11

Alice Hill smiled bashfully at Wilson, and moved closer to the handsome valet at the sudden shouts outside of the manor. She drew in a deep breath, fidgeting with her hands, terribly nervous as the sounds of the approaching intruders grew louder and closer. Wilson gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Do not fear, Miss Hill - we have the easiest job.”

They could hear Captain Denny outside the window, speaking to his companion. “Try opening it first - breaking it will be too loud.”

Gloved hands appeared on the windowpanes, pushing against the glass to slide it upward until there was an opening big enough for the officer to clamber inside. He entered headfirst, and had just raised a knee onto the ledge when Wilson dove forward, pressing a rag soaked in turpentine to the officer’s face.

“Sanderson?”

Alice gasped. She recognized the officer, and would never have imagined the timid young man to be a part of a wicked band of brigands. He had taken tea with the ladies of this house!

But Sanderson did not answer her; instead he grappled for a moment as Captain Denny held his arms from behind and Wilson continued to hold the rag forcefully over his mouth and nose. A minute later, the lad’s head and shoulders slumped forward, and Denny lowered him back out of the window.

Wilson leapt out the windows and landed in the snow with a dull crunch, and extended his hands to help Alice. She perched on the ledge, ducked her head out first, and then swung her legs out in a fluid gesture, then hopped down beside Wilson, hanging onto him until she had gained her balance. She let out an excited laugh, her breath visible in the frosty air.

“Well done,”

Denny said, waggling his eyebrows. “Our first man down. We better get him to the stables.”

He opened his coat and handed Alice a small pistol. “Let us hope your brother taught you well. Cover us, Miss Hill.”

He lifted Sanderson by the shoulders, and Wilson lifted under the lad’s legs; together they hauled their captive to the stable as Alice scanned in every direction, pistol at the ready as she followed them.

Sanderson had just begun to rouse when they entered the dimly lit stable. Alice’s eyes adjusted to the light of a single lantern and she saw Captain Denny cuff the young officer in the head, knocking him out once again. He and Wilson laid their prisoner down on the ground and bound his wrists and ankles with a couple lengths of rope; several had been cut and laid out in advance for just this purpose.

“Good,”

Captain Denny said with a decisive nod of his head. “Gag him, Alice, and stand guard. Wilson and I will go back to the house to retrieve the next men felled.”

“Of which I hope there will be several,”

Wilson drawled. He gave Alice a rushed bow and took off running behind the dashing captain.

She bit her lip as she watched the two men gallantly rushing back to the fray at the manor, both relieved and envious that she had not been given a more hazardous task. Then she turned back to Sanderson, who had again begun to blink his eyes and stammer incoherently. Clutching the pistol in her right hand, she crouched down in front of the lad and clucked her tongue. “Shame on you, Sanderson, gettin’ mixed up in all this.”

He appeared to understand her, but before he could reply, she reached into her apron, withdrew another rag, and stuffed it into his mouth.

***

Elizabeth crouched behind the sideboard in the dining room, hidden from view of the window. A few feet away, Mr. Darcy stood concealed in the open doorway that led to the kitchen, while Georgiana hid beneath the large oak table in the center of the room. They were all so silent Elizabeth was not entirely sure they were breathing. The waiting was unbearable, and seemed to stretch on indefinitely, until at last they heard the sound of prowlers outside the window.

There was a scrape as the window pane was slid open, and hushed laughter as one of the bandits observed to the other, “They thought they was so clever, havin’ that party to trick us into thinkin’ the whole family come home, and then they don’t even latch the windows.”

“Not so high and mighty now,”

the other officer agreed.

Elizabeth gritted her teeth, silently fuming as she recognized their voices. It was Harrington and Marveston. She waited for the pair of dolts to shamble in through the window; her timing had to be perfect.

