Armed Robbery Read online

  Armed Robbery

  by

  Iris Lim

  © 2019 by Iris Lim.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  To the tireless imagination of all the JAFF fans in the world. Thank you for imagining with me.

  Chapter One

  It was the third night of our residence here, and hence the third night as well, quite unfortunately, of tolerating Netherfield’s measly offerings with regards to company. Jane, dear as ever, had improved dramatically – though not dramatically enough, unfortunately, to warrant her venturing beyond the few rooms we had entered since our first night here. Mr. Bingley proved as attentive as ever; Mr. Darcy as stoic.

  Miss Bingley, whenever she deigned capturing my attention a more worthwhile – or, perhaps, more plausible – pursuit than acting similarly towards her brother’s friend, coaxed me often into mundane conversations regarding the color of the room, the state of her gown, or the latest styles of hair. My book, while a welcome refuge, could replace our hosts’ attentions only to a certain degree, and I found myself repeatedly trapped into discussions for which I cared little.

  “Miss Bennet, are you well? Perhaps some tea?” Mr. Bingley doted nearly as much as Mama did. His face was all sincerity, however, and I could not begrudge the care he tendered towards Jane. Perhaps matches of which both the family and the bride approved could come to pass, after all.

  “Eliza, dear, is not Mr. Darcy’s reading most exquisite?” Jane’s gentle coughs and remarks of thanks could not, most unfortunately, mute Miss Bingley’s constant adulations of Mr. Darcy’s many talents. The latter persisted most tenaciously. “I dare say every man ought to read his letters as quietly and as solemnly as he does.”

  I could not thwart my giggle, though I disguised it as the clearing of my throat instead.

  “Yes, Miss Bingley. Mr. Darcy is stately indeed.”

  The subject of our conversation looked up slightly and met my eyes. I held his gaze firmly.

  “Do you not agree, sir? When two ladies agree upon your virtues, it is hardly kind to digress,” I noted rather playfully. Mr. Darcy, of course, did not smile back.

  “I do not read so deliberately,” he replied gruffly, before restoring his eyes to his papers.

  I sighed, as I was wont to do whenever my sparring companions refused to spar further. I blamed him little, I had to admit, for his sister’s letters were surely far more entertaining than his present company could have been.

  “Eliza, he appears to disagree with you.” Miss Bingley’s unabashed irony was almost funny, if it had not been so cloying.

  “It appears so, Miss Bingley.”

  The room fell silent once more, save for Mr. Hurst’s snoring and Mr. Bingley’s ever-belligerent inquiries regarding Jane’s health.

  Mr. Darcy read and wrote. I watched people and sipped tea. Mr. Bingley served and cooed. Jane thanked and demurred. Miss Bingley fretted and sighed. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst partook of their sweets in silence.

  The picture of domesticity we painted, however farcical, was fine-tuned indeed. Every man and woman played his or her own role in one well-timed routine. Our sequences, chosen or prescribed, settled deep within our bones.

  It was to everyone’s grave surprise, therefore, when unexpected company – fully armed – burst into the sitting room.

  “Stay still! Don’t move lest we take yer lives as well!” the leader – or, simply, the man in front – barked forcefully. We each shrank back against our chosen seats. My hand found Jane’s. She feebly gripped me back.

  The brown-haired man, slim and tall, was quickly followed by two others – one larger and one younger. Their tattered garments, composed of multiple fabrics and colors and shades, hinted at vagabond lives of danger. Their stances of anger and aggression brooked no argument. The pistols in their hands left far less room for dissent.

  “You!” The leader pointed his firearm between a quaking Mr. Bingley and a scowling Mr. Darcy. “Bo, King – take them.”

  • • •

  “Jane!” I cried when our captor’s careless shoving sent us toppling into the attic room. The dust caused Jane to cough and me to blink. I forced my hands still to support a clearly struggling Jane.

