and Eve, snakes have spelled disaster for mankind.”

“Gruph!” he exhaled as he stumbled on the rough paving stone leading to the cottage's entrance. The cottage certainly did not look like much. He just prayed that it would be a dry place where he could reevaluate what to do next. He took another lurching step forward and braced himself by catching the door's framing. “Not yet, Darcy,” he whispered as he tilted his head backward to bring his eyes to the heavens. “You have not bested me, after all, my friend,” he swore. Then he reached for the door.