The Darcy Connection (28 page)

Eliza waited all day. She rose early, and dressed with extra care, ate scarcely a morsel for breakfast, then prowled about her bedchamber until an appropriate time for her to be in the drawing room to receive any morning callers.

And there was a stream of them, still drawn by the excitement of Charlotte's engagement, the most brilliant match of the season, “Quite a Cinderella story,” as one vicious dowager said, with a smile pinned to her lips and a glare at Eliza.

The hours passed. Every time the knocker sounded, Eliza caught her breath. This time, it must be him.

It never was. Not in the morning, nor after the nuncheon had been spread out in the dining room, and left untouched by Eliza. In the afternoon, Lady Grandpoint announced that she was going to Bond Street and to the circulating library. Eliza could accompany her.

Eliza stayed at home.

Wild, terrifying thoughts of accidents, street robbers, a fall from his carriage or horse, or a desperate financial crisis flitted through her mind.

Her reason told her that was nonsense, her anxious self sent Annie out to glean any news of any mishaps that might have assailed the heir to the house of Bruton.

No news, no gossip, no rumours.

No Mr. Bruton.

It was with anguish in her heart that Eliza sat down to dinner with Lord and Lady Grandpoint. Yes, she was a little unwell, she lied, in response to a tart query from Lady Grandpoint. She had the headache.

“I thought only Charlotte suffered from headaches.”

“Perhaps it is the weather, it is very close today.”

Lord Grandpoint looked at her in astonishment. “It is windy and unusually chilly for the time of year.”

Mr. Bruton had arrived at the bank that morning in a terrible temper. Startled clerks and assistants took one look at his face and scurried to keep out of his way.

“Just like his grandfather,” one of the oldest members of staff confided to a younger colleague. “I started in the bank when I was ten, and on days when old Mr. Bruton—of course, he wasn't old then—came in with a face like thunder, we all learned to keep out of his way. I've not seen Mr. Bartholomew in such a taking, though. I wonder what's happened to make him look like that.”

Bartholomew put in a gruelling day's work, desperately trying to drive the deep sense of hurt and misery out of his mind. He was torn between a visceral jealousy of Anthony Diggory, and agony over Eliza's duplicity. Those sisters were two of a kind, deceitful, ambitious, secretive. He had helped her to get rid of Mr. Pyke, and this was his reward. Why could not she have been honest with him?

Yet if Eliza was ambitious, he, as a Bruton, had far more to offer than a Yorkshire squire's son, however many acres he might expect to inherit. She had a provincial soul, that was it; she preferred muddy northern acres to a civilised life in London. Let her waste her life away in the rural fastnesses of her rainy county, much he cared, he was never going to think of her again.

And he kept to that, for all of thirty seconds, and then he was off again, still smarting from Freddie's casual words, still aching with the joy he had felt when he saw her again at the Wyttons', when he had felt so sure that this time, she would welcome his addresses. He might as well marry Jane Grainger, or Jane anyone, what did it matter? Women were all the same, perfidious, sly, incapable of honesty.

By the end of the day, his mood was, if anything, worse than when he had arrived in the morning. He stormed out of the bank, hardly able to utter a civil word to any of the staff who were foolish enough to come within his range, only just stopping himself from snapping off the head of Mr. Hetherington, who cocked a knowing eye at him from between his grizzled brows, and said bluntly, “Don't fret, Mr. Bartholomew. It'll come right in the end.”

“Useless, threadbare words,” Bartholomew said savagely to the crossing sweeper, who took his penny and scarpered.

He was in a quandary. Short of throwing himself in the river, what was he to do, to escape the endless pain of losing Eliza? He couldn't mope at home, good God, his mother might even venture to his apartments, she was the last person he wanted to see. Nor would he welcome his father's company.

He would go out, find himself a wench, drown his sorrows in excess. Where was that tavern Freddie had taken to frequenting? It was in Covent Garden. Well, there would be some convivial souls there, nothing but men and whores, more honest in their dealings than any well-bred miss out to ensnare a husband.

A lively scene met his eyes as he entered the tavern. Freddie was there, greeting him with a shout of joy, ordering wine, saying they would share a chop later on. It was a cold night, in contrast to the blast of hot air, laden with the smell of ale and wine and sweat, which greeted Bartholomew as he entered the tavern. It would normally have repelled him, but tonight was a welcome contrast to the drawing rooms and ballrooms he had been frequenting ever since he had met Eliza.

That was over with. The bank and masculine pleasures were what he wanted. To hell with a wife and a house and all the trappings of domesticity.