  “Sir, have mercy.” I turned back in anger. The man – no, the boy – who had been tasked to escort us seemed adequately frightened by the force of my voice. His frame, carrying with it all the gangly effects of youth, seemed to quiver slightly. I took my chance. “My sister is ill. Do not abuse her so.”

  “Yes,” he muttered, hovering by the entrance to this godforsaken room.

  I frowned, feeling trapped yet oddly able to glimpse our freedom. The trio of men that had first accosted us had split up the company quickly. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley had been quickly subdued by the band’s graceful leader – simply by way of aiming his pistols at Miss Bingley, then at us. Mr. Hurst, barely moving, was quickly assigned to the burly strongman with a gash on his cheek. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley followed.

  Throughout the entire debacle, no names had been muttered – no identities given. The intruders did not state their purpose beyond the need to see Mr. Bingley, master of Netherfield.

  I could only hope that they would be satisfied with whatever information they needed from our poor host without extracting his life.

  Our stay at Netherfield could not be allowed to end so ill.

  “Is it the fever?” Our jailer’s voice was high, a true tenor’s even in spoken words.

  I followed his eyes towards Jane’s shaking, coughing figure.

  I hoped – with all my being – that the boy was simply a boy.

  “You know of scarlet fever?” I looked at him. The young man shuffled; his eyes lowered. I sighed softly. My subsequent lie, I prayed was justified. “My sister is gravely ill, sir. I know not how long she would last without a doctor’s attentions.”

  I watched him – King, I think I heard their leader call him – and pondered quietly if his stately name was but a masque to disguise his kind, youthful heart.

  “Please, sir, state whatever it may be your company seeks,” I pleaded firmly. “We shall comply readily. Spare my sister.”

  The boy listened intently, but responded little.

  His wide, pensive eyes stared alternately between me and Jane. I held my breath.

  “You have a loved one who died of it?” I guessed.

  His eyes locked with mine – and filled with fear.

  “Is it family?” I asked cautiously, my arms still supporting a coughing Jane.

  The boy stood still. His lips pressed tightly against each other, before opening once more.

  I tried not to frown – with every bit of my resolve.

  “My mother,” he muttered, barely audibly above Jane’s heavy breaths.

  I nodded, patient.

  We needed his trust – his goodness.

  “Do you need something to help?” I prodded gently. The empty space between us and our captor provided safety, an invisible moat.

  “The money will help,” he spoke as if not to us. His eyes lingered by the window. “Arnold promised a share.”

  I noted their leader’s name and stored each detail away.

  “King, eh, lad. Are ye done yet?” The arrival of his accomplice – each word as gruff as each stomp – broke whatever tentative peace I had established with the child. I watched the men nod towards each other, my heart sinking.

  “Is Arnold done?” King asked
, with little attempt to avoid our eavesdropping.

  “Aye, he git the mister. We jes need the missus.” The large man smirked. With his muscular arms crossed, his appearance was imposing indeed.

  I struggled beneath the stare he sent my way.

  “Ye Mrs. Bingley, yes?” He pointed his chin towards me. The information came far too fast for my tired brain. I fought to stay awake, alert.

  “There’s a missus?” King asked the question in my mind. The child was a gift.

  “The sister ses,” the brawny man replied. His toothy grin was unsettling. “Ses ‘er sister, only Mrs. Bingley knows where the money’s kep.”

  Thoughts of Caroline Bingley – my new eternal enemy – scorched me to the bone. How could she have even pondered throwing Jane into the lions’ den this way?

  “One of them is Mrs. Bingley?” King, bless his heart, was discovering the situation a few steps behind me.

  My mind spun, every ability to analyze worked to its death. I breathed heavily, and I hugged Jane before I let her go.

  “Which –”

  “I am Mrs. Bingley.” I winced when Jane collapsed on the floor behind me. I stood tall, casting every appearance of confidence I could muster. “I can lead you to the money.”

