“How can you eat?”

“I can always eat, you should know that by now. It settles my nerves. I would encourage you to eat, but figure I will be ignored. I am going to insist you drink some strong coffee with several spoons of sugar, as you will need both. Doctor’s orders.”

“Forgive me, sir,” Mrs. Smyth hesitantly interrupted, flinching when the stormy cast to her master’s face turned her direction. She diverted her eyes, not wanting him to note the anger she felt over this violation to the house, it just one more proof, in her mind, at the downfall and imminent disgrace since marriage to that woman. “Miss Darcy wished for me to inform you that Master Michael is now asleep. He finally ate from the milk feeder offered, as well as some of the barley porridge Cook prepared, and Miss Darcy was then able to rock him to sleep. She thought this news would ease your mind.”

Darcy nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Smyth. Indeed that is excellent news. Please thank Mrs. Hanford for me. Assure her that her expertise and devotion are greatly comforting at this time.”

He turned away, preparing to resume his blank contemplation of the flowering lilacs outside the study window, when a startled gasp from Mrs. Smyth caught his attention. He swung about just as the housekeeper lifted the miniature from the packing box sitting on the edge of his desk. She noted his movement, instantly attempting to drop the portrait into the box, but his rapid lunge prevented her concealing.

He latched onto her wrist, eyes engaging hers. “You recognize this man.” It was not a question, her face clearly stating the answer.

“I…” She licked her suddenly parched lips, the seething anger in his glacial voice terrifying her and rendering her speechless.

“Answer me,” Darcy whispered, a note of ruthless command ringing through the regulation.

“He… is a friend.”

“George Wickham is your friend?”

“No,” she stammered in confusion. “That is… I do not know… This is Geoffrey Wiseman.”

Darcy did not respond. His gaze pierced through Mrs. Smyth, her body shuddering from what felt like visible beams of fire searing into her eyes. The grip on her wrist was painful, but the expression on his face was far more terrifying. He took a step closer, Mrs. Smyth withdrawing a pace reflexively.

“Geoffrey Wiseman, you say? And you know him? And have allowed this stranger into my house?”

“Fitzwilliam,” George spoke softly, but Darcy curtly gestured for silence and never removed his savage gaze from her face.

“Sir, please.”

“How long? How far has this man penetrated these walls? What have you allowed him to do?” She shook her head, visibly undone by the black, thunderous cast to her master’s normally kind face. “Answer me!”

His shout reverberated around the room, Mrs. Smyth gasping in fright. She felt near to swooning by the assault of emotions and thoughts roiling within. What was Mr. Darcy doing with a painting of her Geoffrey? A surge of doubt stabbed her heart. The numerous questions she had sensed over the past months, questions that she submerged due to her entanglement with her lover, slammed into her forehead until the pain darkened her vision and stuttered her speech.

“I trusted him. I… loved him. He…”

“Was he your lover? In my house?”

“Yes! Oh, please, sir… I am so sorry… I…”

“Do you have any idea what you have done?”

Mrs. Smyth released a whimper, truly petrified. She remained puzzled over the identity of her lover and the man in the miniature portrait, but it was also abundantly obvious that Mr. Darcy was connecting the two and intimating he was the culprit in the Darcys’ abduction. And worse yet, she was beginning to wonder the same. It was also obvious that Mr. Darcy was murderous in his rage, and she honestly feared for her life.

“Fitzwilliam,” George stated in a firmer voice, his hand gently touching Darcy’s rigid forearm. “Think. We now have the proof we needed. Calm yourself, and remember Elizabeth and Alexander. We can deal with Mrs. Smyth at a later date.” He tugged on each finger gripping the housekeeper’s wrist, prying his nephew loose.

It was a tense moment to be sure. Darcy yearned for a physical outlet for his considerable stress and Mrs. Smyth seemed like the perfect recipient. How it may have ended will never be known as just then Richard rushed through the door.

“Forgive me for taking so long! I have ten men…” He stopped, his eyes taking in the scene and turning a questioning look to George, as Darcy refused to relinquish his focus from the shaking, weeping Mrs. Smyth.

“It appears,” George offered, “that Mrs. Smyth has been befriended by George Wickham, alias Geoffrey Wiseman. He has been in the house, according to Mrs. Smyth. Recently?” She feebly nodded at the doctor’s inquiry. “Indeed,” he said, removing the last of Darcy’s white-knuckled fingers from her wrist, the housekeeper collapsing onto the sofa.

“Excellent!” Richard boomed with a satisfied nod. “This is the information we needed. The connection to Orman. Surely Elizabeth and Alexander are in Surrey. We must make haste.”

Darcy inhaled, gathering the frayed edges of his emotions and reining them in. He nodded, stepping away from the cowering woman. “Uncle, I expect you to take care of this.” He waved a hand in Mrs. Smyth’s direction, a steely-eyed George inclining his head in agreement.

“Trust me. You listen to Colonel Fitzwilliam, do you hear me, Son? He knows what to do.”

Darcy glanced to Richard’s grim, commanding face. “Very well. You are in charge, Colonel. I will obey your orders. But once my wife and son are safe, do not think about constraining me.”