Freddie must have had a bottle or two before Bartholomew got there, for he was growing slightly maudlin, cradling the bottle and crooning Maria's name to himself.

Bartholomew drank his share of wine, but it seemed to have no effect on him, he still felt stone-cold sober, damn it. A saucy girl, her fine bosom barely covered by her low-cut gown, was giving him the eye from another table. He had never felt less amorous in his life. He stared morosely into his wine, wishing that Freddie would change his tune, when he became aware of a large figure looming over their table.

“Maria?” the newcomer said belligerently. “Maria who?”

“Maria Diggory,” said Freddie dreamily, not looking up to see who was addressing him.

The man gave a bellow and reached out for Freddie's collar, yanking him to his feet.

Anthony Diggory! Even drunker than Freddie, by the look of him, with a murderous eye. Bartholomew got to his feet. “Leave him alone, Diggory,” he said wearily.

Bartholomew Bruton had a natural authority, and even there, in the raucous tavern, confronting an inebriated and infuriated York-shireman, his voice had its effect. Anthony let Freddie go and glared at Bartholomew. “You!” he said in a voice of loathing.

“Go away,” said Bartholomew, sitting down again.

“I will not go away. I want a word with you. I've heard what people are saying about you. They're saying that you and Eliza—Miss Eliza Collins—that you've been forcing your attentions on her!”

“Get lost,” said Bartholomew, hating himself for the stab of anguish caused by Eliza's name on Anthony's lips. How could she be in love with this man, how could she be intending to marry him, to live with him for the rest of her life?

Anthony didn't go away. His choler was up, and he stood there, panting slightly, his eyes fixed on Bartholomew's face. “Answer me, or by God, you'll regret it,” he cried.

“I was not aware that you'd asked me a question,” said Bartholomew in a perfectly calm voice.

Anthony was not alone in the tavern. Two other young men were with him, one with a violent shock of red hair and a Scottish accent, the other a dark, sturdy man, who now advanced on Anthony with a frown on his face. “Anthony, what are you up to? Come back to our table and calm down.”

“Like hell I will. This is the man who's been making Eliza the talk of the town, he's been trying to win her away from me, playing fast and loose with her affections. Come on, answer me, what is Miss Eliza Collins to you?”

“If she meant anything to you, you would not bandy her name around in such a place as this,” said Bartholomew, such venom in his voice that Freddie looked at him in astonishment.

“Bandy her name, is it? I'll have satisfaction of you for that.”

“For what, precisely?”

“For that,” said Anthony, snatching up a glass of wine and dashing its contents in Bartholomew's face.

Bartholomew stood up, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Freddie? You'll act for me?”

“For Christ's sake, Bartholomew, the fellow's drunk, you don't have to call him out.”

“Freddie!”

“Oh, all right. Damn you, Diggory, for making such an ass of yourself. What will your sister say when she hears what you've been up to?”

“Are you insulting my sister?”

“Don't rip up at me, or you'll find yourself run through twice in the morning. Who are your seconds?”

Anthony looked at his two companions. “Aye, I'll do it,” said the man with red hair. The dark man began to remonstrate with him and with Anthony. “A drunken row in a tavern, you aren't in Yorkshire now, Anthony.” And, to Freddie: “You, sir, your name if you please.”

“My name's Rosely. Here's my direction. Get your man out of here and put his head in a bucket of cold water. Maybe he'll see sense by the time the night's out.”

“No,” said Bartholomew. “I'm not crying off, and I'll accept no apology. We'll meet at dawn, Diggory, sword or pistols, I don't care which.”

Freddie argued with Bartholomew all the way to Battersea Park, where the duel was to take place. In the subdued light of the false dawn Bartholomew's face appeared ashen, but his resolution was absolute.

“Pistols,” groaned Freddie, not for the first tine. “Why ever did you agree to pistols? Swords, and you'd have scratched his arm before he'd moved an inch and there would be an end of it. But the mood he's in, he'll put a bullet through your heart. You know what these country gentlemen are like, they spend their lives shooting rabbits and rooks and God knows what else, they're practically born with shotguns in their hands.”

“I don't suppose he'll be bringing a shotgun,” said Bartholomew, with the first flash of humour he'd felt in the last twenty-four hours. He faced the prospect of a bullet with equanimity and a kind of fatalism. Why was he here, why was he doing this? He had never been a duelling man, he thought the whole business preposterous, a relic of past times, and yet here he was, as dawn broke, rattling over the river to kill or maim even as the morning swallows were swooping through the skies and London was waking to a glorious June day.