  • • •

  I had always wondered, as a child, what grand adventure meant. I had pictured myself often – in flights of fancy – to be a warrior princess of a faraway land or, perchance, to be a woman who could morph into a dragon at will.

  I had imagined, time and again, that my valorous actions – rather than the curse of my sex – would be the cause of salvation for my family’s plight. I had longed often for danger and thrill, passion and heroism.

  Tonight, I was being called to be a hero at a most unlikely time and place.

  I wondered, heart-in-throat, if I would rise to the task.

  “She is here,” the boy – our first captor – presented me almost formally to his colleague. I nearly laughed at the irony of standing before the sitting room’s door as fearfully as I did earlier tonight. That fear had been rooted in my disapproval of the shallow and ridiculous; this fear was of an entirely different nature – its consequences reaching far and wide.

  “Mrs. Bingley.” The objectionable sentinel smirked. His brown locks bounced in the candlelight. The man was vain, no doubt. His hand flew close to my face – bouncing a stray lock. I shuddered. “Now ain’t she a scrawny lil’ thing.”

  My compulsion to attach my fist to his face was overcome only by the sheer force with which I exhaled. My smile, affected, perched precipitously on my face.

  “You need the money?”

  I had no idea, of course, of what I spoke.

  “All business with ‘er, ain’t it?” The man leaned to one side. His pose would have proved suave beyond this context. “All eight thousand, huh?”

  I held my chin high. Whether or not the Bingleys had such gross amounts in notes for easy transfer – I could only guess.

  Where did folks of great wealth hold their assets? Were desk drawers secure enough – or, perhaps, the locked cases within them?

  “Did he talk?” The boy – King, right, oxymoron that his name was – said behind me. His loose grip continued to guide my upper arm.

  “The husband? No hope there.” The relaxed grin turned dark on his accomplice’s face. “Mute as a sleepin’ cow.”

  My mind took time to decipher his words.

  Did they hostage yet another person in this room?

  “Look, Arnold,” the man behind me spoke hurriedly, “perhaps the extent of our conquest is unnecessary? If Mrs. Bingley agrees –”

  “Blast yer mind, son.” The leader straightened, voice gruff. “George ain’t lookin’ for the faint of ‘eart.”

  “I am not faint.”

  “Not in ‘ere.” The man I now knew to be called Arnold tapped the end of his pistol against King’s head. I held my breath. “Yer ‘art’s still young.”

  I prayed with every nerve I possessed that young King’s heart could outweigh his master’s.

  “Let us get the money,” the young man reminded.

  Arnold, to his credit, merely nodded.

  My mind spun so quickly that the world nearly turned dark. The soft creaking of the door – uncharacteristically civil – led to the gradual reveal of a darkened sitting room. I heard muffled moans and quickly knew I was to be thrown into the company of the man whose wife I now pretended to be. I steeled myself for the moment – praying that Mr. Bingley’s great frankness and kindness would not inadvertently lead to my swift exposure and condemnation.

  “Walk,” Arnold barked.

  I complied.

  The rustling of my skirt as I inched into the darkness was soon replaced by Arnold’s harsh, booted footsteps. I heard a match, then saw a flame.

  Candle lit, the leader of the vagabonds turned back towards me. Mr. Bingley’s foot hit the edge of my skirt as he attempted to kick his aggressors. I grasped desperately for viable reasons to offer these villains – to misdirect them, however briefly, towards plausible sources of wealth.

  “Hmph!” The man on the floor was clearly struggling against what bound him. I heard Arnold smirk.

  “So, Mrs. Bingley.” Tall and thin, Arnold could be imposing when he wished to be. His solitary lift of an eyebrow promised both mischief and terror. “Where’s the load that’ll save yer husband?”

  It was to my thorough, overwhelming, incomparable surprise when the robber lifted his candle towards the man on the floor – and revealed the face of a very angry Mr. Darcy.

