“IT’S TIME YOU ACKNOWLEDGE the truth.”
The words reached Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s ears as she was striding with determination down an unfamiliar London street, causing her to falter—but only for a moment. She squared her shoulders and kept pushing forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she called over her shoulder, but refused to turn around.
“Lizzie.”
She stopped, causing the few pedestrians around to skirt her. The neighborhood was working-class, and consisted of packed flats, shops, and storehouses. The damp spring air was crisp and carried the scent of the docks, not far off. It was, in short, not the type of neighborhood a respectable young lady might linger in. Lizzie turned and looked at her companion, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, who lagged behind with mud-coated boots and his usual serious expression.
“Lizzie.” He repeated her name with a small amount of exasperation. “It’s all right to admit that you’re lost.”
“I know that,” she said, making sure to keep a bright smile on her face. “But I’m not, so why would I?”
Darcy sighed. “What street are we on?”
“What does it matter?” she asked. “We’re headed in the right direction.”
“Yes, but do you know how to get home?”
She shot him a reproving look. “Of course I know how to get home, Darcy. Do you?”
“No,” he admitted. “That’s rather the point.”
“Well, then, you better stick close to me.”
Darcy grumbled under his breath but took her arm and allowed himself to be led on. Lizzie bit back a smile. One of the reasons she liked Darcy well enough to keep him around was that unlike most young gentlemen she was acquainted with, Darcy did not engage in the tiresome business of always acting like he was the only one who could possibly be right about something.
“We should have taken my carriage,” he added.
That did not mean, however, that he held back when asserting his opinion.
“On these narrow streets?” Lizzie asked, indicating the one they were currently traversing. It was crowded with pushcarts and buckets, children playing and women lingering on stoops. “It wouldn’t fit! Besides, it’s a wonderful day for a good stroll.”
Darcy snorted, a most ungentlemanly sound, and glanced pointedly up at the deep gray sky. Not that this was anything new—the skies were gray half the year. But—and Lizzie wasn’t about to admit this to Darcy—the skies to the east had gotten particularly dark, and there was a charged sense to the air that told her on this one point, Darcy was correct.
“You would go walking in a downpour,” he muttered, but there was a fondness in his voice, too.
“So would you, if you’d spent the last week indoors, bent over briefs! I swear, it was as though all the courts did this week was produce the most inscrutable paperwork imaginable for my own personal punishment.”
“They’re testing you,” Darcy said. “They don’t like the fact that your father recognizes you as a solicitor, and therefore expects the courts to do so as well.”
“I know,” Lizzie said, but she was unable to keep from sounding peeved. “And they can keep trying to trip me up, but I am one step ahead of them.”
Despite her bravado, Lizzie didn’t always feel quite so confident. She hadn’t admitted to Darcy that she’d needed her father’s help on two of the cases, and she’d misfiled one of her responses to a patent case that had nearly cost her client everything he owned. Only her father—and his influence—had kept the case from completely unraveling.
Even though she didn’t tell Darcy these things, he seemed to understand her inner turmoil, for he squeezed her arm gently and said, “Naturally. I have no doubt that you shall show them your mettle. I do, however, have doubts as to your sense of direction.”
They had come upon an intersection, and despite her confidence up until this moment in navigating their way, Lizzie had hesitated ever so slightly. Darcy, being attuned to her movement, had certainly noticed. “I’m not lost,” she repeated as she looked left, then right.
“Lizzie,” he said with a sigh. “If we need—”
“This way!”
She made the impulsive decision to turn left, dragging him along with her.
“Do not think I am unsupportive of your more unusual business practices,” Darcy said, allowing himself to be led. “But I have to wonder, if this Mr. Mullins truly wanted to engage your services, wouldn’t he come to Longbourn rather than have you wandering through unfamiliar dockside neighborhoods?”
“First of all, it’s not unfamiliar—I told you, I’ve been there before! Second, I am hardly alone when I have you.”
At that, Darcy finally cracked a small smile, and Lizzie felt a thrill of triumph rush through her. Getting Darcy to smile was akin to writing a perfectly elegant, unimpeachable sentence in a brief, one no sour solicitor at a competitor’s firm could find fault with. But as he was Darcy, he was not content to let her win this argument. “My point still stands—I don’t see how a permitting disagreement in the Western Exchange requires a visit to the gentleman’s storehouse.”
“Gentlemen,” she corrected. “Mr. Mullins—Jack—and his brother, Simon, co-own the business. And besides, we have a history—the Mullins brothers were my first case.”
“The one where the man died and his business partner tried to take the assets?” Darcy’s forehead creased as he drew up the memory, and Lizzie smiled. Despite his grumbling, Darcy always listened, and, what’s more, he remembered what she told him.
