Prologue:

1810, Cadiz, Spain

George Franklin Alexander Darcy, His Grace the 4th Duke of Montagu was a dead man.

He was well aware of this fact, the open wounds and aching body he had awoken to screamed his fate. His eyes were so swollen, he saw the dimly lit room through a tiny slit and even then the effort to keep them open at all was great. He watched as a giant of a man sat opposite the chair he was currently occupying, wrapping his bloodied knuckles to protect them from the damage he was inflicting. The man looked up from his task to see George straining to see more of the room, perhaps in hope of escape.

"'E eez awake, Sir." The large man addressed a shadow in the corner of the small room, his French accent slightly slurred from exhaustion.

It was tiring, beating a man half to death.

The imposing figure stepped forward into the candle light. He was not as large as the very tired brute but he seemed far more formidable. He looked like he had stepped from the pages of Scottish lore with large broad shoulders, ruddy hair and a fair complexion splattered with oddly still formidable freckling. His look was rounded out with a kilt worn under the jacket of a General in Napoleon's army.

"Thank you, Francois, that will be all." His melodic French accent a stark contrast to his appearance.

Francois very gladly quit the seat across the ill-made table from our dear George. As he got up, he pushed the table hard into his chest causing George to cough up blood and, though he couldn't be sure he thought it likely, a tooth.

Cheap move, Francois.

"That is quite enough, Francois." The commanding officer said in his still melodic but now stern voice.

George looked up and grinned a bloody grin. "Where were you an hour ago, MacDonald?"

MacDonald chuckled and sat in the seat so recently quit by Francois.

"I admit I was quite enjoying it until that last. I do hate to see you lose a tooth, Mr. Darcy." He feigned momentary embarrassment. "Ahhh, I mean Your Grace."

George nodded lifting his chin in a regal position, "I accept your sincere apology, Your Grace."

MacDonald smirked at this. "You may call me General, of course."

It was Darcy's turn to chuckle. "Still too new? It took me years to get used to the title."

MacDonald waved his hand dismissively "Non. But I am not acting in a noble capacity just now, am I?"

"Oh, come now, MacDonald. A French born Scot and an Italian Duke? Your ancestral home is very near my hunting lodge, you know. We're practically neighbors" George's grin was made almost maniacal by the blood on his lips."You could let me go on that technicality."

Far from amused MacDonald's face turned a deep shade of red but he managed to control his obviously deep seeded anger. "Do you mean the home of my father before he was forced to flee English tyranny? Do you mean the home that was stolen from my family?" His pitch was raising incrementally higher in anger. "You dare bring that up as a connection?!" He slammed his large hands on the poor table. "I am French, damn you!" His control snapped and he moved across the table and grabbed George by his bloody collar, their faces mere inches from each other. "You are lucky someone wants you alive or I would end you right here."

George knew to whom he was referring and it scared him more than he wanted to admit.

"I'm too old for this. Take my letters, MacDonald." He said through gritted teeth. "I don't trust him to deliver them and my children deserve to know something of me."

MacDonald let out a huff and threw George back into the chair. "You trust me to keep them? I won't be delivering them, I'm fighting a war."

George didn't bother with a response, he stared at MacDonald patiently.

"Fine." MacDonald gave in. "I will deliver your bloody letters when I am able."

Relief flooded George. I only hope that idiot Wickham got out in time.

This was George's last thought before MacDonald's large fist made contact with his already ill used head and he lost consciousness.

"English pig" MacDonald spat in his still florid French then laid George out on the stone floor and turned on his heel to leave.

His Grace George Franklin Alexander Darcy, the 4th Duke of Montagu would awaken on a boat, heading to an unknown location.

Luckily, that idiot Wickham did, in fact, manage to get out in time.

Chapter 1

Darcy House, London, England

Viscount Lipscomb, the eldest son and heir to the Earl of Matlock was a dead man. Fitzwilliam Alexander Darcy, His Grace the 5th Duke of Montagu was going to see to it personally.

And enjoy every minute.

Darcy cringed as his least favorite cousin itched himself for the fourth time. The man had either caught something from one of his mistresses or his valet had put him in the worlds itchiest pants. Darcy didn't care which it was so long as he no longer had to witness his incredibly poor attempts at discreetly relieving the discomfort.