Freddie had summoned a cousin to act as Bartholomew's other second. “Let's try and keep this in the family. God knows what your father's going to say when he hears about this. I dare say it'll be all over London by ten o'clock, whatever happens.”

“He'll disinherit me, probably, if I survive,” said Bartholomew indifferently. “I've angered him by refusing to marry Jane Grainger, and this will put the lid on my misdeeds.”

Anthony had brought the pistols, a matched pair of flintlocks. They lay gleaming in their mahogany box, with curved stocks and wickedly long barrels. Freddie and the dark man took them out and inspected them closely. Anthony, dressed in a dark coat, stood to one side, not looking at Bartholomew, who had taken his coat off. He handed it to the coachman, then began to remove his shirt.

“You'll never fight bare-chested,” said Freddie, alarmed. “You're a perfect target.”

“Yes, and if I'm in a coat and a bullet goes into me, the wound will fester. Give me the pistol.”

The seconds paced out the distance, and the two men lined up, sideways on. Bartholomew balanced the weight of the gun in his hand, then looked at it, noticing in a curiously distant way the exquisite goldwork on the shaft, before he lowered the weapon to his side.

As Freddie's handkerchief dropped, the duellers took aim, and two shots rang out at exactly the same moment.

Bartholomew, his ears still ringing from the sound of the bullet that had shot past his head, saw Anthony twist round and slide to the ground.

The surgeon came across at a brisk trot from his carriage as the seconds ran to Anthony. Their voices came clearly across to Bartholomew on the still morning air, as they knelt beside the still figure. “He's done for.”

“My God, and so are you,” said Freddie to Bartholomew. His keen ears had caught the sound of a coach approaching at speed. “Word's got out, those are the magistrate's men. You must get away from here.”

“Away?”

“Don't you understand? You've killed a man. There'll be the devil to pay for this. You fool, why didn't you delope?”

“I did,” said Bartholomew. “At least, I didn't fire to hit him. I aimed at that tree, over there.” He pointed to a plane tree some ten yards away from where Anthony had been standing.

“Curse you for a rotten shot,” said Freddie. “Come on, coz, move!”

Eliza woke from a tormented, restless night and couldn't at first account for the sense of dreariness that overwhelmed her as she opened her eyes. Then she remembered, and, with a sigh, she pulled herself upright.

That was yesterday. Today was today. She had given way to doubts and depression; well, enough of that, it was a time for action. First and foremost, she was going to find out why Mr. Bruton had failed to appear. She could not write to him, how absurd were all these niceties, so how to go about it?

Lord Rosely. She could not send a message to him directly, but he might well be in the park that evening. He had taken to driving there in his elegant curricle at the fashionable hour of five o'clock, often taking Maria up beside him. Lord Grandpoint would lend her a horse from the stables, she would ride in the park and, if Rosely were there, question him about Mr. Bruton.

Meanwhile, she wasn't going to mope and sit around in misery. She would fill the day with activity, useful, interesting activity, she would not sit at home, hoping that Mr. Bruton would call and counting the hours until she might see his friend.

A knock on the door and Annie came in, clearly big with news. “Oh, Miss, I don't know how to tell you, what a to-do, there's been a duel and a man shot dead, and, oh, Miss, it's Mr. Diggory!”

“Anthony! Shot dead? What are you saying?”

“There's a note been brought round, it's from Miss Diggory, and the manservant who brought it told us all about it. Mr. Diggory fought a duel with Mr. Bruton, first thing this morning, and Mr. Bruton shot him, and has had to flee the country.”

“Who has had to flee the country?” asked Eliza, bewildered by Annie's flow of words. “Are you telling me that Mr. Bruton shot Mr. Diggory?”

“Yes, Miss, that's it.”

“Killed him?”

“He's been brought home, he was taken up for dead there in Battersea Park.”

Eliza tore open the note and ran her eyes over the incoherent words. “I shall go to Maria at once. Annie, never mind the chocolate or anything else. Go downstairs and call me a hackney cab, I will be ready in five minutes.”

Anthony shot, killed by Mr. Bruton. A duel! Dear God, what had they fought about? Surely not over her. And Mr. Bruton had to flee the country; of course, to kill a man in a duel these days counted as murder.

In less than five minutes she was downstairs, ignoring the protestations of the butler and Annie's pleas that she just pause to let her do her hair. “For you look positively wild, Miss, and your bonnet not straight, and your gown—”

She leant forward in the hackney cab, holding on to the leather strap as though her energy could urge the cab to go faster through the heavy London traffic. It was an eternity before it stopped outside the Hatchards' house. Eliza was out in a flash, pressing a shilling into the jarvie's hand and running up the steps to the front door. She lifted her hand to the knocker, and as she did so, a carriage drew up behind her. She turned to see a dapper man come briskly up the steps. He was carrying a black leather bag.