“Yes, and his sons came to Papa to get the business back,” she continued. “The brothers sued the man. There was some nonsense involving paperwork and missing files, but, well, we got that all cleared up in no time!”
She smiled brightly at Darcy, but he was shaking his head. “Missing files, hmm?”
“They were recovered!”
“You are good at recovering missing or lost things,” he noted. “Do you think you can recover your sense of direction?”
He indicated up ahead, where the street dead-ended into a brick wall. Lizzie stopped sharply. “Oh. That’s new.”
“Is it?” Darcy asked, dubious.
“Come on, we’ll go around.” She pulled Darcy down a nearby alley, sidestepping dank puddles. “And don’t look at me that way—you were happy for an excuse to leave the office and get out, too! Besides, it’s just a little alley, and I’m sure once we come out up here . . .”
Lizzie trailed off, because unfortunately for her and for Darcy’s opinion of her navigational skills, when they emerged onto the street, Lizzie was completely lost. This street was full of storehouses and work yards, with laborers—mostly men—focused on their tasks or coming and going. Lizzie and Darcy stuck out like a sore thumb in their finely made clothes, and Lizzie’s dainty boots didn’t stand a chance against the muddy trenches of the street. A nearby blacksmith looked up from his outdoor fire and stared
at the pair of them with obvious disgust.
“Right,” said Darcy, and asked more gently, “do you know where we are?”
“No,” she finally admitted. It had been three years since she’d last seen Jack Mullins and visited the storehouse he and his brother had inherited from their father. London’s streets had changed in that time as new buildings and businesses had sprung up, and the skies were just cloudy enough that she was no longer certain which direction she was facing.
“There’s nothing more to it then,” Darcy said gravely. “We must ask for directions.”
“I have a feeling that if we were to approach anyone on this street, they’d tell us to walk directly into the Thames,” Lizzie muttered. As much as she despised the notion that she needed a male chaperone to conduct business, she was glad she’d wheedled Darcy away from his desk now. It wasn’t just in the courtroom where the presence of an unaccompanied lady drew ire and the wrong sort of interest.
“Look ahead,” Darcy urged.
At the end of the block, two spots of red stood out. Officers, some of the many that had flooded the streets of London lately—even more so than usual. It seemed that Britain was always engaged in one war or another, usually with the French, for as long as Lizzie had been alive. But the latest news from the Continent of Napoleon’s advance had everyone on edge, and Lizzie’s youngest sister, Lydia, in a constant state of hope that she would find love with a handsome war hero.
Lizzie allowed Darcy to take the lead as they navigated through the muddy streets in the direction of the officers, who would surely be honorable enough to steer them in the right direction. One was tall and stout and stood like a man who knew he was in charge. His companion was slight and Lizzie’s height, and seemed to keep one half step behind the taller officer as they strolled down the muddy streets, their backs to them.
Lizzie and Darcy picked up the pace to catch up to them and were still a good distance away when the pair halted and seemed to have an exchange with someone ahead of them. Lizzie couldn’t see who they were talking to, but she saw the taller officer raise his hand and bring it down to strike something. A woman cried out in fear, and the sound jolted down Lizzie’s spine, spurring her on.
“Lizzie! Wait!” Darcy called.
But Lizzie charged forward, and caught up with the officers just in time to see the taller one shove a small pushcart laden with various worn-out odds and ends. Its wheels had become mired in the muck of the streets, and a rail-thin woman strained to push it out of the officers’ way. She wore a shabby brown dress with a faded blue kerchief holding back her hair, and her frantic gaze skittered between the officers and her sad-looking wares as she struggled. The shorter officer cleared his throat to say something as the taller brute growled in frustration, but Lizzie interrupted.
“Excuse me!”
The taller officer stopped his rough manhandling of the cart and looked behind him at Lizzie and Darcy.
Lizzie caught a flash of annoyance on his face as he took them in. It was tempered only slightly when he registered the state of their dress and realized he was speaking with a gentleman and lady. “You’re an awfully long way from home, aren’t you?” he asked.
Lizzie felt her training kick in, even if she would have liked to roll her eyes. She had found that a kind and sympathetic attitude went much further than impatience or authority, no matter how ridiculous the other party was acting. “We are indeed, but we’ve business to tend to, and it seems like we might have taken a wrong turn. How fortunate we were to run into you gentlemen.” She made sure to emphasize the word, as if it might remind them to find their manners. “We were hoping you might give us directions, after you are finished assisting this lady.”
Lizzie’s not-so-subtle hints went unregistered. The poor woman looked between them all, uncomprehending. The tall officer raised his eyebrows. “What business?” he asked Darcy.