When she heard the first scuffling of their boots on the floor, before their footing was sure, she stood and spun around to face them, and lifted a small dish from the sideboard. The dish contained wig powder she had found in the attic during the rummaging phase of their plan that afternoon; Elizabeth had mixed a little something extra into it. Shielding her own eyes with her forearm, she stepped closer to the officers and blew the contents of the little dish into their faces.

The two officers both howled with pain and rage, clutching at their eyes and shouting oaths and curses at her. “Not so high and mighty now,”

Elizabeth said in a deep, mocking voice.

Mr. Darcy moved swiftly from the shadows of the servants’ corridor. He lifted a silver serving tray from the dining table and brought it down over the head of the nearest officer, who was already fumbling for his weapon. At the impact, Harrington crumpled. Marveston had already doubled over from the pain in his eyes. “Ground pepper,”

Elizabeth explained as Mr. Darcy fixed an inquisitive gaze on her. With a shameless wink, she quipped, “I thought I might add a little spice to our plan.”

He gave a bark of surprised amusement, while underneath the dining room table, Georgiana fairly snorted with laughter. And then the girl sprang out of her hiding place and swung a stoneware pitcher at Marveston before Mr. Darcy could raise the serving tray to land another blow. Wine sloshed out of the pitcher, dousing both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, and as Marveston toppled, Georgiana’s mouth fell open in shocked horror at what she had done.

They were all quiet for a moment, and then Elizabeth burst out laughing. She retrieved a cloth napkin from the dining table, dabbing at her face with it before offering it to Mr. Darcy, who had reached into his pocket for a surprisingly frilly handkerchief. He decided on the napkin, and accepted it with an abashed smile before wiping his own face clean.

“Sorry,”

Georgiana murmured, biting back another peal of laughter.

“That was brilliant,”

Elizabeth said.

“You were meant to remain hidden,”

Mr. Darcy said at the same instant. He looked ruefully between the two women, then added, “But it was impressive and effective.”

Georgiana glowed at their praise. “Should we tie them up?”

“Yes - and disarm them for good measure,”

Elizabeth said. She knelt down beside Harrington and removed his gun from its holster, offering it to Mr. Darcy and taking the wine-soaked napkin from him. She used it to bind the unconscious man’s wrists, and then checked Harrington’s pulse. “He is not dead,”

she said with a sigh of relief, resisting the urge to kick him as she stood to retrieve another napkin.

Marveston began to rouse. Mr. Darcy bent down and removed the officer’s weapon, using the butt of the gun to render him inert once more. He checked the chambers of both pistols, revealing that only one was loaded. He tucked it into his coat pocket, and tossed the empty weapon out into the snow.

Elizabeth knew the officers must also be hefted back out the window, a prospect she dreaded. And then Georgiana’s voice lilted, “Captain Denny!”

Their ally had appeared outside the window, panting with exertion, his eyes alight with the thrill of it. He reached his hands in through the open window and made a beckoning gesture. Mr. Darcy grabbed Marveston by the collar of his coat and dragged him across the floor, toward the window. Elizabeth hastened to help him, and together they lifted the limp villain out of the window. Denny managed to sling his fallen comrade over his shoulder, and began to carry him off to the stable.

Next was Harrington; Mr. Darcy scooped him up with both arms and unceremoniously tossed him out into the snow. He closed the window, smoothed out his coat, and offered each of the ladies one of his arms to lead them from the room. “High and mighty, indeed,”

he said, raising his chin so high he might give Miss Bingley a lesson in hauteur.

***

In the back parlor, Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Annesley waited behind a large folding screen they had discovered up in the attic. They were almost entirely concealed, though they both took advantage of the shadows that fell over them to peek around the side of the screen.

To their left, the french doors that led to the back garden slowly opened from the outside. Two officers crept into the parlor, and Mrs. Hill squinted in the moonlight that filtered into the room, trying to make out their faces. She recognized them as officers that had visited once or twice - Mitchell and Hayes. She clenched her fists in fury at the nerve of them, repaying Longbourn’s hospitality with such treachery. Quelling her impulse to throttle them both, she stilled her breathing and watched as they fell into the trap.

