“How could someone be heartless enough to separate a mother and small child permanently? Do you think the old woman is only bluffing?”

“I have no idea. Bah! The whole thing is out of our hands, for the moment anyway. I know the child would not be in any physical danger left alone with his grandmother. From what Amanda has said, the woman adores the boy, dotes on him. I have no doubt he would be well cared for. We will eventually obtain custody, of that I am certain.”

Darcy studied his cousin intently. “Frankly, I don’t foresee Amanda taking a separation from her son that lightly, Richard. She seems a most devoted mother.” Darcy’s memory went back to his own exhausted and half-dead wife begging him to take her life to spare her child’s, and then further astonishing him by clawing her way across her bed to reach her baby. He felt the unease of impending disaster. “I don’t believe mothers are easy in their minds over any separation from their children, no matter how slight a duration.”

“Well, naturally I understand that. I am not totally insensitive. I’ll explain my reasoning to her. She’s a good, loving wife, Darcy, as well as a good mother. She understands that in a proper marriage the husband must sometimes make hard decisions and the woman must follow. She’s a truly wonderful person.”

Darcy shifted nervously, alarm bells clanging away loudly in his head. After all, he had been married longer than his cousin. He gave an involuntary shudder.

“What is it now, Darcy?” An exasperated Fitzwilliam was getting heartily tired of being contradicted.

“Well, a wonderful wife she may be, Fitzwilliam, but… she is a woman, too, and an American woman at that. She may not be as obedient as you wish.”

Chapter 10

By the time Fitzwilliam threw on his coat and boots and he and Darcy had descended to the foyer, the small group of curious onlookers had grown, scattered now both up and down the street and beginning to drift across the square. Carriages on the avenue occasionally needed to maneuver around the milling crowd, and two had even stopped to fight over right of way. The sight that had attracted everyone’s interest was the gang of rough-looking Bow Street Runners assembled before Pemberley House, the undisputed jewel of the avenue. All of those said runners were large, hideously ugly, and disgraceful-looking.

It was great fun.

To further pique the crowd’s delight, the runners were facing equally distasteful-looking footmen, coachmen, and gardeners, brutes all, attired in the exquisite Pemberley livery of scarlet and grey. They stood guard on either side of the doorway where poor old Winters was under intense verbal attack.

“What is the meaning of this?” Darcy’s sudden appearance at the door hushed the crowd—the show had begun. He scanned the onlookers, measuring their mood, then confronted the official-looking gentleman who was apparently the occasion’s spokesperson.

“Might I come in, sir?”

“No, you may not.” The crowd shuffled uneasily.

Dramatically, a document was withdrawn from the gentleman’s inside pocket. He nervously cleared his throat. Ahem. “Charges have been filed with the local magistrate demanding immediate resumption of custody of the child of the late Sir Augustus Penrod to Lady Marguerite Penrod, his mother. We have reason to believe that the child in question was kidnapped”—the crowd gasped—“two evenings past and was brought here.” Smatterings of appreciation emboldened the man. He turned a dignified and self-righteous face to the crowd.

“How dare you toss about such inciting accusations!” Darcy barked. “I should have you thrown into the street, you and your pack of apes!” The crowd grew unhappy with this response, judging it to be possibly undignified and still being unsure of their collective position. A few disparaging remarks were thrown into the air.

Meanwhile, Fitzwilliam had stepped up and snatched the court order from the clerk’s hands. He read it through thoroughly.

“Take this gang of thugs and leave my property immediately,” Darcy commanded.

“No, sir, I can assure you that with the safety of a child involved, we will not.” There was a smattering of applause. “I have the law on my side, and you, sir, should have a care for what you say.” He was a truly proud man at that moment. He smiled smugly.

Fitzwilliam folded up the order and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Casting a murderous look at the clerk, he elbowed his way before Darcy. The clerk’s smug smile quickly evaporated; he was suddenly intimidated, tongue tied in the presence of a minor celebrity. “How dare you speak to this fine gentleman in such a manner!” Fitzwilliam barked. “Have you no shame? Do you have any idea who this man is? Do you? Well, sir, I shall tell you. Why his great, great, great, well, many greats I can assure you of that, grandfather was executed as a traitor by none other than the magnificent Henry VIII himself!”

That brought a confused murmur from the crowd—impressed but confused.

“Not helping… not helping…” whispered Darcy in a loud aside.