Lizzie sensed rather than saw Darcy assume the haughty, bored posture of the privileged and powerful son of one of London’s most powerful barristers. “I’m afraid that’s confidential. But please, don’t let us interrupt your civic duty to assist this lady with her cart.”
“Lady,” the officer echoed disdainfully. “Dirty French, more like. They’re worse than the rats.”
“She is not a rat!” Lizzie shot back. “She is a human being deserving of respect.”
The officer laughed as if he found Lizzie’s words humorous. “You wouldn’t be saying the same if they were sleeping on your doorstep.”
Darcy stepped forward and Lizzie recognized the coiled energy in his stance. “Even so, I think we can agree, as gentlemen, that the ladies need not be exposed to this sort of conduct.”
For a suspended moment, it was unclear how the tall officer would react. His expression was slack with shock, and Lizzie felt her stomach tighten unpleasantly. But then, so quickly that she almost missed it, the slight officer yanked the cart out of the mud, sending the woman’s wares clattering.
The noise broke the moment, and the poor woman jumped forward, pushing her cart. “Merci,” she murmured. “Merci.”
She hurried away quickly, and Lizzie felt both a pang of regret that she couldn’t offer more help to the woman and relief that she was away from the tall brute. The officer who’d freed her cart from the mud stepped aside and turned his face away from Lizzie, so she assumed he was likely as uncomfortable about the exchange as she. And yet, would he have intervened if not for Lizzie and Darcy showing up when they did?
Coward, she thought.
“Where are you headed?” the tall officer barked out, his eyes settling on Lizzie and Darcy as though they were little more than
another obstacle in his path.
“The storehouse of Mullins Brothers, wool merchants,” Darcy said smoothly.
“And I don’t suppose you have a card, do you?” he asked. “Considering you’re ‘on official business’?”
Lizzie disliked the sarcasm in his tone, but she extracted her card from her reticule with a calm she didn’t feel inside. She presented it to the taller man, who took it from her with a small smirk. The slight officer didn’t even glance at it, she noticed, fastidiously looking down the street.
“‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Solicitor. Longbourn and Sons,’” the incredulous officer read. “Is this a joke?”
At the sound of her name, the other officer looked in Lizzie’s direction. She caught surprise on his face, but she refocused her attention at the man in front of her.
“No joke,” she assured him. “And as my partner said, we are on official business—”
“I’ve never heard of a lady solicitor,” the tall officer spat. “Seems like some sort of scam to me.”
Lizzie was, unfortunately, familiar with this type of reaction. It usually preceded some kind of absurd runaround wherein she was questioned ceaselessly about the exact nature of her role, how she became a solicitor, and whether or not Longbourn was aware she carried these cards. It was all quite tiring, and no amount of patience or logic would fend off these inquiries. She’d simply have to endure them, and hope that by name-dropping the magistrate she might be able to convince them that her business was legitimate.
But before she could mount her defense, Darcy cleared his throat. “What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t suppose you have a card as well?” the officer asked, sarcasm dripping from his words.
“I do,” Darcy said, although he made no move to offer one. “Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley and Associates.”
The soldiers straightened just the slightest. Longbourn & Sons might have been reputable, but they were small. The Pemberley name—nay, the Darcy name—carried far more weight.
“Well, then,” the taller soldier sputtered. “Down this street two more blocks, and then take a left. You should be able to see it up ahead.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said coolly, and tipped his hat. “Good day.”
Darcy took Lizzie’s arm and they sidestepped the officers. As she swept past the slight officer, she caught his gaze unexpectedly. His eyes were light brown, as unremarkable as his sandy, brownish-blond hair. She had the unsettling feeling that his eyes were far older than his face, but before she could take in further details about his appearance, she and Darcy had left them behind.
Lizzie sighed with impatience, but when they were out of earshot, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She smiled a little then, because Darcy knew exactly what she was thanking him for. It was probably true that Lizzie could have charmed them into giving her directions and letting her go on her way. It was also true that the tall one could have decided his afternoon’s duty was to make Lizzie’s life very difficult by hauling her all the way back to Longbourn and demanding to speak to her father. (That had happened once, and it had been humiliating.) And it was also true that she was in a hurry and Darcy using his name and social clout had hastened the process.
Lizzie didn’t like any of this. But she had grown to appreciate that Darcy’s presence, at least, made things easier. And unlike other gentlemen who might remind her of how useful they could be, Darcy never made her feel as though she needed him in order to do her job.
“For asking for directions, obviously,” Lizzie teased. “I am sure that was a blow to your ego.”