“It is Dr. Molloy, is it not?” she asked. He had attended her aunt when she was afflicted with sneezing fits, a consequence of the pollen in the air, he said.

He raised his hat, the door opened, and they stepped inside. Maria was there, distraught and with a tragic face. She leapt forward. “Dr. Molloy. Oh, pray come quickly, this way, he is up here.”

Eliza's heart leapt as she took in the implications of his arrival and Maria's words. Physicians did not attend upon dead men. Anthony must still be alive. She followed the two of them up the stairs to where a door stood open on the landing. Dr. Molloy went inside and the door was firmly shut in Maria's and Eliza's faces.

“Well,” said Maria, and then, in a violent storm of weeping, she fell on Eliza's neck.

Eliza did her best to soothe her hysterical friend, but seeing that words were of no use, she called down to the hall, where several interested servants were loitering, for one of them to bring a jug of water. It came, and she promptly flung the contents of the jug over Maria.

Who came to her senses, spluttering and gasping and full of indignation. “You are as cruel and heartless as Anthony said. I summoned you, for I knew if he regained his wits before he expired, he would want to see you one last time. It is noble of me, for it is all your fault, his end will be on your conscience for ever.”

“How is he? Does he live?”

“He has been shot, there is blood everywhere, and he is at death's door. It was a duel, and they fought over you, that is what people are saying.”

“What people?”

“Oh, we have already had callers, wretched nosey parkers, agog for terrible news, and full of tittle-tattle. Oh, how could he do it? And how could he miss, how came he not to put a bullet through Mr. Bruton's heart, you know what a fine shot he is!”

The door opened, and there was Dr. Molloy, regarding them with a pair of pale, cold eyes. “You are making a lot of noise out here. Pray request a servant to bring towels and water.”

“Is he yet living?” breathed Maria.

“You are?”

“His sister.”

“There is not the slightest cause for alarm, Miss Diggory. Your brother has received a trifling scalp wound, a nothing, not worth the time or expense of my visit. He will come to his senses shortly.”

“A trifling wound,” repeated Maria, and then sank to the ground in a swoon.

“Lord, these vaporous young women,” said Dr. Molloy, his voice entirely without sympathy. “Call her maid and apply smelling salts. Good day to you, Miss Eliza Collins, is it not? If you know the whereabouts of Mr. Bruton, you may inform him that the magistrates may have him up for duelling in a public place, but that he is in no danger of standing his trial for murder.”

With that the doctor went nimbly down the stairs and out of the door, leaving Eliza staring after him. Why had he given her that message?

This was no time to ponder the doctor's enigmatic words, however. Maria must be attended to—ah, here was her maid. “Betsy, you take her feet and I will lift her under her arms.”

They carried her into the room and laid her on a sofa, across from her brother, who was clasping a bloodstained cloth to the side of his head and looking slightly dazed. “Eliza! You're here! What is the matter with Maria?”

“She fainted. She is perfectly all right, she is coming round this minute. Oh, Miss Chetwynd, what are you doing here?”

She had not noticed Miss Chetwynd advancing into the room—had she missed her knock? Her shrewlike countenance was alight with curiosity as she sent her eyes flicking from Anthony to Maria and back to Eliza.

“I was paying a morning call with my mother, and hearing that poor Maria was indisposed, Mama directed me to come upstairs to see if I could be of use. Oh, Mr. Diggory, pray do not get up. You are hurt.” She darted over to his couch, and took up a clean piece of linen.

Eliza hesitated for a moment, then whisked herself out of the room. Minutes later, she was in another cab and bowling through the streets to Falconer Street. Dr. Molloy's words made sense, but how did he know that she would have any concern for Mr. Bruton? The duel, of course, the duel supposedly fought over her, doubtless word of that was all over town. How ridiculous men were, and what had Mr. Bruton been up to, neglecting her all day and then fighting at dawn?

Mr. Bruton and Lady Sarah were not at home. As the stately butler intoned the polite, meaningless phrase, a familiar figure came into the hall.

“Lord Rosely. Oh, Lord Rosely, do you know where Mr. Bartholomew Bruton is gone?”