  Chapter Two

  I struggled against the knots, each tightly wound around a strategic point of restraint. I kicked; I huffed; I growled with increasing frustration. Whatever impulsivity the thieves may have displayed in their time of attack was sorely absent in the way they bound their prisoners.

  I had volunteered, thinking myself powerful enough to divert them quickly. It had taken little effort to convince them that my towering presence, rather than the actual master’s petulant appearance, identified the true Mr. Bingley. The men had required but minimal suggestion to haul me promptly to the sitting room.

  That they believed rare and valuable possessions by a man so newly moved in would have been concealed at a place so public spoke volumes of their inexperience.

  The three men thought themselves in charge.

  I knew myself to be the one playing them instead.

  It was simply my current physical predicament preventing me from exerting said control.

  The door slid open, and the sliver of light hovered by my feet. I renewed my rally against my shackles.

  “Walk!” The taller man barked. I deciphered a silhouette moving forward behind him.

  Had Bingley been foolish enough to reveal our duplicity? Was – God forbid – Miss Bingley insisting to be thrown into captivity with me?

  A loud groan escaped me when I forced myself forward – hovering farther away from the wall and its uneven surface.

  The sound of rustling skirts made no secret of my fellow captive’s gender. I was to be imprisoned with one of the ladies – each sillier and weaker than the last.

  I struggled still, beads of sweat condensing on my brow.

  “So, Mrs. Bingley.” The robber’s tone was teasing. I longed to throttle him immediately – for suggesting that I might have married one of these harpies, and then for attacking us. His subsequent words came with little surprise. “Where’s the load that’ll save yer husband?”

  I flinched when the candlelight drifted closer. I heard her gasp, clearly not having anticipated my identity.

  It was natural, of course, for either sister to have believed themselves walking into a room that Bingley occupied. They would not have expected to see me, to join me.

  I looked up, frowning sternly, towards my captor. It was not until the lady gasped again that I looked closer – and gaped at the image of her.

  • • •

  “Like ‘em hangin�
� over yer?” The leader laughed, lugging Miss Elizabeth along by the elbow. I nearly sprung off the ground, every knot shed in anger. Her face appeared pensive yet serene. Shock was an emotion she handled much better than I. “A free reunion, sir. All yers.”

  The man was strong despite his slim frame – as evidenced by the way he shoved the lady forward. She landed with a groan, straight across my lap. The relief of having broken her fall mingled with the unwelcome thrill of feeling her curves draped upon my legs.

  “Madam,” I mumbled politely, struggling to aid her that she may recover her balance.

  She needed little aiding and righted herself soon enough.

  Her hair was abused, its stray locks dangling about her face. She breathed heavily as she rested her head against the wall beside me. Her hands remained by her side, impassive. I had little time to ponder what sentiments I displayed.

  “Not happy seein’ ‘er?” Our captor strode closer, hands on his hips.

  I looked up tentatively.

  I received a kick to the thigh in response.

  My scowl was no secret.

  “You promised not to harm the ladies,” I spat. “No honor among thieves, sir?”

  His sneer offered little benevolence. “She volunteered.”

  My ready rage for any slur he had been about to deliver turned instead to astonishment.

  “She –” My head whipped around to face my surprise companion. Her lower lip rolled under the pressure of her front teeth. Her eyes stayed firm, resolute despite the slight quiver of fear.

  If I had ever doubted how remarkable of a woman she was, I was wise enough now to never doubt again.

  “You asked to come?” My incredulousness would not subside.

  She frowned and scoffed and sighed all at once. “So did you – Mr. Bingley.”

  Her statement struck me forcefully, laying weight to our similarities. I knew not to smile or frown.

  “All the baby-makin’ can wait, sir.” The sneer and derision carried heavily in our captor’s voice. “Where’s the money?”

  Whatever wordless communication I shared with my fellow prisoner had to be shelved in favor of our more pressing circumstances.