“No child has been kidnapped,” Fitzwilliam continued contemptuously—unfazed—loud. “The little boy is here with his mother, my wife, sir, my wife, I say, who was detained to help with the birth of this very man’s son!”—Oooohs and aaaahs and several “How very nices”—“An act of pure Christian charity, if ever I heard of one!”—“Yesssssss,” it sounded as if a snake was loose among the masses—“There was no intent to kidnap, no nefarious plan, only the concerned love of one mother for another and for that woman’s unborn child. My God, you should hang your head, sir, for making such a slanderous indictment! And in England.” Fitzwilliam’s explanation was repeated throughout the crowd for the benefit of those in the back who were straining to hear. At that point. the general mood began to solidify.

Not to be outdone, Darcy then elbowed his way forward—handsome, elegant, and superior, an Adonis. The women sighed. “And do you know who this man thinks he is… pardon me… do you know who this man is?” he pronounced loudly. People in the back began to bob and weave for a better look. Several then began to recognize the out-of-uniform Fitzwilliam, word spread, and the excitement grew.

“Yes, that’s right. None other than The Waterloo Colonel himself!”—“Nooooo!!!”— “Yesssss! The man who risked life and limb, in point of fact, was very nearly mortally wounded in the horror that was Waterloo. A lone soldier fighting for King and country, for the very freedoms we all take for granted as our birthright, willingly sacrificing everything, well, nearly, anyway, in the name of His Royal Highness King George and our beloved and sacred kingdom—our blessed land— our England.” The crowd began to nod vigorously and applaud. Many wiped away a tear or two.

A vendor on the street merrily commenced selling hot chestnuts from his cart, tuppence a bag.

***

While this altercation was taking place, a tall, white feather could be seen bobbing its way through the crowd, accompanied by people yelping, shrieking, and jumping to the side when it passed. It was Fitzwilliam who first heard the traditional verbal tirade that always preceded this particular visitor. “Grab your codpiece,” he groaned, tunneling his hair into tall peaks. “We’re doomed.”

“Out of my way, you common ruffian! Who are your people, you jackanapes?! Are you all escapees from some type of penal colony? Am I to be jostled and set upon by a confluence of desperadoes who have not as yet grasped even the merest concept of hygiene?”

Anxious for her first visit to her newborn grandnephew, Lady Catherine had planned to arrive in fine style. She was dressed in an outlandishly expensive Lady Collette outfit, including a brand-new tricorn hat purchased specifically for Tuesdays. The hat, which had been originally tilted rakishly upon her head, was now beginning to migrate forward, listing precariously over one eyebrow. She had fortunately decided against her new wig but did succumb to a light hair-powdering and one patch. The patch was also on the move.

Becoming more aggravated with each step, she stopped at the side of a portly gentleman who had been loudly laughing, rudely gesturing with his fingers. She banged her reticule across his head. “Who are you, sir, and who are your people?!” She vigorously shoved her hat back up from over her eye.

She had never been so furious, had never been so indignant. Her hair powder flew every which way as she shrieked about how this rabble should beg the forgiveness of God for exhibiting such impertinence in the presence of their betters, then loudly expressed England was doomed if this was to be its future!

“Stand aside, I say! Stand aside and let my aunt through!” Darcy reached for her arm and pulled her into the foyer doorway.

“Darcy, who are these hooligans?! I demand to know all their names, do you hear me? Jamison, get quill and paper. I want lists made and addresses taken.” Her umbrella banged down on the hand of one of the nearby officers.

“Take your filthy hand from my nephew’s door. How dare you, sir! Are you mad?! Do you know who I am?!” The awestruck crowd began applauding, even though they had no idea as yet who she was.

“Aunt Catherine, please calm yourself. I am perfectly able to handle this!” Even as he mouthed the words, Darcy knew that he had lost all control of the situation, becoming a supporting player in the drama unfolding upon his own doorstep.

“Madam.” The clerk’s voice broke. He began again. “Madam, we are representatives of the crown and have been granted the authority by the magistrate to regain custody of Harold Augustus Penrod by name, this very day or up to twenty-four hours hence. If Lady Amanda Penrod will return the child immediately to her ladyship, any and all charges will be dropped. If not, then we unfortunately will be forced to return with the selfsame magistrate to arrest Lady Amanda Penrod for”—he turned toward the crowd for support as his voice now crackled with uncertainty—“kidnapping?”