“France,” he said laconically. “Gone for good, too, just had it from his father. The law will be after him, he won't be able to set foot in England again. Don't know if he'll reach France,” Freddie added gloomily. “The way he was driving, he won't get halfway to Dover without overturning or going into a ditch. He said he didn't care, it would save him blowing his brains out. Suicidal, Miss Eliza, that's what he is, suicidal. Far too nice in his conscience, that's the trouble with him, these things happen, you can't take them to heart.”

He spoke these last words to the air, as Eliza was no longer there. Her skirts gathered up above her ankles, she ran down the street and cut through in the direction of Aubrey Square.

“Go by yourself, Miss?” said Annie, aghast. “You can't! It isn't seemly!”

“By myself,” said Eliza firmly, tipping the contents of her purse on to the bed. “Go and do as I asked you, and hurry!”

She counted the coins, then went to a drawer and took out the rest of her money. It should be enough, surely. At least sufficient to get her to Dover, and then…She would worry about then later. Now all she wanted was to get to Dover, to find Mr. Bruton; what desperate mood must he be in, to drive off in such a way.

Eliza had never been south of London, but the journey, which might otherwise have proved full of interest, could have been through a deep forest in the dead of night for all the notice she took of the countryside the chaise passed through. The oast houses, with their quaint cones, the fields of hops, the fruitful orchards, might all have been on the moon as far as she was concerned. All she wanted was to reach Dover. Which way was the wind blowing? Was it not the case that on some days it was impossible to venture upon the Channel crossing? Might it be so today, might she find Mr. Bruton kicking his heels at some inn, instead of already halfway to France?

The coachman, who had regarded her with considerable disapproval throughout the journey, wanted to know where she was to be set down, at which inn she was staying.

“Whichever is the most important,” she commanded, guessing that the rich Mr. Bruton would hardly stay in a lesser hostelry.

“That'll be the Ship, then,” he said laconically, and a few minutes later, the coach turned into the yard at the Ship Inn. Eliza had caught glimpses of the sea as they came down into the town; did her eyes deceive her, or was the sea looking quite rough, with cresting white tips to the waves? Although that might simply mean a good wind to waft vessels across to the Continent, not that they were waiting in the harbour for more favourable conditions.

As she climbed down from the coach, stiff after the ride, a gust of salty wind struck her in the face, nearly ripping her hat off. The innyard was busy and noisy, coaches following one another in, ostlers leading horses into the stables, a wagon rumbling through the archway, piled high with luggage, passengers passing into the inn.

Once the chaise had been paid for, and a tip added for the long-faced coachman, Eliza took a deep breath, and told the boy who was hovering with her single small bag in his hand to lead her into the inn.

“If you're wanting a bedchamber, and ain't reserved one, you won't be staying here,” he blithely informed her. “There won't be nothing sailing today, not with the wind as it is. They're making the crossing the other way in just a few hours, but none of the boats will put out from here until the wind's shifted into a better quarter.”

Which must mean that Mr. Bruton was still in England! Her heart lifted. She went into the inn, stepping into a panelled room, with worn, polished, creaking floorboards and nautical accessories hanging here and there from the immense beams.

A stout man appeared to be in charge. Eliza, ignoring the jostling throng of new arrivals and those anxiously making enquiries about the weather and sailing times, managed to push her way to the landlord and to ask, in a raised voice, whether a Mr. Bruton was staying at the inn.

The innkeeper, who was looking at her in no very friendly fashion, said that he was. “And,” he added, “if you're wanting accommodation for yourself and your maid, we're full.”

“Please send up to Mr. Bruton to tell him that Miss Eliza Collins is here.”

The innkeeper ignored her request. “Not so high-and-mighty, if you please. Do you have a maid, a mother, a brother? Or are you travelling alone?”

“That is none of your business. Please convey my message to Mr. Bruton.”

“We know your sort, and we'll have nothing of that kind here. Be off with you.”

Eliza stared at him. Was the man mad? Good heavens, no, not mad at all. He had taken her for quite a different order of person.

To his evident astonishment, she let out a peal of laughter, and said, “Indeed, I am not what you think. I am…I am a relation of Mr. Bruton, and I have come from London with an urgent message.”

She heard a sound and looked up. Bartholomew Bruton was standing at the head of the stairs, looking down at her.

This was no glad welcome, no joy sprang into his eyes. His face was set, cold, implacable. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to speak to you.” Aware that the roomful of people had fallen silent and were watching and listening with intent interest, she made a pleading gesture with her hands.

He came down the stairs, slowly.

“Don't you be telling me this is your sister, Mr. Bruton, for I know as well as you do that you don't have a sister. I won't have my guests leading out a wench in my inn, and that's flat. If you want to get up to those sort of capers, you'll have to go elsewhere.”