“Vella, Raven,” Darcy greeted, scratching behind their drooping ears. “Treats for you as always. Must keep those muscles strong.” The raw chunks of meat, hastily confiscated from the kitchen and shoved into the saddlebag, were devoured in seconds, Darcy not even sure if the two-hundred-pound animals even tasted them. He ignored the saliva on his palms and the wet noses pressed against his body in hopes of finding additional food, continuing to pet the blocky heads as he turned to address the reclining gamekeeper.
“Mr. Burr. How fare you?”
“Well enough, Mr. Darcy. Still up before the sun and shooting straight.”
Darcy nodded seriously, the standard greeting all he would ever get from the reticent man, so replied, “Can't ask for anything more. Problems?”
Darcy nodded toward the dovecote, noting nothing amiss, but well aware that Mr. Burr would not have called for him otherwise.
Darcy frequently visited the gamekeeper's complex, but for his own pleasure. Rarely was it to deal with problems or overtly question the master huntsman and breeder. Instead he came to interact with the dogs, picking ones to be stationed at the Manor; to hunt with the raptors, one of which he had trained as his own; or to enlist the company of a hunter when the mood struck him to hunt in the traditional shotgun manner. Occasionally he and Mr. Burr would hunt together, the gamekeeper an astounding marksman who had taught Darcy how to handle every firearm known to exist from the time he was old enough to pick up a shotgun. The two men were friendly but far from intimate.
Before Mr. Burr could answer Darcy's query, Mrs. Burr stalked through the gate, her gravelly voice lifted in anger.
“Damned scoundrel escaped! The tracks were lost in the river. Mole couldn't smell him after that.” A string of expletives erupted as Mrs. Burr stalked directly toward the two men, Mr. Burr yet in casual repose; a lumbering mastiff easily fifty pounds heavier than the others walked at her side. She removed her tattered hat with an angry yank and threw it against the wall, cursing all the while. “Just you wait! I'll get my hands on the filthy rat and wring his scrawny neck! Mole will catch the bugger eventually and then we can fight over who gets to have him. Mr. Darcy,” she finally acknowledged with an abrupt nod, not waiting for a reply as she turned to her husband. “You tell him?” She jerked her chin toward Darcy while tossing the leather sack draped over one shoulder to the ground with a thud, the Brown Bess musket more cautiously unslung and sat to lean against the wall.
Darcy stood unfazed, his years of acquaintance with the Burrs no longer causing surprise at anything they said or did. Mrs. Burr was six feet tall, as was her husband, almost as wide in the shoulders, and her husky frame was dressed as it always was in a loose men's shirt and trousers. Darcy had never seen her in a dress. Her iron gray hair was a wild mass of coiled curls cut short with no attempt ever made to style or control. Oddly, she was a very handsome woman in the face, her features angular and refined under the tanned skin with startling eyes of sea-foam green. Her hands were broad, fingers long and elegant—not the type of hands one would picture gripping a firearm with ready competence or slaughtering a pig with cool efficiency. Yet she could, and did, do all that and more. Mr. Burr was the head gamekeeper and prodigiously skilled, but everyone knew that his wife was every bit as formidable.
“I was about to,” Mr. Burr replied. He finally stood up, stretching his limbs before continuing. “We have a poacher,” he said matter-of-factly, his wife releasing another curse, “or most probably a duo or more. They have been plaguing us for a month or so now. Mostly small thefts. It took us awhile to figure out we were missing a number of deer and that the grouse and pheasant coveys were smaller than expected for this time of year considering the egg laying numbers and calculated growth-loss ratios. I got Lew and Sean tracking down numbers on the hare, turkey, and other game populations. We have had the dogs on it, but he, or they, are very clever. Last night the dovecote was robbed.”
“They are getting too bold,” Mrs. Burr interrupted. “To come this close to our house and the yard where the dogs roam is crazy. Next they'll be attacking the sheep. They took a dozen eggs at least and probably ten birds. We can't be sure as yet since the doves scattered and haven't all returned. Three were left dead on the ground, probably dropped when they ran from Hass and Jen who were prowling on guard that night.”
Mr. Burr spat, releasing an evil chuckle. “Jen got one of them. Took a chunk out of his arse.”
“But he still got away,” Mrs. Burr grumbled.
Mr. Burr shrugged. “We'll get 'im. The dogs are as mad as you, so it's inevitable.” He turned to Darcy. “Thought you should know and spread the word about. I had Ollie talk to Mr. Amos since Mr. Vernor's land is the next closest. He said they have noticed a few irregularities as well, but not enough to be one hundred percent sure it was a poacher. Now they'll keep an eye.”
“I will talk to Mr. Murphy and Mr. Hughes,” Darcy said, referring to his next nearest neighbors, “and let you know if they have encountered troubles. If we work together, I am sure we can catch these criminals. Have you set traps?”
“Yep, a few. I have some men setting up more today. Now that we are getting an idea of their tactics we can be more strategic. But I need more. That's another reason I sent for you, Mr. Darcy. Can I sign for ten of those new spring-traps that Ocktonlee makes? I can get them from the smithy in Matlock, but they are pricey.”
Darcy was already nodding. “Of course. Whatever it takes, Mr. Burr. We cannot allow this to continue. I will have Mr. Keith speak with the constable so he can be prepared when the thieves are captured.”
“If I let them live long enough to be hanged or shipped to Australia,” Mrs. Burr rasped. “I make no promises.”
Darcy smiled, not doubting the woman's declaration in the slightest. “As you see fit, Mrs. Burr.”
She nodded once and then released a shrill whistle. Mole, who had wandered to the small creek some forty feet away, responded instantly, his massive body darting across the field with graceful power and stopping sharply at her side. “I'm going to search the west for a sign.” She gathered her supplies, tucked the musket under her arm, slapped the hat back onto her head, and with another curt nod muttered, “Mr. Darcy,” as she stalked away, Mole at her heels.
Mr. Burr had relit his pipe and was puffing contentedly. He was watching his wife walk away and for one fleeting, undisguised moment Darcy saw an expression of pride and love cross his grizzled features. Then his typical imperturbable mien returned, his untroubled gaze turning to Darcy.
“Mr. Holmes wanted to talk to you as well, Mr. Darcy. The fledglings have taken flight and he thought you may be interested.”
“Indeed. Thank you, Mr. Burr. Keep me informed.”
Mr. Burr shrugged in answer. Darcy smothered his smile, remounting Parsifal for the short ride to the falconry. He immediately decided to pass a pleasant afternoon with the hawks, not overly worried about the poachers as he knew the competent gamekeeper staff would deal with the problem as they had in the past. Considering the frightening determination of Mrs. Burr and the crushing strength of the mastiffs bred to protect Pemberley, he almost felt sorry for the thieves.
Almost.
The falconry was located farther south, on the extreme edge of the gamekeeper's complex. Mr. Holmes, the falconer, lived alone in a tiny cottage tucked under the trees outside of the walled-in area with the mews yards away and semi-attached by a covered passageway.
The Darcy family was one of a few who still practiced the art of falconry. An ancestor of Darcy's, Edward Darcy, had developed a passion for the sport in the early 1600s, when it was still a highly favorable royal pastime. It was he who built the falconry, captured and then bred the birds, and hired the men who served as specific caretakers. Edward Darcy was so enthusiastic about the endeavor that his exceedingly explicit journals with astoundingly precise drawings and diagrams were considered prized possessions among the Darcy family heirlooms.