Two steps into the room, the officers reached the liberally applied floor polish, and their balance grew precarious. They wobbled and swayed, scrambling for surer footing, their arms flailing as they cried out in alarm. It was not long before Mitchell went careening to the ground, which had been strewn with rusty nails from the tool shed. He shrieked with pain, and Hayes jerked in panic before tumbling down after him.

“They’re down for now - we had best make sure they stay down,”

Mrs. Hill said to her prim and dignified companion. Mrs. Annesley gave a dignified nod of acquiescence, and the two women came out from behind the screen.

“And Mr. Darcy requested we disarm them,”

Mrs. Annesley said as calmly as if she were suggesting they ring for tea.

The two officers were scrambling across the slick floor, still crying out in pain at the nails pricked and pierced their skin. Smiling at the thought of shocking the posh woman she had grown rather fond of, Mrs. Hill gave Mitchell a swift kick between the legs. He squealed and swore at her, doubled over on the slippery hardwood.

Unimpressed, Mrs. Hill swatted at the lad’s hand as he reached for his weapon. She tucked it into her apron, then grabbed him by the elbow and began to drag his prone body toward the garden door, where Wilson was waiting. Wilson picked a few stubborn nails out of Mitchell’s clothing, then boxed the moaning officer in the ear and dragged him away toward the stables.

In the meantime, Mrs. Annesley had disarmed Hayes, lifting his gun with two fingers and holding it away from herself as if it were a dead mouse. She tossed it out into the snow, and then returned to inspect the groaning lad who had propped himself up on his elbow but could not find purchase for his boots. Mrs. Hill shot her a sportive look, privately hoping the dainty creature would take the same approach as she had done with Mitchell.

Instead, Mrs. Annesley lifted her skirts a little and placed her foot on Hayes’s back, slowly pressing downward until his arms and legs splayed out across the floor, the nails digging into him. He writhed in pain, and tried to turn about. He managed to twist about enough to grab her leg, and tugged at Mrs. Annesley until she began to sway wildly.

Mrs. Hill acted quickly, darting toward Mrs. Annesley to steady her. Betraying no more dismay than a single, shaky gasp, the gracious lady reached up, freed one of the knitting needles she had used to pin up her hair, and thrust it into Hayes’s shoulder. He released her with a yelp, and Mrs. Annesley drew out the other knitting needle, and her long silver hair tumbled down her shoulders. She prodded Hayes in the throat and he instantly stilled, laying on his back with his hands raised in surrender. “I’m sorry - don’t hurt me - the colonel forced me - I had no choice.”

“You have a choice now, dearie,”

Mrs. Annesley said sweetly. She turned to Mrs. Hill and said, “Tie him up.”

Mrs. Hill grinned, amazed at this serenely ruthless side to the woman she had initially taken for a dull snob. She scanned the room for something she could use to bind Hayes’s wrists, and settled on the thick cord used to tie back the curtains in the adjoining parlor. Skirting the periphery of the slippery floor, she retrieved the length of silky rope and offered it to Mrs. Annesley, who gave a nod of approval before tying it around Hayes’s wrists as he feebly whimpered and whined.

They waited until Wilson returned to cart the lad off, and then the two women hastened to take their position downstairs in the kitchen. They reached their post in time to hear another of the bandits tumble down the narrow stone stairwell that led to the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. Neither woman flinched at the shouts of profanity and threats of violence; they only exchanged a smug smile and waited for what was to come next - a blood curdling scream as the burglar clasped at the door knob. On their side of the door, three horseshoes that had sat in the fire all day had hung over the doorknob for the last hour, and even the officer’s gloves would be scant protection from such searing heat.

As they waited, Mrs. Hill drew a cleaver out of her apron pocket and stepped closer to the door. It flew open. The furious officer, still crouched on the icy ground, had wrapped the bottom of his coat around the knob before turning it with the hand he had burned, and with his unburnt hand he pointed a pistol at them.

