While Alexander napped, Lizzy retreated to Darcy’s office to write a few letters. Georgiana was busy with her music, amid frequent glances out the window just in case a courier arrived—or better yet, a handsome man with curly blond hair. Servants moved about performing their duties with some noise attached, and Michael’s cries for nourishment did pierce the calm twice that day. But otherwise, it was a tranquil Monday boding nothing sinister.

Therefore, it was with a spring in her step and smile that she laid Michael down after his late afternoon meal, gathered Alexander and their gardening equipment, and headed to the northeast corner of the yard. As Lizzy had surmised, the sun was located so that the harshest of its rays were blocked by the surrounding walls and tall trees. There was no breeze to cool the air, but this corner of the yard was partially in shadow at this time of the day. She would not need to fret over their son’s fair skin or wear a bothersome hat to shield her face.

In one arm Alexander clutched the glass jar given with a disgusted cringe by Mrs. Smyth, and in the other he held tightly to the basket of sunflower seedlings transported all the way from Pemberley. Lizzy hummed throughout the transplanting, babbling to her son as he attended to packing the rich earth carefully around the root-ball of each tiny plant, his focus lost only when the gray rabbit hopped over to investigate from time to time.

She wore gloves to protect her hands, and a thick apron over the lightweight muslin gown of dark green specifically created for such gritty tasks. Alexander wore a child’s dress of dark blue, a color that accented the tiny flecks of ultramarine lining the edges of his otherwise azure eyes. His hands and feet were bare, the dirt grains settling into the creases and between tiny toes. Side-by-side they worked, kneeling in the springy clover bordering the flowerbed, Lizzy’s instructions of a practical nature and in sharp contrast to Darcy’s scientific expositions.

“Feel how rich the soil is here, love. Filled with wonderful nutrients to help the plants grow. This spot receives sun almost all day long, and that is why the sunflowers will grow so well here.”

“Papa say sunflowers look at the sun.”

“Yes, they do tend to turn whichever way the sun moves. Very interesting to watch.” She glanced to her son’s round face, marveling at the intent wrinkles between his thick brown brows as he set each sprout into the holes she created. It was always, “Papa say…” about everything. She did not think he stated, “Mama say…” nearly as frequently or with the same assured authority, but she did not mind in the slightest. His father was where he turned for education, steadfastness, and rough play; but to her he sought succor when hurt, babyish cosseting, and the fulfillment of daily essentials. It was a balance between his parents: Darcy the all-knowing, masculine, stalwart protector; and Lizzy the ever-present, mothering, empathetic attendant.

The planting and dirt play continued, both oblivious to the pair of eyes that observed their every move.

The stalker hugged the deep shadows cast by the four tall Mediterranean cypress trees lining the open glade near the rear wall of the mews. This corner of the moderate-sized enclosure that contained the Darcy House gardens, lawn, and patio was away from any open windows and hidden from easy view by sculpted hedges, bushes, and thick-trunked trees. The fountain that sat in the precise middle of the yard was not large, but the water bubbled, splashed, and trickled loudly. It was designed to mask the noises from without the walled sanctuary, but the interloper depended on its dampening properties to aid his scheme.

A final cap was the rarely used, small, recessed door that gave access to the endmost stall within the stables. As if by divine intercession, a plain wooden cart was kept parked there for the occasional hauling of rough materials. That his prey would choose this place to be alone and unguarded, trusting in the safety of their abode, was unquestionably providence.

It was almost too perfect, but Wickham was convinced his time for vindication and success was destined. The pieces of the puzzle had fallen from heaven into his lap, snapping together into a beautiful picture that was foolproof. He had duped the mighty Darcy, beguiled his way into the arrogant man’s house, and would now prove his superiority by absconding with those his nemesis held most dear. Right from under his haughty nose.

Wickham allowed a thrill of victory to rush through his body before squelching the emotion. He must maintain cold control. All day he had lain in wait for them to garden as Prudence sneeringly revealed at one point last night. Now, all he needed was for the two to separate so he could deal with them individually before the other noticed, but patience was a virtue he had mastered.

It happened a few minutes later.