"So, as you see, my good man" his nasally voice had grated Darcy's ears since childhood. "I am in need of a spot of money." Darcy had been expecting the request, nay (by the second furtive itch) wishing for it simply to end the charade of small talk but it didn't make the situation any more tenable. He had promised himself, and his cousin for that matter, that the last loan was going to be the last loan. While he was ashamed to admit he had briefly considered paying the man simply so he would leave sooner and only infect his settee with whatever he was carrying, Darcy was nothing if not a man of his word.

His cousin had continued speaking but Darcy had stopped listening so felt no sorrow at interrupting him.

"No, Lipscomb." The Viscount stopped mid sentence and stared blankly. "The last time I loaned you money I was very clear as to the status of any forthcoming moneys from the Darcy coffers, was I not?"

Lipscomb tilted his head to the side and stared at Darcy. "Whatever do you mean, cousin?" He began drawing out his syllables and sat straighter in the chair, the start to any good fit of pique from a worthless aristocrat.

"I mean exactly what I have said, cousin. Now." Darcy pulled a letter from a neat pile on his desk and placed it before him. "If that is all you have come to discuss, I will bid you good day."

Lipscomb dropped his jaw to his chest, he fought the urge to itch his crotch so badly he squeezed his thighs together and his foot began to tap. "This is an outrage!" He flung his hands in the air and stood before turning to pace. He took wide steps in an attempt to alleviate the fire burning in his pants. "Everyone who is anyone is investing! I simply must! Saffron will be all the rage, cousin!"

Darcy's expression had not changed but he narrowed his eyes at Lipscomb slightly to convey his message.

"Oh!" The viscount threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes. "You always were the most recalcitrant! This!" He pointed at Darcy in accusation. "This is why no one likes you!"

Darcy's face showed nothing."If that be the case, I fear you are only encouraging my recalcitrance."

The Viscount scoffed. "You are inhuman, cousin." To this he was offered a slight quirk of the eyebrow, the only tick of moment on His Grace's inscrutable face. "Yes, yes, I'm leaving. But, when the ton is crazed for saffron I assure you I will not share mine with you, Your Grace." He glared at the stoic faced Darcy and bowed as sarcastically as his itching crotch would allow before turning on his heel and slamming the door for good measure.

Darcy allowed himself a roll of the eyes before composing his face back to his placid ducal mask. He had an appointment to see to today and, he was loath to admit even to himself, he was slightly unsettled by the prospects. Receiving a summons from the Foreign Secretary was not at all expected and if the Duke showed enough emotion to hate anything it was the unexpected. He shook his head as though to clear it of such emotional nonsense.

He had things to do and His Grace was a man who got things done.

The anteroom to the foreign minister's office was occupied by a diminutive man with round spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose. Without looking up from the large stack of correspondence he was sorting, he welcomed the visitor. "Your grace, please take a seat, the minister will be with you shortly."

The Duke stood stock still for a moment, shocked at the lack of deference. He had only been Duke for the year since his father had been declared dead but even as a marquess he was rarely treated as such. His face changed from stern to indignant in a heartbeat.

The small perpetrator of such disrespect, seemingly unperturbed by his passé, rose from his desk carrying three piles of opened correspondence and turned to enter the door directly behind him. He placed the documents on the desk in front of a younger, rather pleasant looking man and nodded his head slightly. He then went back to the door before announcing the visitor.

"His Grace the Duke of Montagu, to see you, my lord." He turned to the Duke, still standing in the center of the anteroom and motioned for him to enter.

The announcement effectively broke Darcy's trance. His face still dark, he gracefully strolled into the office and gave the small man one final glare before turning to the foreign minister standing behind his desk and bowed slightly. "Your Lordship."

"Good morning, Your Grace, please sit, if you will. Marley" he addressed his secretary still standing in the door "please have tea sent up and ensure we are undisturbed otherwise."

Marley nodded again and shut the door as he left.