“My ego has suffered greater indignities,” he assured her. “Although next time, promise me we can take my carriage.”
“Maybe,” Lizzie conceded, a smile lighting her face.
It was moments like this, when he was acting grave as he teased her, and when he showed more patience for her misadventures than any person ever had, even her beloved sister Jane, that Lizzie felt a swell of emotion bubble up inside of her. She let herself feel it, but not name it. Putting it into words felt risky somehow.
Lizzie could hear Jane’s voice in her head. He must feel some affection for you, Lizzie. What else do you require?
But before Lizzie could allow her thoughts to be mired by this question, a shout from up the street caught her attention. “Fire!” a man’s rough voice called out. “Fire!”
Immediately the atmosphere of the street shifted as people began to look about frantically for signs of flame or smoke. Lizzie and Darcy did the same, and Darcy’s hand tightened on her arm as people began grabbing possessions and running in the opposite direction of the cry. Fire was no trifling matter—it took very little for flames to spread from building to building, especially in a neighborhood as cramped as this, with narrow streets and even narrower alleys.
As other panicked pedestrians took up the cry of “Fire!” a sense of unease overtook Lizzie. A man ran toward them, pulling two goats, and Darcy stopped him. “Where?” he asked.
“Up that way,” the man said, gesturing behind him. He couldn’t be bothered to give an exact location. “One of the storehouses,” he added and continued to shepherd his animals away from the danger.
Lizzie’s uneasy feeling solidified into dread and she took off in the direction the man had indicated—not straight behind him but down a side street. The street the officers had instructed them to turn down.
“Lizzie!” Darcy cried, but she didn’t slow, nor did she heed the advice she’d always been given by her father in the event of fire: Get as far away as you can from the flames and anything else that may catch fire. She rounded the corner and was horrified to find
that her hunch had been correct.
The Mullins Brothers storehouse was smoking.
It had been three years since she’d last visited the unassuming two-story brick structure, and aside from the smoke billowing from the open door, it hadn’t changed. A small group of brave souls was clustered around the front of the building, loudly arguing.
Darcy caught up with her and took her arm. “We need to leave,” he said, low and urgent.
“It’s the Mullinses!” she protested over the din of men shouting and bells clanging. “We need to help!”
“No.” The steel edge of Darcy’s tone made her shiver. She didn’t hear it often, and never directed toward her. “It’s too dangerous.”
“But—”
“We don’t know how quickly the fire will move. I need to get you far away, now.”
Lizzie didn’t try to get any closer, but she wasn’t ready to leave just yet. She couldn’t see inside the building and so she had no idea how extensive the fire inside might be, although she could smell the smoke, heavy and acrid. It was not unlike when one of her sisters singed a wool gown with a clothes iron, but much, much worse. Most of the people who had a mind to flee had streamed past them, and those who had decided to stay—likely workers and owners of the surrounding buildings—were frantically hauling buckets of water from a nearby well. Next to the storehouse was a smithy, and the blacksmith and his assistant rolled an entire barrel toward the entrance of the burning building.
“Do you think Jack and Simon are inside?” she asked, trying to peer through the crowd of men.
“Let’s pray they’re not.”
From her vantage point, Lizzie watched as men tied wet handkerchiefs over their faces and took turns running to the building with buckets. They must not have been able to go far, for it seemed that they’d no sooner disappeared inside than they’d stumble back out again, coughing and swiping at their burning eyes.
Lizzie saw no sign of either Mullins brother.
“Need I remind you that it only takes a small fire to burn down the entire city?” Darcy asked. “Do not put me in the position of having to inform your mother of your untimely death!”
He was right, but it was a rather low blow, bringing her mother into it. “Fine,” she said. “But you won’t be telling her a thing about us coming here unchaperoned—”
Lizzie was just about ready to turn her back on the scene when two figures came bursting out of the front doors. They were coughing so hard that their bodies shook. One was an older man, hair and beard graying, and the other was a young, slim man with tears running down his face.
“That’s Jack!” Lizzie cried.
Jack Mullins kept trying to turn to face the wreckage of his family business. To
see the destruction of everything his father had worked for, that he and his brother worked for, going up in literal flames . . . Lizzie’s heart broke for him.
But then he pulled his jacket up to cover the bottom of his face and ran toward the door. Three men peeled away from the firefighting efforts to hold him back and Lizzie realized with slick horror that he was screaming. “Simon! You have to get Simon!”
“Oh no,” Lizzie whispered.
Even Darcy stopped pulling at her. “God help him,” he whispered.
The older man conferred with one of the men holding back Jack, and he shook his head gravely. They nodded and tried to pull Jack away from the burning building, but he was still screaming for his brother. ...
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