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She seemed to crumple from the inside; Elizabeth wanted to grab the heaviest stick she could find and hit the brute over the head with it. It took all her common sense to restrain a quick search for a weapon.

“But you are so ugly, I doubt you need to worry,” he continued relentlessly. “Do you yearn for me, my sweet little heiress?” He pronounced the word ‘heiress’ as though it were a curse.

When she did not immediately reply, he put his hand up, and she flinched.

“Yes! Yes, please!” she said quickly.

The bully laughed heartlessly, kissed the young lady in a way that Elizabeth had never before witnessed—it was almost worse than the slap—and strode away, leaving his lover shivering in the alleyway.

Elizabeth watched as the man disappeared around the corner; she waited a few moments, to ensure he did not return. It appeared that he was confident that the girl would stay where he had commanded. Frankly, Elizabeth was as well. She poked her head out a little farther. The girl had wrapped her arms around herself tightly, as if she were trying to press herself back together, the cold wall holding her upright. Even from this distance of several feet, Elizabeth could see the red outline of the slap mark on her cheek. Her clothing, Elizabeth was surprised to see, was very fine—and Elizabeth knew fabrics well. That cloth is at least twenty shillings per yard, she thought, and it had obviously been tailored to fit her perfectly. Her hat was not any simple affair to be found in just any shop. A very skilled milliner had fashioned it in the latest style. Her clothing looked wrinkled and much the worse for wear, but it was not an ensemble to be commonly found in this neighbourhood!

Private carriage to Scotland, the beast said. Plainly, that horrible man expected her to elope, to marry ‘over the anvil’. It was just like the plot of a ghastly novel, and yet worse than anything she had ever read. The young lady had fallen in with a true villain; Elizabeth had not got a look at his face, but she just knew he must have a cruel mouth, and possibly a brutal scar running down one side of his cheek.

It was also obvious that the girl could not be left to stand in this cold alley until her vicious companion decided to return. But what to say? For some reason, given the young lady’s stricken manner, Elizabeth had the feeling she would run away, try to hide if she were openly confronted. Not that Elizabeth could ever imagine Jane in this situation, but her elder sister doubtless would rather die than be ‘caught’ in such embarrassing circumstances, she was sure.

Was there a way to give the girl a means of escape? Without direct confrontation? A way to make a discreet return to home or safety seem possible, or even…expected? Jane could be directed, with the right tone of authority. Or would the girl flee regardless of what was said to her or how it was said?

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Excuse me,” Elizabeth said in her most impersonal voice, leaning out the door as if in casual enquiry. “Were you the young lady who was looking for a hackney coach to her home?”

The girl startled, turning sharply to face her, her eyes as wide and frightened as a doe’s.

Elizabeth kept her face politely disinterested, eyebrows raised, as if waiting for an answer.

“I-I…” Patently, the girl did not know what to say.

Elizabeth maintained her neutral expression.

Finally, the young lady choked out a terrified sentence. “W-was it a man who…who said I required the hackney? In a-a green coat?”

The villain’s coat had been green. Did she imagine this offer to be some sort of a test? “No—it was a lady, by the name of Elizabeth Bennet,” she answered truthfully. “She left the money for it, and was most insistent.”

While making quick decisions was, clearly, not one of this young lady’s talents, she managed an answer. “I, uh, yes, I would like to go…to, um, my uncle’s home…Grosvenor Square.”

Elizabeth held the door open widely. “Right this way, please.”

Timidly, almost as if she believed it might be a ruse, the girl entered the warehouse, looking all around her with fearful eyes.

“Peter,” Elizabeth called, pretending she did not notice the girl startling at her tone; her two attendants abandoned all buttons to hurry over. “This young lady requires a coach to Grosvenor Square. Hail one, immediately, if you will.” There was a note of command in Elizabeth’s voice that even Peter would not argue with.

They all trailed after him, Elizabeth staying at the rear—just in case the girl changed her mind and made a run for it. Once on the busier street, Elizabeth handed over all the coins she had with her to the young lady. “This is more than enough to pay your fare home. I am sure your uncle would pay the coachman, but now you have money, just in case.” The girl clutched the meagre sum as if the coins were guineas.

Peter hailed a hackney. “To Grosvenor Square, if you please,” he told the coachman, and helped the unknown young lady into it. They all watched it until it was out of sight; despite their obvious curiosity, neither Martha nor Peter said a word.

“I would like to go back to Gracechurch Street, now,” Elizabeth said, trembling just a little, her search for fabrics all but forgotten. “Hail one for us, too, Peter.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE HUNT BEGINS

August 1806

Darcy rode straight for London, nearly without stopping except for a couple of hours of rest when he was in danger of falling off his horse; if he was henceforth able to have children after this brutal ride, it would be a miracle. The express he had received at Pemberley from Lord Matlock had been explicit:

Your father’s health is failing faster than any of us dreamt it would. It is recommended that you present yourself in town as soon as may be possible.

They had known for some time, of course, that George Darcy’s heart was weak. He had suffered a few seizures in the past, and had remained in town to be nearer the family physician rather than return to Pemberley as was usual for him during the summer months. Still, he had seemed well enough in July, when Darcy had last visited.