“You will not,” Edward’s hand grasped his shoulder. “Help me find Mrs. Darcy. Tell me where you have seen or have suspected your intruder to be.”

Darcy shot a quick glance toward the open bedroom door, expecting the others to appear any second. “I cannot think straight, Edward,” he muttered. “What if he has hurt her?”

“Listen to me, Darcy. Wickham needs Mrs. Darcy if he expects to get away from here. He will intimidate her, but he will not hurt her. What we need now is a plan. I suggest we send Stafford and Worth with some men to find the other openings and to enter the tunnels at those points.You and I will take weapons and follow this trail.The man will not get away with this. Murder is quite different from womanizing and gambling.”

“Can she be well? I mean, in there with him?” Darcy chastised himself for allowing Elizabeth to be in danger. “I should have realized…”

“Mrs. Darcy is a resourceful woman.A scoundrel such as George Wickham will not defeat her.”


“Come along,” the man Elizabeth knew as George Wickham squeaked like an adolescent schoolboy. “James wants the two of you by the forest opening.”

“It is cold in here,” Lydia whimpered, “and my slippers are getting wet.”

Peter whipped around to face her. “Are you complaining again? Nothing is ever good enough for you.” He raised his hand to strike her, but Elizabeth’s reprimand brought him up short. “Stop!”

Peter turned on her. “Who do you think you are to give me orders, madam?” His voice popped and cracked as if he was a boy of fourteen or fifteen. “My father taught me how to treat those below me, and Mrs. Wickham needs a lesson or two on gratitude and condescension.”

Elizabeth looked at the young man, confusion lacing her voice. “Mr.Withey?”

The boy snarled his nose in disgust. “Withey will return. He always returns at the least opportune time. He asked me to escort you to the forest.”

Elizabeth spoke softly, edging closer to Lydia. “May I ask your name, sir?” Elizabeth noted the open area—an antechamber of sorts, containing the missing bedding and candelabra.

The young man pompously strode across the room. “I am surprised you do not recognize me.”

Elizabeth gestured to the unlit candleholder. “It must be the poor lighting.” Her eyes followed him as he paced the area. “Your name, please, so I might address you properly.”

“Peter Whittington, son of Lord and Lady Whitlock.”

Elizabeth tried to purposely catch him off guard—a minor victory, but one nevertheless. “Then it is Sir Peter or Sir Whitlock? I am afraid I remain unaware of your family seat. I hail from Hertfordshire originally, you see.” Unlike James Whitey, the young man did not heed the warning voice in his head, a fact Elizabeth would use to her advantage.

“My older brother is to inherit,” he said, his hauteur even more evident than before.“I am simply a ‘Mister,’” he informed her as he tossed a blanket across the overflowing chamber pot in an attempt to quell the smell.

Spotting another blanket crumpled on the mattress, Elizabeth controlled the tone of her voice. “Mr. Whittington, would you mind if I have use of the other blanket?” She gestured to the dark brown cloth. “I have no cloak, and I am quite chilled.”

He examined her closely, his dark brows narrowing; she had surprised him again. “I see no reason to deny you.” He flicked his wrist magnanimously in the direction of the mattress.“Gregor will have no need of it now.”

Elizabeth bent tentatively to reach the bound wool cloth.“This is most kind of you, Mr. Whittington.” She kept her voice neutral as she folded the wool and wrapped it around her shoulders, seeking the warmth.“Would it be too much to know, Mr.Whittington, who Gregor might be?”

“Believe me, Mrs. Darcy,” the modulating voice continued, “you do not wish to meet Gregor MacIves. He is the worst of us. He is the one who took the lieutenant’s life, and James sent him away for awhile.”

Behind him, Elizabeth saw Lydia shrug her shoulders to indicate her own lack of knowledge of the man. “Well, then, I shall be happy for your company, Mr. Whittington.” She realized she must be aware of the different stories Mr. Wickham now told in order to deal with the man. “Are there others, Mr. Whittington? Others traveling with Mr.Wickham?”

Peter offered her a measuring stare, but then he smiled noncommittally. “Mr. Wickham is rarely with us these days,” he declared mockingly. “Actually, as I come from the only titled family among us, I suppose the others travel with me.”

Elizabeth remembered once thinking Mr.Wickham’s smile one of the most compelling she had ever seen; now, she saw it for the evil behind it. Reluctantly, she nodded her head in understanding. “Then there are just the four of you?” She tried to wordlessly encourage her sister to help her, but Lydia remained compliant and silent.

