Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A fter Darcy’s call, Elizabeth went to visit Lady Fulford. She was shocked by her friend’s appearance. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red from crying. Elizabeth deliberately avoided mentioning Lord Fulford, but her friend did not.
Bursting into angry tears, Lady Fulford cried, “What I would give to be a man! Then I might challenge him properly, hold him to account for treating me so infamously.”
After listening and offering sympathy for some time, and once her friend had calmed considerably, Elizabeth tentatively asked, “I cannot help you find the justice you deserve, but do you dare help me find mine?”
In the fewest words possible, she explained her previous association with Mr Bull, the events of the Netherfield ball, and the discovery of his connexion to another victim of the gossip column. As she spoke, she saw strength and determination return to Lady Fulford’s eyes.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” she said. “And, I think, dearest Lizzy, after all we have endured together, that it is time you call me Cecilia.”
Elizabeth smiled and threw her arms around her friend. She squeezed her tightly, before pulling away and retrieving her diary and pencil from her reticule. “I need names and directions.”
Returning to Gracechurch Street a while later, she contemplated with satisfaction the many letters she had to write that evening. Her chest tightened with a pulsing urgency. She was about to commit an act of revenge without even knowing precisely against whom she was exacting her retribution.
Darcy scoured the papers each morning after his conversation with Thorpe. Little time remained before he was due to pay the unknown villain or villains. Should he make arrangements with his bank to secure the sum? If he met the demand, where would it end?
Today’s edition of the Morning Gazette had not yet arrived. He pulled out his watch to check the time. Mr Andrews was presently meeting him daily to inform him of anything useful that had been uncovered, and he was late. Ten minutes after he was expected, the solicitor finally arrived.
“Mr Darcy, I have news at last!” Mr Andrews announced. “You were right to be suspicious of Mr Bull. Knowing he was part of the civil service, I knew which direction to take my enquiries. There was a Mr Bull posted to Mauritius. The description matches the one you gave me. He had a distinguished career in the Foreign Office, until he was abruptly dismissed due to financial irregularities concerning a debt to the Crown.”
“Corruption?”
“That was the implication.” Mr Andrews raised an eyebrow. “Though there was talk that Mr Bull was not at fault, rather it was the superior members of his office. However, since he was the only man there who was not of noble lineage, he was blamed. Apparently, and not unreasonably, he was bitter, and there was an unpleasant scene before he left the island in which he declared his hatred of all those born into wealth and privilege. Little has been heard of him since.” He leant forward in his chair. “My man, the one who discovered all this, had the good sense to enquire if Mr Bull had any connexion to a newspaper. He was informed that his father had owned one in the north of England. We are beginning to build an interesting case.” Mr Andrews smiled triumphantly.
We are, but it will not be in time to save my sister, Darcy thought miserably.
“It is valuable information, but it does not tell us where he is or how we might stop him, let alone if he is involved with whoever is demanding money from me.” He held up a hand in apology. “Forgive my despair. I appreciate your endeavours in this matter.” For the first time he noticed the newspaper that Mr Andrews had placed on Darcy’s desk upon his arrival. “Is that today’s edition?”
“It is. I stopped to purchase it before getting into my carriage, which is why I was delayed. There is something in it that I believe will interest you.”
His blood ran cold as the solicitor dropped the paper on his desk and pointed at a notice. Darcy read it and was immediately filled with an anger unlike anything he had ever known.
A present for the elusive Miss B. A priceless family heirloom will soon be dismantled, butchered, and remade into a piece of vulgarity perfectly suited to the body it will adorn. Could this lapse in judgment be why Mr FD’s sister has removed to the family home in Derbyshire, or is there another reason behind her sudden departure?
Darcy clenched his fists. “I shall kill him.”
Thorpe was not at home or his club, but this time a well-placed coin in the pocket of the porter provided Darcy with the direction of a house where he might find his unprincipled, dissolute wastrel of a cousin. His knock at the door was answered by a young woman; she did not seem unduly alarmed or surprised by his presence.
“How may I help you, sir?”
“Is Viscount Thorpe within?”
To his amazement, the young girl blushed and giggled, and asked coquettishly, “He did not say that he was bringing a friend, such a fine-looking one too! Will you want to stop a while? Who shall I say you are, sir? He will want to know.”
Darcy drew out a coin, showing it to her. “Tell me where he is and do not announce my arrival.”
Her face paled, and she took the coin, hiding it in the folds of her dress. Wordlessly, she pointed down the narrow corridor. Darcy nodded his thanks and walked in the direction she indicated. Reaching a scuffed, panelled door, he heard his cousin’s voice followed by a huff of female laughter. Anger surged in him. Elizabeth and Georgiana were both being threatened, and while he did not know how the puzzle pieces fitted together, he knew his cousin was involved. It was insupportable that Thorpe was amusing himself while Elizabeth was unhappy and anxious and, if Darcy did not discover a way to end the danger to his sister’s reputation, Georgiana would suffer dreadfully.