Mrs. Annesley clutched Mrs. Hill’s free hand, and the two women shared a look of uncertainty. Under the guise of recoiling against a table in fear, Mrs. Annesley grabbed the lid off a cast iron skillet and hurled it like a discus at the officer just as he pulled the trigger. The shot would have gone awry, had there been a bullet fired. Mrs. Hill breathed out a silent prayer of thanks; this had been one of the guns Captain Denny had managed to empty.

The officer looked down at his weapon in surprise before clambering over the threshold and rising to his feet just beyond the edge of the ice. He dove for the cleaver, expecting Mrs. Hill to attack him with it, but instead she threw it at the thick woolen cord that had been rigged up above the doorway, severing the cord and triggering the release of the latches of two bedpans that had been rigged up there. Hot coals poured out of them, raining down on the officer, who crouched down and covered himself with his arms, letting out a high-pitched shriek.

While he was distracted, Mrs. Hill turned back and grabbed the cast iron pan from the table. A blow to the head might be enough to kill him, which Colonel Fitzwilliam had expressly forbidden them from doing. So she struck him in the gut, instead; it was enough to send the officer careening backward onto the ice, clutching at his stomach as he cast up his accounts.

Captain Denny appeared from around the side of the house and ran to the top of the stairs, pointing a gun down at the officer. “Come with me, Dawson, and I will consider not shooting you.”

Dawson cast a wary look at the icy stairs and groaned. “Just shoot me,”

he wheezed.

Captain Denny rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Can you tie him up down there, madam?”

“Aye,”

Mrs. Hill said. She removed her apron, passing the pistol she had confiscated upstairs to Mrs. Annesley, who gingerly deposited it into a sink full of soapy water and dirty dishes. Mrs. Hill chuckled as she twisted her apron into a thick rope and tied Dawson’s wrists roughly, double-knotting the rough fabric before using the excess length to bind his ankles, as well.

“Very well done,”

Captain Denny called down to them. “Where is the other fellow?”

“It was just him,”

Mrs. Annesley said.

“No, no, I have deployed these idiots in pairs. Dawson, where is Smythe?”

Dawson gave Captain Denny a withering glare, poised to say something hateful, when he unexpectedly began to retch once more, and then passed out in his own sick.

***

Johnny Hill could hear the shouts two floors below, and was eager for his share of the excitement; he would have paced from one end of the attic to the other if not for his injured ankle. He did manage to hobble from the front-facing window to a larger window looking down on the rear of the house. He had seen the Red Bandits arrive, some on horseback and some in the wagon they intended to load up with stolen loot from the manor. Since then, he had seen Captain Denny deploy four pair of officers to different points of entry, exactly according to plan.

The two that hung back, nearly out of sight, must be Colonel Forster and Mr. Wickham, he supposed; Captain Denny had said it would likely be thus, and he seemed like a clever fellow. Johnny was fairly confident he could take them down with just a few shots, but he had been instructed not to fire on them unless Miss Darcy was taken. Johnny did not see the sense in restraint, but he knew well enough that he did not want to get on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s bad side.

At least he might have some fun from his new position at the rear-facing window. An officer was clambering up the vine-covered trellis that extended up to the base of the attic window. Johnny had been hoping one of the bandits would attempt it; he was prepared. He had brought up a couple chamber pots, and gleefully emptied their contents onto the burglar, eliciting a colorful invective of obscenities but no surrender.

Johnny was pleased. Next he tore open an old pillow and rained feathers down onto the officer, delighted to note that it was Smythe, a horrendously unsavory fellow who had once leered at Alice in the village in a way that had made Johnny want to tear the man’s eyes out. The torrent of goose down must have obscured Smythe’s visions for a moment, for he fumbled to maintain his grasp. The feathers clumped and stuck to the refuse that soiled his coat, and the sight of it was vastly satisfying.