Richard grinned evilly. “At that point, Cousin, I will be assisting you.”

Lizzy’s memory of the hours and days following her abduction would remain hazy for the whole of her life. There would be some impressions so vivid, yet obviously so fantastical, that she knew they were generated by the drug. And then there were other momentous events described to her later that seemed unfathomable for her to be unaware of when she was front and center to the action. Even years later, when she allowed herself to muse on the experience, she would not be able to say for certain what was real or what was of her drug-induced imagination.

Her first memory, after Wickham overwhelmed her in the garden, was of a dimly lit staircase, seen upside down and moving. Her body felt weightless and disconnected from her eyes as if floating. She noted the individual tattered threads on the carpet runner covering the steps, but could not differentiate between one hand and the other. Both were dangling before her eyes, tied together with a knotted cord wrapped around her wrists, but they looked like a flesh-colored lump with no definition. She knew this was odd, that she should be alarmed or at least curious, but she was apathetic. She closed her eyes and returned to sleep.

Much later—or was it only minutes? she did not know or care—she heard voices. She tried to open her eyes but couldn’t. No matter. She just listened to the voices. They were pleasant. Hollow, almost echoing, with drawn-out syllables. The words were mixed up, no order or sense. She found it humorous and wanted to laugh. Maybe she did laugh, but she never remembered for sure. She drifted off again with the funny voices soothing her.

Again, she was lifted. Her hands hurt, but she could not move them. She heard a name being called close to her ear, yet from miles away. Elizabeth. She was fairly sure that was her name but was uncertain. She opened her eyes to a face near her own. It was a cat! A cat with horrible breath and a massive scar cutting through the fur on its left cheek. How strange. The cat was talking to her. Hissing, really. Silly cat, attempting to speak. She smiled and began to giggle. The cat meowed and growled. A cat growling? How strange and amusing. She continued to giggle until sleep and dreams of talking cats consumed her.

On it went. Bizarre delusions melded with reality an uncountable number of times. Finally she woke to a clearer observance. Her vision was fuzzy and there was a loud ringing in her ears, but she felt the cushions of the sofa she was lying on. Her head was resting on a soft, threadbare pillow. Her hands were still tied, as were her feet, she sluggishly recognized. They were tight and in an awkward position that was uncomfortable but not painful. Her face was sore and both of her cheeks tingled. In fact, she gradually became aware of dozens of gnawing aches and sharp pangs all over her body. Her breasts burned with the need to feed her baby, and the thought, as nebulous as it was, caused milk to leak and wetly soak into the bodice of her dirt-stained gown.

Abruptly she remembered the garden and Wickham, and the panic rose to form a cold knot deep in her abdomen. But surprisingly, she was not as distressed as one would expect. A cold, detached voice within told her this was the drug’s effects acting upon her mind, and she found this interesting, but could not decide if her lassitude was beneficial under the circumstances or a detriment.

She scanned the room, clouded eyes adjusting to the half-light. It was evening, dusk settling in the world without. Several lamps were lit and there was a glow emitting from somewhere behind her head that was probably from a fireplace. The chamber, clearly a parlor, was rustic with furniture of hewn wood and beamed ceilings of knotty oak. It was a large room, well-appointed and fine, but layers of dust and scattered cobwebs were observable even to her limited vision. She saw two windows from where she slumped on the sofa, both covered with thick drapes that allowed minimal light to escape or enter.

“She is awake.”

It was George Wickham. She recognized the voice though it was slowed and monotone. He materialized in front of her, kneeling and obscuring her limited range with his smirking face. She blinked several times, but the filmy glaze did not disappear.

“Mrs. Darcy. How delighted I am to see you. Did you sleep well?”

“Alexander?” Her voice, even to her own ears, was grating. The effort to say that one word burned a pathway through her vocal cords and she winced in pain.

“He is nearby, asleep and well. He will stay that way, as long as you cooperate.”

“Cooperate?” she murmured roughly between giggles. “I do believe you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Wickham. I cannot see how I have much choice.”

She was laughing uncontrollably, the ache in her throat increasing, but she could not stop. Does he not see how utterly ridiculous this is? Does he not see the true danger?

Wickham frowned, his face turning red. But this just made Lizzy laugh harder.

“Oh, Mr. Wickham! I would not worry about me. It is my husband who will be killing you.”

The laughter was by then in gales, and the pain to her throat severe. A voice shouted from the background to shut her up, but it was not necessary for anyone to take action as the edges of blackness crept over her eyes. A dark tunnel that grew narrower and narrower until there was no light at all and she remembered no more for a time.

Minutes, hours, days?

Lizzy had no sense of time when she next rallied. Nor did she care. The only concern—in fact what brought her out of her drugged, unconscious state—was the violent pain and upheaval from her stomach. Her previous bouts with nausea and vomiting, even when pregnant, were minor annoyances compared to this affliction. She heaved until her midsection ached, long after the contents were evacuated. Her throat was on fire, but that was paltry compared to the hurt she felt in every muscle and the ague that enveloped her. She had absolutely no control over her body; the chills and shuddering ruled.