He forced his way into the room. A woman screamed, and a chair scraped across the floor. Darcy stood and glared at Thorpe, who grabbed the knife lying on a nearby table.
“Darcy, what devilry is this?” Thorpe’s eyes shone with vexation. His fingers eased from the handle, and he flung the knife back on the table with an echoing clang. “You should learn how to knock.”
Darcy’s eyes remained fixed upon his cousin. “Do not lecture me about dishonourable conduct!” From his pocket, he drew the page from that morning’s paper and read the vile announcement aloud.
“What of it?” Thorpe gave a dismissive shrug of the shoulders.
“How did the author come about this information?”
“How would I know? A servant, perhaps, or Miss Bennet herself.”
“It was a lie,” Darcy hissed. “One that I said to you alone.”
Thorpe squared his shoulders, his eyes glittering dangerously. “What do you accuse me of, Darcy? Selling our family’s private dealings to a newspaper?” He snorted. “I have not breathed a word of your offer to anyone.” Suddenly, his gaze flew towards the dark-haired woman who was rooted to the spot, watching Darcy warily.
Darcy guessed her identity. He regarded her coolly, but his question was for his cousin. “You repeated my falsehood to Mrs Wilder?”
“I did. Rather, she coaxed it from me.” There was lightness in his voice that did not match the intensity of his stare. “You have been a rather avid listener of late, have you not?”
Mrs Wilder’s eyes darted from Darcy to Thorpe and then the door. “He is lying, Thorpe, seeking to blame you for these rumours.”
“Darcy never lies. He is insufferably honest to the point of insult.”
She shook her head, stepping away from Thorpe. “Someone else must have told the paper about the diamonds. I would never?—”
“Desist, Harriette,” Thorpe interjected. “You are paid for your discretion, but it seems it has been rather lacking recently.” He stood quickly and strode towards her, seizing her chin and forcing her mouth shut. “I could forgive you for bedding that idiot Fulford, but selling my private conversation is another matter. Tell me, how much did my family’s secrets earn you?”
Mrs Wilder struggled against his grip, a muffled whimper escaping her lips; her cheeks became red under the pressure of Thorpe’s fingers.
“That is enough,” Darcy said, uncomfortable at his cousin’s rough treatment of her. “You go too far.”
“I do not go far enough.” His cousin’s nostrils flared. “What would you have done had I been the culprit?”
Rather than answer the question, Darcy said, “Release her so I might discover how it was done.”
Thorpe thrust her away. Mrs Wilder covered her jaw with a hand, her expression full of pain and loathing. She began to proclaim her innocence once more, but Darcy cut her off with a wave of his hand.
“I shall try conversing in a language you might understand.” He withdrew a guinea from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Speak or I shall take you to the magistrate.”
“You have no proof,” she insisted.
“It would be my word against yours, and who do you think would be believed? What did you do with the information?” Darcy placed another guinea on top of the first. “My last offer.”
Mrs Wilder looked about the room and, after a long pause, said, “I write to a man by the name of Mr Calvert. I used to send my letters to the Morning Gazette offices, but recently he asked that I use a private address, for fear my information was being intercepted.”
“Give me the direction. At once.”
Mrs Wilder glanced anxiously at Thorpe, then she retrieved a card from the desk and handed it to Darcy, who immediately read it.
Denzell Street. His throat constricted as he fought to bring his temper under control. “Have you ever met this man?” he demanded.
“We spoke once, to exchange money,” Mrs Wilder said.
“Describe him.”
“Dark-haired and broad, with a scar on his lip.”
At this point, Darcy was incapable of being surprised. Mr Bull. I would wager a fortune on it. He ran his eyes over Mrs Wilder, wondering what it was his cousin found attractive about her. She had a certain sensual appeal, but there was neither warmth nor decency in her. Involuntarily, his mind turned to Elizabeth. There was no comparison between the two women.
“You told Miss Bennet it had been a long time since we had met. What did you mean?”
Without realising, he had offered her the chance to reclaim the upper hand. Her lips twisted in mocking defiance, like that of a soldier using their dying strength to deliver their most devastating blow.
She gave Thorpe a smile of cruel delight before turning back to Darcy. “You do not remember me? We only spoke briefly when Thorpe arranged for your cousin to call upon me. Dominic was such a sweet boy. He was so shy. All he craved was a sympathetic ear. It did not take long before he told me all the cruel things his father did, how unworthy he felt. People share all their secrets with me.” She addressed Thorpe, her expression scornful. “You should know. I could write a book with everything you have said.” She faced Darcy once again. “I think it was a relief for Dominic to unburden himself. Men think I care, that I wish to hear about their sad lives. A compassionate nature does not sustain a household or fill a stomach. Money does . I informed him I would keep his secrets in exchange for a modest sum. I would do the same again, if I had my chance.”
Bile rose up Darcy’s throat. “You are to blame for Dominic’s disturbance of mind prior to his death,” he stated, slowly shaking his head in disgust.
