Darcy was filled with mortification and outrage. A member of the Darcy family passing a single night in gaol was inconceivable. His name would be tarnished, his reputation damaged. Physical discomfort he could bear with fortitude, but the injury to his honor would be a heavy blow to suffer. That Elizabeth, in her condition, could not possibly be subjected to the environment of gaol was beyond question.
“Might you consider permitting us to stay here at the inn? You have my word that we will not attempt escape, nor even leave our room.”
“You have just been caught with stolen diamonds in your possession. Why should I trust your word?”
“I am a gentleman.”
“As I just explained, Mr. Darcy, your status as a gentleman means little. Perhaps the magistrates in Derbyshire treat persons of means more leniently, but in my jurisdiction the law applies equally to all individuals. In fact, as a gentleman myself, I hold those of our status to a higher standard, and condemn the actions of any gentleman who would taint our collective honor through conduct unbecoming. Ask those gathered here about the fate of Mr. Oliver Smyth, known in these parts as the ‘gentleman bandit.’ ”
“Swung from a tree!” someone cried.
“I am no bandit,” Darcy declared. “Do not treat me as one.”
“You stand accused of theft — a hanging offense for an item as valuable as these diamonds. Until this matter is resolved, you and your wife shall be treated like any other criminals.”
Another murmur swept through the crowd.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth. Her face was filled with anxiety. The thought of her sharing this shame was insupportable. He could not — would not — allow that to happen.
“I will go with you willingly, but for mercy’s sake, please do not subject my wife to incarceration.”
“If gentlemen do not enjoy exemption from the law, neither do ladies.”
“Yes, but. . a private word, please, Mr. Melbourne?”
“What is it?”
Darcy approached the table and leaned forward. “Mrs. Darcy is in a delicate state of health,” he said in a voice audible only to the magistrate.
“You ought to have considered that before breaking the law.”
“If anything happened to her or the child while in gaol, would you want that on your conscience?”
Mr. Melbourne folded his arms across his chest and studied Elizabeth for several long moments. Finally, he said, “Mrs. Darcy, was there ever a time when your husband was in Mrs. Tilney’s chamber alone — without you?”
Darcy heard the question with relief and gratitude. The magistrate was offering Elizabeth a way out. But to accept it, she would have to cast even more suspicion on him.
She looked not at Mr. Melbourne, but at Darcy. He could read the reluctance in her eyes. She would not pronounce a word that might betray him.
“Speak the truth, Elizabeth.”
She hesitated. He willed her compliance with his steady gaze. I shall be all right. Speak the truth.
She swallowed. “Just before we left Northanger Abbey, my husband went to the apartment alone to ascertain whether the servants had finished packing our trunks. He was gone but a few minutes—”
“Did he have this walking stick with him when he went?”
Her face filled with distress. “Yes.”
“Then it is possible that Mr. Darcy committed this crime without your knowledge?”
“It is impossible that my husband committed any crime,” she said fiercely. “He is the most honorable man I have ever known.”
“An admirable display of loyalty, Mrs. Darcy.”
Mr. Melbourne leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between Elizabeth and Darcy several times as he deliberated. Darcy, meanwhile, strove to mask his own apprehension. So long as Elizabeth was spared, he could tolerate anything.
At last, the magistrate reached a decision. “Mrs. Darcy, your statement has sufficiently convinced me that your husband is the principal perpetrator of this plot. You may stay here under guard tonight. Mr. Darcy, the constable will escort you to gaol.”
At the word “gaol,” Elizabeth released a soft cry.
The eager Mr. Chase stepped forward. Darcy would go willingly, as promised. But first he needed to remove the stricken look from Elizabeth’s face. “Might I have a few words alone with my wife?” he asked Mr. Melbourne.
“I suppose so. A few brief words.”
Darcy went to Elizabeth and took both her hands in his. Despite the stuffiness of the crowded room, her hands were cold and betrayed a slight tremble. He held them tightly as he looked into dark brown eyes that had never before reflected such turmoil.
“Darcy, I—”
“Hush. I would not have had you say anything else. I will be fine, and this is one instance in which I do not desire your company.”
“But gaol!”
“My first concern is for you and our child. Knowing you are safe, I can endure a night of the gaoler’s hospitality until this matter is sorted out.” He longed to touch her face, to smooth away the anxiety that furrowed her brow. But consciousness of their audience forced him to settle for pressing her hands in reassurance.
“Shall I contact Mr. Harper?” she asked.
“Mr. Harper cannot be reached in France, let alone assist us, between now and tomorrow morning — when our return to Northanger will resolve this affair.”
If it did not, he would summon Mr. Harper posthaste.
Darcy prayed events would not come to that. He wanted no one else to learn of this embarrassment. Though he trusted his solicitor implicitly, the haut ton was a gossiping beast that fed on the adversity of others. Somehow the news would leak, and Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy would become the topic du jour in every club, parlor, and assembly room of the Polite World. He could not bear the thought of his name being bandied about London, of other people — persons with whom he might not even be acquainted, who had no interest in his welfare — using his misfortune to increase their own social capital by trumping their listeners with the most dramatic on dit.
How Darcy now regretted sending his solicitor abroad! If only, as his aunt had requested, he had personally undertaken the errand of ensuring his cousin Roger did not sully the family reputation.
Instead, he had stayed behind to ruin it himself.
The following day dawned brighter than any day so begun had a right. Darcy watched the sun rise through the small window of his cramped room in Mr. Slattery’s house. Once at the county gaol, Darcy’s status as a gentleman had spared him from confinement with the common criminals, but he’d had to pay generously for the privilege of being accommodated with the gaoler himself. Given the vulgar, dirty conditions in which Mr. Slattery lived, Darcy had been only slightly better off.
He had slept little, his mind too active to permit rest. He had entered the gaol bewildered, the circumstances in which he found himself too far removed from his realm of experience to be immediately comprehended in their entirety. But now having had an opportunity to fully contemplate recent events, he emerged from his imprisonment even more outraged than he had entered it.
Outraged, and wary. This was no mere misunderstanding. Someone had gone to considerable trouble to make him appear guilty of theft, to damage his reputation in society. The charges themselves he did not fear; he had enough influential connections who would believe in his innocence that an acquittal was almost assured. But the cost would be dear. While the faith of his most intimate acquaintances might remain steadfast, all others who heard of the affair would forever suspect his integrity.
Yes, someone worked against him, for reasons mysterious and inconceivable. And Darcy had concluded that his attacker could be none other than Captain Frederick Tilney.
He kept this deduction to himself as the gaoler escorted him to Mr. Melbourne’s waiting carriage. The magistrate had with him the condemning walking stick, and Darcy wondered how and when such a close replica had been crafted. How could Captain Tilney have known Darcy’s own cane so particularly?