Johnny returned Smythe’s continued vituperation with some experimental expletives of his own, tossing down whatever small, random objects he could find. The vicious officer only taunted him more, describing some truly heinous plans for when he reached the top of the trellis. When Johnny stopped throwing things at him, Smythe began to gloat that the lad had run out of ammunition, and this only made the wicked officer more smug.

Confident of his imminent victory, Smythe was utterly astonished that, just when he reached the top of the trellis, Johnny reached down and smashed his right hand with a brick. The villain lost his grip with the injured hand, hanging onto the trellis tighter with his left… until that hand was assaulted with the brick a moment later. Smythe roared in pain and anger, but held fast with his left hand. Johnny reached for his shotgun and pointed it at Smythe, who froze where he was, just a few feet below the attic window.

Johnny had been told not to shoot - but he had not been told he could not use the shotgun at all. In that moment of stillness, he grinned at his own clever notion, and flipped the gun about. Before Smythe could regain his handhold on the trellis, Johnny leaned out the window and bashed the blackguard's face with the butt of the gun, the tossed the weapon to the attic floor, out of Smythe’s grasp as he pried the officer’s fingers off the trellis.

The brazen brigand’s eyes went wide with surprise as he fumbled for a handhold, and Johnny forcibly pushed him outward, away from the trellis, to the snowy ground twenty feet below.

***

Elizabeth, Georgiana, and Mr. Darcy only separated from one another long enough to close the doors to the dining room and parlors downstairs, and then they all held fast to one another as they scrambled up the stairs. Various shouts and shrieks seemed to surround them from elsewhere in the house, and then they could hear Mr. Wickham taunting them from just beyond the front door. They hurried past the landing and turned the corner, up to the top of the stairs, and then they stopped, leaning against the railing and peering down into the stairwell.

For a moment, the only sound was their panting. And then, from the front of the manor, a scream cut through the silence, degenerating into a string of vicious oaths and execrations. “Wickham,”

Mr. Darcy breathed. Beyond any consideration for proprietary, Elizabeth laid a hand on his shoulder, hoping to calm the roiling temper that shone in his eyes.

“Georgiana, go up to the attic, now,”

Mr. Darcy said stonily.

“But you said -”

“Now,”

he growled.

“Gigi, please.”

Elizabeth implored the girl. “Listen to your brother. If we do not join you upstairs in ten minutes, flee with Johnny, he will get you to safety.”

Georgiana’s indignation gave way to fear. She threw her arms around Elizabeth, and then stood on her toes to kiss her brother on the cheek before turning to go upstairs to the attic. Left alone, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a look of high emotion and joined hands.

There was a tremendous, shattering thud, and then a splash. Mr. Wickham, having burned his hand on the front door after they rigged the handle with smoldering hot horseshoes, had forced his way into the house, only to be met with the next obstacle. A thin strand of black yarn had been rigged in the doorway, not only to trip the intruders, but to douse them from above with a pail of cold water.

Colonel Forster’s thunderous voice joined Mr. Wickham’s in a chorus of obscenities. The two men were drenched and exposed to the cold, no doubt shivering already as they were obliged to work their way through the barricade of heavy old furniture that had been brought down from the attic and piled in an arc around the front door.

Wooden crashes and angry curses echoed through the front hall, and Captain Denny urged the other two officers onward, insisting that the other entrances were just as hazardous, but they were very near obtaining their prize now. That was the signal for the next assault, and Elizabeth crouched down, untying three ropes that been knotted to the railing - each one would send an antiquated chandelier crashing down on the bandits, hot wax raining down on them as the gilded iron did even more damage. She prayed Captain Denny was able to avoid any harm.

There were more cries of injury and outrage, but their enemies remained determined, and Captain Denny echoed their sentiments, urging them onward. Once again, Captain Denny’s phrasing was a signal, and at the right moment Mr. Darcy did his part. He turned about to a small brazier of burning coals, and using a folded over towel to protect his hands, he lifted a kettle that glowed orange with heat. Like the chandeliers, the kettle was tied to a rope on the railing of the stairwell, and he hurled it downward. It swung until it connected with someone, and there was a horrible screech just beyond Elizabeth’s line of vision.