A look of fear crossed her face at his icy tone; it was quickly replaced by an expression of contempt.
“Some men are just not strong enough to withstand the realities of this world, are they, Mr Darcy? I am not to blame that Dominic was one of them.”
She repulsed him as no one else ever had, and he longed to cleanse himself of her presence. Dominic had died because she wished to profit from his pain.
“My carriage is outside. You will be taken to my solicitor’s office under the watch of a man who is paid well enough to ignore the filth that pours from your mouth. There, you will explain everything and give him the details of anyone else involved in your distasteful extortion.”
“I will assist him.” Thorpe, who looked and sounded as sickened by her as Darcy was, returned to the table, retrieved the penknife, and slipped it into his coat pocket, before going to Mrs Wilder’s side. “We would not want you to run away.”
Darcy scrutinised his cousin, unsure whether he should entrust Mrs Wilder to him.
Thorpe evidently noticed and said, “I am greatly interested to hear what information Harriette has to share with your solicitor. And to learn for how long she has been using me as a source of income.” He took Mrs Wilder by the wrist and pulled her towards the door.
As she passed the table, Mrs Wilder reached for the coins Darcy had earlier offered her, but he snatched them away.
He looked into the eyes of the woman responsible for Dominic’s anguish, his lips lifting in a slow, grim smile.
“You will not get a penny from me. Not today, and not ever.”
She began to protest, but he did not wait to hear her reply, her shrill cries echoing behind him as he strode from the room.
Darcy took a cab to the address on the card given to him by Mrs Wilder. He regarded the card, cursing himself for not insisting on visiting the address as soon as he had first learnt of it weeks ago. But I did not know of its significance , he thought as the carriage slowed to a halt outside his destination. It was the brothel, the place where Mr Lamm had returned to, where Mrs Wilder had sent information, and where Mr Bull—or Mr Lennox or whatever name that scoundrel adopted—had gone after Elizabeth saw him at the museum. Everything was tied up in this house.
He stared out of the window in shock. It had been completely destroyed. Windows were smashed, and there were faint splashes of blood on the frames. Scorched brick along one wall, black against the cool springtime sky, suggested there had been a fire. The house was deathly still. Darcy descended from the carriage and stood, taking in the sight, debating whether he should enter. Nearby, an old woman watched him intently.
“What happened here?” he asked.
She eyed him suspiciously until he pulled a coin from his pocket.
“T’were a group of men, sir,” she said. “Came yesterday, looking for a man, they did. Took ‘im inna carriage and then burnt tha’ place.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“None I saw, but I can’t swear for that man they took.”
“Did they say where they were taking him?”
She held out her hand again, and he placed another coin in it.
“Bow Street.”
The stench of blood and excrement was overpowering. Darcy raised his hand to his face to block out the smell and forced himself not to shudder. He did not wish to appear afraid, but the cellar under the Brown Bear tavern on Bow Street was cold and dark. Iron bars were the only barrier that stood between himself and the suspected criminals. This was where Mr Bull had been taken after yesterday's altercation. Despite the wariness he felt, Darcy steeled himself. He had come too far to turn back now; he had to know if the scoundrel still posed a threat to his family.
“Keep your wits about you, sir,” said the officer in charge of the cell. It had taken some persuading—and several coins—before the younger man had agreed to allow Darcy entrance.
“Where is Mr Bull?” Darcy asked as he examined the shadowy figures inside the cell.
The officer indicated a man, his clothes tattered and bloodied, slumped against the wall on the other side of the bars. As Darcy’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the bruises swirling across the wastrel’s swollen face, and the large gash that lay open and weeping along his leg.
Mr Bull turned his head in Darcy’s direction. “Who’s there?” His voice was cracked and rasping. His eyes fell upon Darcy, and they widened in recognition. “Are you to blame for this?” He raised his hand to point to his injuries, only to drop it sharply with a hiss of pain.
Darcy regarded him in disgust. “The blame for your present situation is yours alone. Happy as I am at your imprisonment, it was not at my bidding.”
Mr Bull gave a snort, then winced. “Then why are you here?”
“To see for myself that you are locked away, where you cannot harm another.” Darcy took a step towards him, his chest tight with anger as he remembered the suffering the man had caused. He thought of Elizabeth, so blameless and compassionate, whose life had been dramatically altered by the villain’s nefarious acts. “And to ask why. Why did you treat innocent people with such contempt?”
Mr Bull held Darcy’s gaze, his expression defiant and ugly. When his lips twisted into a mocking smile, it revealed several missing teeth. He gave a rasping cackle. “Why not?”
Darcy shook with fury at the callous response. He took another step closer, but the officer coughed quietly. “I beg your pardon, sir. Do not bring any trouble on your head for the likes of him.”
Darcy took one final look at the miscreant. Mr Bull had closed his eyes, the effort of talking had evidently proved too much. “You are correct,” he said. “He is not worth even my contempt, as much as he deserves it. I hope to never lay eyes on the devil again.”