Some Particular Evil

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

D arcy’s coach rolled into Clerkenwell well past dark. The streets were bustling with dissolute, loose, and insolent people. He recognised that the building before him with windowsills populated by bawdy females—for they were not all old enough to be called women, and they were certainly not ladies—must be one of the many brothels he had heard filled this part of London. He had never set foot anywhere near this neighbourhood, and just breathing the air was an affront to his pride. And his lungs.

He tucked his sack under his arm, its drawstring wound tightly around his wrist, and felt his pocket for the blade Barnes had sent with him. Though Darcy had not seen his own face, he imagined he looked as rough-hewn as any of the characters populating this neighbourhood at the moment. Still, he was naturally cautious when surrounded by such low-born men and wanton women—they could probably smell gentility a mile off!

A mop of blond curls crashed into him and knocked him off balance. Scowling down into the boy’s besmirched face, Darcy growled in his most imperious voice, “I say! Have a care!”

Several bystanders turned to gaze at him as the boy bobbed a quick apology. Blast ! He had given himself up for gentry within five minutes of his arrival. He must be more circumspect. Indeed, it would be better for him to not speak at all if he could not make himself sound like the locals.

“Go on, then,” he shouted in as uneducated an accent as he could muster. The onlookers began to turn their attention back to their previous activities. Yes, he would need to listen closely to the people around him and practice their colloquial speech if he were to successfully pull off this ruse.

And if Elizabeth was right, it was a matter of life and death for him to do so.

A block and a half passed under his feet, narrow and dark and paved with rutted cobblestones, before Darcy noted a sign hanging over one lantern-lit door. The wooden slab was half black with mildew and rot, but Darcy could make out the carving of a long-horned bull with what looked like a fluffy-tailed cat attached by the mouth to one of its hind legs. He did not know if the establishment was an inn or a tavern, but it was the first of its kind he had come across, and whether he could stay the night or not, he needed a drink and something other than kippers in his stomach.

Walking through the crowd inside and past tables filled with more of the same peasants he had seen without, Darcy pressed himself against the counter and lifted a hand to signal the older man at its other end. He had several moments to wait, as the barkeep had the audacity to finish his insipid conversation before attending him. It was a good thing, too, for Darcy had almost forgotten that he needed to cater his language to his hearer. How does one ask who the proprietor of this establishment is in plebeian?

“You own this place?” Darcy finally decided upon, drawing out the vowels and dropping the ‘th’ as he had heard many of his servants do.

“I do,” the man said proudly. “Opened The Fox he supposed he was to sit on the mattress to write his correspondence. Atop the pathetic excuse for a writing space, there was half an inch of dust at least. He wrestled open the sticky drawer to search out pen and paper and found nothing but years-old quill shavings. Or fingernails. No, please God, let them be quill shavings. On the far wall, there was a small window, which had been painted shut several coats ago and whose corners were caked with grime.

Darcy walked over to it, fisted up the sleeve of his jacket, and used it to clear a space large enough to see through. Below him was a sight out of a caricature drawing. He had not believed such places really existed, or if they did that they could possibly be this horrid. But here was proof. Men and women in dirty and tattered clothing stood in clusters, laughing and carousing without any care to propriety. Small children in rags walked about with their hands outstretched, begging for crumbs and coin, and Darcy wondered where their parents were. He also noted several school-aged boys scattered through the block, clicking and whistling at one another, probably a pick-pocket gang.

One of the children, he noted, had a conspicuous head of blond curly hair. Darcy’s breath caught, but he exhaled in relief at the memory that he had paid for his room from his purse just minutes before. Still, he patted his pockets for what else might be missing. Sure enough, his front pocket was empty; the boy had stolen his pocket watch.

Darcy slammed his fist against the plaster of the wall, cursing his luck once more. That was a piece he had not brought to sell for sustenance; it had been his father’s. George Darcy had presented it to him upon his reaching his majority as an assurance that he had faith that Fitzwilliam would succeed in his role as master of Pemberley and continue to grow into the man he wished to become.

Yet, here he was, dressed like a pauper, reeking of horse dust and kippers, holed up in the seediest inn in London. Soon, he would be forced to pawn his valuables just to put food in his stomach—dubious food if his nose was correct. Fitzwilliam Darcy was a fugitive, running from everything he had ever known on the word of a woman he thought loved him.

He allowed himself a moment to hang his head and lament this dung pile of a day, breathing heavily and shedding more than one frustrated, hopeless tear.

How had he gone from a respected, exalted gentleman with every hope for future felicity to a scroungy fugitive, on the run for his life without even the comforting thought of a woman’s love to carry him through? He had never run from anything before! Why was he running now? Was it possible Elizabeth had been imagining things?

No. He trusted Elizabeth, fully and completely. And, though he loathed to admit it, he loved her. Whether he wished to or not. If she told him his life was in danger, then his life was in danger. And if she believed he should stay out of sight in such a vulgar place, he would do so. For her. For Georgiana. For Pemberley and everyone else who esteemed him or relied on him for their livelihood. His life was on the line, and life was more important than personal comforts. He must endure this indignity for the good of others.

That did not mean he had to like it.

Pulling himself together, he began to unload the sack into his dresser, tucking the jewelled stick pins into his small clothes to conceal them as well as possible. He would certainly be more careful with his valuables from this point forwards.

His stomach growled as he struggled to close the drawer. Divesting himself of hat and coat, he stretched his tired limbs and realised he had not eaten in nigh on eight hours.

Except for kippers. Darcy shuddered.

Soon, his meal came and a fire in the hearth along with it. It was a simple repast—a rustic plate of roasted meat and fried potatoes—and Darcy had never tasted anything so delicious. With his immediate needs satisfied, he began to see the days ahead unfurling before him, and the anxiety of such uncertainties made him wonder if he would be able to keep the food down.