Peter Whittington, or whatever he called himself, made no response to her question, but a soft, malevolent chuckle sent a shiver down her spine and her heart pounding in her throat. “I suggest ye be takin’ yourself along,” he growled threateningly in a Scottish brogue. “I not be a bleeding book of answers.”

Wickham’s bleary gaze made Elizabeth think he was suddenly very drunk. “I am prepared to go with you, Mr. Wickham.” She kept her voice low, hoping he would find no offense. His behavior baffled her, and Elizabeth did not know how best to react to this singular game he practiced.

“Ye be thinkin’ I be that bloody braggart? Nay, I didnae think ye would offer me a dagger to the heart, lass—ye would not curse me as such.” He threw items into a cloth bag. “Didnae ye think to bring us some food? Or something we ken be selling?”

“I am afraid, sir, that we had no time to pack properly.” Elizabeth nervously gestured to the blanket she wore about her shoulders. “Mr. Whittington kindly loaned me this wool cloth for warmth. However, if you wish, my sister and I could return and find you the gold and silver in Mr. Darcy’s house.” She did not know why Mr.Wickham chose to act out these scenes, but his portrayals made her more determined to find a way out on her own or to stall until Darcy came for her.

“A mon cannae send a lass to do his work,” he asserted, standing before tossing the bag over his shoulder.“I be havin’ me revenge on the mister soon enough.”


“Do you understand what I want you to do?” Edward Fitzwilliam quickly organized the search.“Sir Phillip and Mr. Baldwin will stay with the ladies. Mr. Baldwin, I want no one below stairs. It is too dangerous. Collect Mrs. Harwood and place her with the rest of the women in the blue room. No one comes in or out except those of us in this room.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Worth, you will take men through the cold cellar entrance.” Each man simply nodded his agreement. “Stafford, you will go through Harwood’s room. Murray, you and St. Denis will come through the east wing. The latch in each room must be the same. Take lanterns and weapons, and do not hesitate to use your gun if you can get a clean shot at Mr. Wickham.” No one answered him, but the intensity on each man’s face told the tale. “Are you ready, Darcy?” Edward placed a gun in his waistband, another in a holster under his arm, and sheathed his rapier.

Similarly outfitted, Darcy rolled the map he had been inspecting with Mr. Steventon. “There is an exit to the wooded area behind the stables, one closer to White Peak, and one leading to the waterfall toward the turnpike road.”

“I am betting on the stables. Wickham needs a fast exit, and horses are the only solution in this weather.”

“Hurry, Edward. Elizabeth cannot leave this estate with that madman.”

Chapter 22

Elizabeth supported Lydia’s sagging body as they followed Wickham through the shadowy twists and turns. She would run for safety if she could simply make Lydia respond, but Elizabeth would not leave her younger sister behind. For some unexplained reason, Lydia was cowed by Wickham’s playacting. Elizabeth sometimes wondered how she and Lydia could be children of the same parents.

“Is this normal for Mr. Wickham?” she whispered close to Lydia’s ear. Lydia frowned for a moment and then nodded. “Does your husband make you call him by these silly names?”

Lydia shot a frightened glance at her husband, obviously praying he did not hear them. “You do not understand, Lizzy.” She hesitated, keeping her eyes locked on Wickham’s back. “He is not playacting. Mr. Wickham is each of those men, and you had best remember that.”


Darcy and Edward led a handful of Pemberley’s best men into the depths of the darkness. “My God,” Darcy moaned, “who would have thought?” He raised the lantern to get his bearings.“The corridors must follow the house—the T shape of the sleeping quarters. There is nothing behind us.We know from what Wickham said to Miss Darcy that some rooms provided him only a way of spying on us. Others have openings such as this one. Stay sharp—the man is dangerous—has killed three people already. I do not want Mrs. Darcy to be his next victim.”

“Slowly,” Edward cautioned. “Mr. Wickham knows these passages; we do not. Remain alert to all possibilities.”


Despite wanting to rush through the water-soaked enclosure, Darcy listened to his cousin’s advice and moved cautiously along behind Edward—his eyes and ears straining for a glimpse or a sound somewhere ahead of him.When they reached the intersecting halls, they spread out.

“Which way?” Lucas asked as he turned in circles.“Up or down?”

“God! I do not know!” Darcy ran a hand through his hair.

“Down,” Edward stated flatly.“Has to be down.” He led the way as the corridor took a sharp descent between the house’s flooring. “Be careful,” he called over his shoulder.“The steps are narrow and moldy. If your foot slips, you are dropping into the darkness.”