Mr. Darcy released two more hot kettles in a similar fashion, both inciting further fury from the invaders below. Elizabeth retrieved a bucket of snow that had been set aside, and dumped it into the brazier to extinguish the coals, lest they burn down Longbourn or have one of their weapons used against them. Steam sizzled and smoke clouded the stairwell; her eyes stinging, Elizabeth fanned it away from herself as they began their retreat.

Mr. Wickham, Colonel Forster, and Captain Denny were hastening up the stairs now. All the bedroom doors had been locked but for one - the door to Lydia and Kitty’s room, which was directly across from the railing that overlooked the stairwell. Elizabeth pulled it open, effectively blocking the corridor. They had fastened a thick chain to the knob of the door, which she hastily wrapped around the railing, securing the barrier. They had also herded five particularly surly goats into her younger sisters’ room just before dinner, and the animals now bleated menacingly at the intruders as they converged at the top of the stairs.

Hand in hand, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy ran for the stairs to the attic, and when they reached the top, Mr. Darcy rushed to his sister’s side. “We have to go now,” he said.

Elizabeth retrieved the last of her weapons, a large bucket of kitchen grease, and poured it down the attic stairs, hoping it would be enough to slow the villains’ pursuit. Then she hastened to the far end of the attic, where Johnny and Mr. Darcy were bracing Georgiana in the window frame. A thick braid of rope had been suspended from the top of the window, connecting to the stable ten yards back from the house.

Georgiana turned back to Elizabeth with a look of terror. “I cannot do this,”

she breathed and scrambled backward, her chin quivering as if she might burst into tears.

“What if I go first?”

Elizabeth climbed up into the window frame, feeling Mr. Darcy’s hands immediately brace her waist as she reached into her pocket and retrieved a thick leather strap. She steeled herself, determined to give Georgiana courage. They had tested the rope that afternoon, and it could bear the weight of two people at once. It would hold. She lifted the leather strap up over the rope and held tightly to it with both hands. And then she whistled loudly. As she leapt from the window, the stable doors opened and Wilson drove the carriage out, ready to carry them away. Elizabeth closed her eyes as the cold wind tore at her, but it was over before the sheer insanity of her actions could frighten her too terribly. She landed on her feet in the snow, and waved up at her friends in the attic window, urging them to make haste.

Georgiana clambered back onto the window ledge, holding fast to a similar leather strap across the rope. Mr. Darcy and Johnny Hill both spoke words of encouragement that Elizabeth could not make out, and then Georgiana leapt, her skirts swirling around her. Elizabeth slowed the girl’s descent as soon as she was within reach, and helped her to her feet. Mrs. Hill came rushing out of the stables, fussing over the two young ladies with relief and affection. While Mr. Darcy was the next to glide down from the attic to the stable.

He opened the carriage door, revealing Mrs. Annesley already within, and then he helped his sister onto the front-facing seat beside her companion. Mrs. Hill stood beside Elizabeth, both women watching intently as Johnny made his descent, using the barrel of his shotgun in lieu of the leather strap the others had employed. Once he was safely on the ground, Mrs. Hill embraced her son and sent him into the stable to join his sister in guarding the prisoners. “If they follow you down that way, I’ll cut the rope,”

Mrs. Hill said, brandishing her cleaver with an eager gleam in her eye.

Mr. Darcy nodded, and then, before Elizabeth knew what he was about, he had lifted her up by the waist once more, depositing her in the carriage and then climbing up beside her. As soon as the door was closed, they were instantly in motion, and quickly attained a rigorous pace as they sped down the front drive, toward the Meryton road. Seated at her side, his eyes fixed on the small rear-facing window, Mr. Darcy boldly and deliberately took hold of Elizabeth’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

Nobody spoke until Wilson rapped three times on the carriage, indicating three men in pursuit. Then they all breathed a collective sigh of relief, not only because the bandits had taken the bait, but because Captain Denny was still with them. His duplicity had not yet been discovered, which must be to their advantage.

