Page 86 of Cousin Conundrum

Fletcher knocked again.

When he raised his hand a third time, Darcy reached out and tried the door.

It swung open easily.

Exchanging a look with Fletcher in acknowledgment of the eerie silence, Darcy stepped in.

“Spread out and search,” Fletcher said softly, his words aimed over his shoulder. “Two to each room we pass. We search this floor first. You and you, stay by the front door.”

The men nodded.

Darcy, Hurst, and Fletcher started down the home’s arterial corridor, cautious but without stealth. The house felt decidedly empty. A prickle went up Darcy’s spine, but a glance back showed only Netherfield Park’s men, moving into side rooms in pairs.

It wasn’t until they neared what Darcy assumed would be the kitchen that muted, strangled gurgles reached him. He quickened his pace along with Hurst and Fletcher.

They burst into a low-ceilinged kitchen, copper pans and bunches of herbs adding to the impression that Darcy couldn’t hope to stand upright. He and Fletcher fanned out, each going up one side of the room. Hurst pivoted in a slow circle. Darcy ducked under a bundle of mint.

“Here,” Hurst said, striding over to a squat door that promised an even shorter room or a step down. He waited for Darcy and Fletcher to reach him then threw the door open.

Light from the kitchen windows spilled into a cold larder hung with wheels of cheese and salted ham, and illuminating a man trussed on the floor.

Mr. Collins wriggled between dented cheese wheels, his limbs bound by cords pilfered from the creamy yellow dairy goods and what looked like a sugar sack shoved in his mouth. Eyes that showed the whites all the way around watched them as he babbled unintelligibly against the rough fabric.

Producing a Barlow knife, Fletcher descended into the larder, making quick work of Collins’ bonds. As soon as his hands were free, the parson yanked the gag from his mouth.

“…me up in here and—” he began, already mid-sentence, his teeth chattering from his time on the cold room’s dirt floor.

“Who tied you up?” Fletcher interrupted, helping Collins to sit up, though Darcy felt there was little doubt.

“Those women. My cousins. The Archers. Lady Catherine will not be pleased with this development. Not pleased at all. I am meant to be an expert on moral fortitude. I am meant to lead my flock along the righteous path. I am—”

“Where are the Archers?” Fletcher interrupted.

“Archers? Gone. They—”

“For how long?” Hurst demanded from where he and Darcy peered down into the larder.

Mr. Collins looked up, as if only now realizing they stood there. “Mr. Darcy, sir, please permit me to explain. I am not normally to be found in larders.”

“I am aware.”

“Thank you, sir. I would not want Lady Catherine, or Miss de Bourgh, or your good self, to believe I engage in this behavior with any sort of frequency.”

“Did they give any indication of where they went?” Fletcher asked loudly.

Mr. Collins turned back to him. “I could not hear well but, ah, I believe they said they would send the carriage south with two of the servants in the hope of luring away pursuit, but they would make east for the coast in the Longs’ phaeton, with some of them posing as men and some as maids.”

“Why would they permit you to hear that?” Darcy asked, instantly suspicious.

“I do not know. Miss…Miss Mabel threatened me with a pistol. Me, a man nearly her betrothed. I informed her that was not proper behavior for young ladies, but they still tied me up in here. They argued the rest in the kitchen.”

Darcy frowned. Did that mean they went east, or had Mr. Collins been permitted to overhear, and they went south? Or, conceivably, in any direction. Who knew what cunning game they played.

“Darcy?” Bingley’s voice called. “Hurst?”

“Mr. Darcy?” Sir William added.

Darcy backed away from the larder.