Alexander rose, walking with a sure gait for one so young, to the decoratively piled rocks amid the flowers. His father had taught him that the dark, moist areas under the rocks were the best places to find wiggling worms and pill bugs. He placed his jar onto the ground, making sure it was upright and near at hand, added a handful of dirt and some leaves, only then kneeling to upend the rocks and begin his quest. Lizzy, after assuring his occupation, turned to the wheelbarrow encumbered with the potted plants gifted by Mr. Clark to be added to the Darcy House gardens. She set to her task, humming and blissfully unaware of the horror that was about to be unleashed.

Wickham checked the thick, woolen scarf that covered his nose, leather-gloved fingers pulling the fabric tighter. With a practiced tug he loosened the cork plugging the narrow neck of an amber bottle and saturated the folded cloth held in the palm of his hands, careful to avoid inhaling the fumes wafting. With eyes shifting between Lizzy and the boy, he crouched low and crept away from the wall. It was easy to remain in the shadows or hide behind the thick copse. The trick was to avoid stepping on dry leaves or twigs, and not to scrape against the brush.

He skulked warily, crossing the four feet to where Alexander huddled in rapt attention. He paused, gauging the scene and preparing. A quick glance assured that Lizzy was occupied on the other side of the roughly five foot grassy plot, her back to him as she dug holes. Alexander was close, his tiny face the mirror of Darcy’s and filled with childish delight as he observed the pill bugs crawling over his small palm. He was ignorant to the lurking menace and therefore had no warning, or later memory, of the hand that suddenly emerged between a gap in the branches and clamped over his nose and mouth. A startled indrawn breath of the sickening sweet fluid and he was on his way to unconsciousness without uttering a sound.

Even Wickham, who had seen the effects of inhaled ether used by Lord Orman to dull his pain and induce oblivion, was stunned at how rapidly it worked on the toddler. In the midst of his planning he had wondered if the liberal amount needed to sedate a fully-grown woman may be too much for the tiny body of the boy, but he had no choice in the matter and could only hope the youngster did not succumb before Darcy could watch.

Wickham’s lack of precise knowledge meant that when Alexander so quickly reacted to the drug, his abrupt slump took Wickham off guard. The hand that held the cloth to the boy’s face slipped, and Alexander landed facedown onto the arranged stack of rocks. The stones slid, falling in a clattering shower that was not noisy, but enough to cause Lizzy to turn her head to investigate.

Despite his momentary surprise, Wickham responded instantly. He lurched forward, bounded through the thicket, and dashed across the lawn in seconds. Lizzy released a sharp cry that was cruelly cut off when Wickham crushed her head between the wet rag cupped in one hand that pressed harshly over her face, and the other hand that painfully twisted into the hair pinned into a lovely arrangement on the back of her head. He hauled her upward, relishing the pain he knew he was causing, until she was facing him.

Her eyes were wild with fright as she met Wickham’s triumphant gaze. There was immediate recognition, but also, to his amazement, a blaze of indescribable fury. With a jolt of astonishment he realized that she was holding her breath! Additionally, although he had expected some feeble struggling, she nearly overwhelmed his considerable strength by her strenuous counter-assault. She violently wrenched her head to the left while lashing out with her limbs. Her legs, stout and supple from years of walking, pounded into his shins with well-aimed kicks. Her hands contorted into dangerous claws, gripping and slashing with frenetic attacks to his face and neck.

Several hopping steps were required to avoid tumbling over, but he managed to collect himself and widen the stance of his stiffened legs, planting his feet into the soft turf. In desperation he tightened his grip to her hair, waiting for the muffled squeal of pain that she refused to release, and pulled her into his chest for additional support.

“Breathe damn it!” He growled, the fingertips holding the cloth digging into the tender flesh of her cheeks.

But Lizzy did not breathe. Instead she fought, frantically. Her body writhed and strained, every muscle contorting and contracting with incredible power. She grabbed on to his wrists, twisting the leather covering his flesh abrasively. She fisted her hands, raining clouts over his shoulders and upper arms. Her feet, encased in sturdy half-boots, beat into his shins and feet. The maniacal struggle led to an odd sort of dance, Lizzy’s zealous maneuvers forcing him to sway and bend in order to maintain control.