Elizabeth slumped backward, suddenly exhausted as she began to relax. And then, as the reality of all that had transpired struck her, she began to burble with laughter. She had assaulted multiple officers her mother would have happily seen her wed to, released belligerent livestock in the house, destroyed family heirlooms older than her father, and actually jumped out of the attic window. Her giddiness went on until Mrs. Annesley and then Georgiana joined her in the cathartic release.

Mr. Darcy remained serious, his gaze fixed on the rear window, but he released Elizabeth’s hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer. His countenance was severe, and yet she could detect raw emotion in his expression; she had come to know him so very well these last few days, and she laid her head on his shoulder, letting him protect her.

Georgiana shivered, drew a blanket around herself, and clung to Mrs. Annesley. She smiled at the sight of her brother’s unfettered affection for Elizabeth, which was entirely reciprocated. Yet fear still shaded the girl’s eyes. “What if they start shooting at us?”

“They would have to gain on us considerably, else it would be a waste of bullets. Even then, it is dark, we are in motion, and they are, too. Their accuracy will be significantly diminished. Captain Denny may be able to subdue them; if not, we will shoot back.”

Mr. Darcy pulled back his coat to reveal his pistol.

Laughing once more, Elizabeth pulled a tiny purse gun out of her bodice. “I found it when we raided the attic,”

she said. “Johnny tested it for me, and said it worked well enough, though there were only four bullets left.”

Mr. Darcy did not laugh out loud, though his chest rumbled with mirth; Elizabeth could feel it as she clung to him. The carriage shifted as they turned onto the road that would take them south to London, toward where Colonel Fitzwilliam and his men were hastening north to apprehend the villains. He opened his pocket watch, and the trace of a smile played across his face in the moonlight. “It is nearly nine o’clock.”

They lapsed into silence again, for how long Elizabeth was not sure. They were simply waiting for something to happen, and then a shot rang out. There were several voices shouting, some behind them and some from the other direction. Elizabeth saw the moment Georgiana recognized her cousin’s deep, booming voice, for the girl instantly perked up and grinned. “We are saved!”

The carriage turned again, stopping in a small clearing along the side of the road. Three more shots rang out in rapid succession, followed by more raised voices. They felt the carriage jostle as Wilson leapt down from the driver’s seat. Through the window, he motioned for them to stay inside.

Mr. Darcy heaved a great sigh of relief, closing his eyes as he continued to hold Elizabeth. “If we were in danger, he would have told us to run.”

“Oh. Good,”

Elizabeth said, yawning.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the carriage door, and then Colonel Fitzwilliam opened it. “Good evening,”

he said with a sweeping bow. “It is perfectly safe, if you would care to behold the fruits of your endeavor.”

Georgiana’s eyes went wide and she offered him her hand; he helped her down from the carriage and then turned to assist Elizabeth. A moment later, Mr. Darcy stepped down and stood behind the two women, resting a hand on each of their shoulders as they took in the rewarding spectacle. A pair of soldiers had clapped Forster and Wickham in irons and now led them to another carriage. The two criminals looked up and sneered at the foes who had defeated them, before being shoved roughly forward by their new captors.

This was enough to satisfy Elizabeth, and she squeezed Georgiana’s hand, knowing it must mean a great deal to the girl, to see the man who had wronged her so deeply brought to justice at last. Georgiana smiled sadly at Elizabeth, giving a single nod of her head as a peaceful expression washed over her.

On Elizabeth’s other side, Colonel Fitzwilliam was grinning like the cat that caught the canary. He waved at Wickham, saluted the other colonel, and called out, “Happy Christmas, you filthy animals!”