Page 91 of Cousin Conundrum

Darcy pushed forward to take in a page pinned to the table by a knife. The blade stuck up from the center, reflecting sunlight, glinting pots, and the bobbing firelight alike. “What does it say?” he demanded in a harsh whisper, his heart beating hard enough to pound his pulse through his corneas, making the scrawled letters dance.

Was this what Elizabeth saw when she looked at a page after the blow to her head?

Where was Elizabeth? He couldn’t have issued that demand aloud even if he wanted to, his throat blocked by fear.

Fletcher yanked the knife free and took up the page. “‘Messieurs, I have taken Mademoiselle Bennet, Mademoiselle Elizabeth, Mademoiselle Bingley, et Madam Hurst. I require a sum of twenty-five thousand pounds to secure their lives et leur liberté. Word of when and where this sum must be left will be forthcoming.’ It is signed, Monsieur Paon.” Fletcher raised stricken eyes from the page. “What about Miss Kitty?”

Relief filled Darcy to know that even if the blood in the corridor was Elizabeth’s, she was alive, even as anger bloomed in his chest.

“He has Miss Bennet and Louisa and Caroline,” Bingley’s voice cracked.

“Why Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth but not Miss Kitty?” Fletcher pressed. “Where is she?”

“Perhaps she escaped them,” Hurst mumbled. He scrubbed a palm over his face. “Oh, Louisa.”

Fletcher looked from Darcy to Bingley to Hurst, then back to the note. “Or perhaps they did not feel Miss Kitty to be worth anything.” A hard, dangerous edge clipped those words.

One that echoed the rage stiffening Darcy’s spine and balling his fists.

“They?” Bingley blinked. “Monsieur Paon means Mister Peacock.”

“They. He.” Fletcher shrugged, the motion angry. “The so-called Archers are the Peacock. I am more than ever certain.”

“Louisa,” Hurst muttered again, his gaze on the floor.

A muted thump sounded.

Darcy whipped around, seeking the source. How he wished a Mr. Peacock stood before him on whom he could vent his rage. How dare anyone take his Elizabeth?

The thump sounded again, tentative. Then again. Knocking?

Fletcher strode with him into the darkness of the scullery. Dimly seen, they found the door to the laundry, a heavy cabinet pushed in front of it.

“Who is there?” Fletcher called, abandoning stealth.

Muted cries came back, clearly feminine and alarmed, their gender not the reassurance Darcy could wish.

Together, he and Fletcher lifted the cabinet away. The door was locked, but a quick search of the housekeeper’s office off the kitchen yielded the key, fortunately labeled. Returning, Fletcher and Hurst now carrying candles, Darcy unlocked the laundry door.

The women of Netherfield Park, and those few menfolk who hadn’t joined the search, spilled out. The old butler had a blackened eye, and one of the parlor maids a broken, bloody nose. Several more bore other signs of injury. All appeared rather bedraggled. Candles held high, Hurst and Fletcher led the way back into the kitchen.

The broken-nosed maid rushed up to Bingley, who stood beside the table. He swayed, his eyes wide and his visage ashen. He braced a hand on the table.

“We tried to stop them Archer women, sir,” the maid cried. “We truly did. They had pistols, sir, and cudgels, and they weren’t afraid to use them, but we tried, sir.”

Bingley looked about, blinking. Finally, he turned to Darcy. His voice small and plaintive, he reiterated, “They have my sisters, and Jane.”

Darcy strode forward to grip Bingley by the shoulders. “They do, but we will get them back.”

***

Kitty shivered, wishing she’d thought to grab some of the old outerwear from the wardrobe before following the Archers. She hadn’t realized they would walk so far, though, or that they would slip into a little farmhouse, cozy and warm, while she remained among the pines as the sun went down.

She stared up at the house, watching as a young man came out and began to circle, a cudgel in hand. Every sound in the growing dark caused him to start. His gaze darted left and right, up and down the hill on which the farmhouse sat. His gait was hurried, his motions jerky, and he often turned to watch the house.

Johnny Walters. Kitty didn’t know him well, but everyone in Meryton knew the Walters. A pleasant couple with five young’uns, Johnny being the eldest. Kitty couldn’t believe the Walters would conspire with the Archers to ransom her and Mr. Bingley’s sisters.

She could believe that the Archers would tie up Johnny’s mum, or threaten his little sisters, or any number of horrible things to make Johnny stand guard for them.