The Viscount Wellesley regarded the young man in front of him. At three and thirty, Fitzwilliam Darcy cut an imposing figure, with broad shoulders a trim, athletic waist and long legs, he was the very picture of his father. Wellesley hoped he could be just as useful.

"Your Grace, if you don't mind me asking, what was your age when your father ascended to his title?"

Darcy's face showed none of the astonishment he felt at this odd opening. "I was sixteen when the titles were bestowed." He said, offering nothing else.

"Yes." Wellesley nodded. "Leeds was in my position at the time, I believe. He enjoys extremes." He imparted this with a nod. "The title was from your mother's birth family, yes? Her parents died young and she was raised by the Matlocks?"

"I do not see what this has to do with anything." Darcy waved his hand in a near dismissal. He did not enjoy his title but he did take it seriously. And he most seriously did not enjoy discussing his private matters.

"Let me be blunt with you, Your Grace." Wellesley began a new track. "The title was allowed to pass through your mother for… well, how do I put this, for services rendered to the ministry by your father."

Darcy's eyes opened wide in shock. "My father?" He shook his head rather emphatically for an emotionally reticent man. "My father held no political position, he was a classical scholar." He said the last as though the man before him were slightly slow in the head. "And he has been dead for over a year now."

Wellesley smiled. "You are correct, he held no position publicly but he did his duty to the crown nonetheless." He paused and placed his steepled hands on the desk in front of him. "Which is why I have called you here, Your Grace." He handed Darcy a large envelope containing a stack of papers. Darcy pulled out the papers and on the top was a very accurate sketch of his father. "Your father was an agent for the crown." He smiled absently. "A very efficient agent, I might add." He nodded his head to the papers Darcy held. "And, he may still live."

Darcy's face paled and, for the first time in his entire life, he felt near faint.

Darcy House

London, England

The ride back home from the disproportionately short meeting was made in a near catatonic state for His Grace. He sat back in his seat abandoning for the first time in recent history his rigid, straight backed posture as he allowed his head to rest on the back wall of his carriage.

Father might live.

Darcy felt a dam snap in his mind. The torrent of emotions assaulting him was nearly unbearable. The years of heartache, watching his sister withdraw from the world after their father would leave. The years of loneliness, running a massive dukedom by the age of 17 when his father left them for the first time.

The anger he felt for the man who he believed had abandoned he and his sister warred with a deep yearning to know his father. To know the man who gave him life.

From Wellesley he learned his father had been conscripted into spying for the crown. The implied neutrality of academics had given him carte blanche access to the entire globe and the British military had no problem exploiting his status.

Damn and blast! He punched his knee in anger.

His carriage pulled to a stop in front of his home and Darcy alighted before the footman could offer his aid. He needed to be alone. He needed to scream. His breathing became labored and his left hand was shaking.

He stalked up the front steps. Everything within him demanded he run but Darcy was still a Duke and a Duke did not run.

He staggered up the steps to his town home numbly and handed his outerwear to Mr. Humphries, his butler, mechanically, not seeing what he was doing or fully processing what was being said to him. He felt as though someone had placed a bowl on his head, sounds seemed to echo all around but he was unable to make out the words. He barely nodded to his faithful servant before stumbling down the hall to his study.

He closed the door and pressed his back against it to keep him upright.

I must find him.

He stood taller but not in recovery, he couldn't breath, he needed air. His lungs felt like they were unable to take in enough oxygen to feed his body, it felt like drowning on dry land. His hands started shaking uncontrollably and he had a brief image of himself dying and his poor sister crying inconsolably.

He leaned back against the door much harder this time and slid down under his own weight, his legs turning to jelly. He breathed hard in and out until he finally began to calm, some minutes later.

"Get it together" he whispered to himself as he pushed off the door and walked towards the center of the room, beginning his routine of pacing in front of his desk.

Oh god, how will I find him?

He ran his fingers roughly through his hair and looked around the room desperately as though he could find the answer to his problems amongst the knickknacks and paperwork.

Sometime later, a knock startled him out of his jumbled thoughts. Humphries entered at Darcy's assent and announced his cousin "Major General Fitz-"

"Yes, yes, thank you, Humphries." A sandy haired, broad shouldered man in a red coat had a jovial voice as he squeezed past the butler and patted him on the shoulder. "I will take it from here."

"Very good, sir" Humphries said in a dry tone before closing the door lightly behind him.

Richard chuckled when the door was closed. "I can not tell you how gratifying it is to do that."

Darcy sat behind his massive desk, statuesque in his equally large chair, staring at the wall behind his cousin. His impossibly dark hair a mass of curls and tangles and his blue eyes nearly glowing with emotion. The tumult readily apparent in his eyes the only indication he felt anything as his body was rigid and unflinching as stone.

Richard's smile fell and his face became deadly serious. "I know you've come from Wellesley. What did he tell you?"

Darcy's eyes ripped away from the wall to bore into his cousin for a moment before they widened slightly in understanding.

"You bastard." He growled.

Richard looked momentarily stunned before regaining his composure.

He nodded in contrition. "I knew." He said quietly, apologetically. "But, I swear to you, I only found out after he was declared dead. And only because one of my superiors let it slip, I don't think they knew the connection." He looked at Darcy entreating him to understand but he was met with a cold glare. "I was in Portugal for god's sake! You know I would have told you if I had known before but what good could it have done?!"

"What good? What good?" Darcy shouted. "I would have known my father wasn't on a damned pleasure trip around the world with Wickham." He spat the name like it tasted bad in his mouth. "I would have known my father did not abandon Georgie and and I! I would have known…" he bit off in frustration. "I don't know!" He thundered "But it would have been a hell of a lot better than thinking he left us because he wanted to."

"And how was I to tell you?! Put it in a letter? How was that to go?! Cousin, your father isn't just a scholar, he works for the ministry gathering information to use against the French? How was I supposed to write that?!" he stopped and ran his hands down his face."The only letters I even wrote while there were to you or to the families of all the men" he huffed "not even all of them were men! Boys! I was writing letters to mothers and fathers to tell them their children were slaughtered for the crown, thanking them for the lie sacrifice." He hung his head and continued quietly. "I'm sorry, cousin. I should have written you. I planned to tell you when I arrived yesterday but the visit was so short, I planned to call on you today. I had no idea they suspected he was alive, you must know that." He pleaded "I would have mounted a search myself if I had known."

Darcy softened at this. He was angry, to be sure but he trusted his cousin implicitly. He exhaled loudly. "I know. This is just-" he ran his hands roughly down his face "Richard, how am I going to find him? I know nothing. What did they tell me?" He waved his hand in a jerking motion before placing it placidly on his armrest. "My father was-is some kind of operative and he may not be dead but taken out of Spain to god knows where?!" His voice was raised slightly and shook his head in disbelief "and Wickham! He's hiding out in the militia?! Last they heard he was in Hertfordshire – some backwards county to the north." He nodded towards his framed map of England behind Richards head.

"I'll help, cousin." The earnest assurance was like a balm to Darcy's frayed nerves. He had been on his own so long he hadn't even thought to ask for help. He had always been alone. "At least they know vaguely where he is." Richard continued. "I can travel there and find him. He won't get away from me this time." The last was uttered through teeth so tightly clenched he was in danger of cracking them.

"Thank you." Darcy said solemnly. "I could use it. Wellesley said he has an operative in Hertfordshire I will meet with him tomorrow before traveling there."

Richard cleared his throat and a slightly smug look crossed his face. "She."

"What?" Darcy said in a sharper tone than he had intended.

"The operative. I believe Wellesley has assigned you to a lady. I haven't met her but I just came from my new appointment, the General knows of her work. She's good." Richard nodded and his lips curved up even more when his cousins usually blank demeanor changed to that of unmitigated shock.

"For a man who's read and agreed with Wollstonecraft, your shock is rather amusing." Richards smug taunt brought Darcy out of his stupor. The tease brightened his mood even further but Darcy schooled his features back to the unamused look Richard was accustomed to seeing.

"That comparison is weak, Richard, and you know it." He was back to his droll, emotionally blank voice. "Working with a woman just seems rather… tricky."

"Yes, I imagine it could be. Very, very tricky." The bastard's shoulders were shaking with repressed laughter and Darcy debated adding another cousin to the list of people he was planning to kill slowly and painfully.