Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
D arcy put Wickham up at the inn that night with a stern warning not to flirt with Sarah, nor to treat her with anything but the most gentlemanly respect and dignity. Wickham, glad for a bed and a basin of water in which to wash, acquiesced.
The morning sun brought another note from Bow Street. Tom-Tom had been checking with the lawmen every day to ascertain if they had been able to run Lady Catherine’s physician, Mr Seymour, to ground. They had not. They simply did not have enough men to stake out Seymour all day and all night. They had, however, provided his personal direction in case Mr Seven would like to try the task himself.
Before doing so, however, Darcy sent Tom-Tom on another, more important errand.
After speaking so much of Georgiana the evening before, Darcy was tortured by terrors that stole his sleep. He had not seen Georgiana these many weeks, and having left Kent without contacting her, he could not know if she was all right. All he had were a few short lines in letters from others that told him she was well. Elizabeth had mentioned how Fitzwilliam was still writing to her and hearing from her regularly, and Mr Wright the deputy inspector had told him the same.
However, he could not shake the feeling that Georgiana could be in danger. Those two scoundrels were still chasing him, after all. Would they kidnap Georgiana in a last-ditch effort to entrap Darcy? Was Georgiana on the list of persons to get rid of, along with Wickham and himself? Was she safe with the countess, or should he find a place for her to hide until this whole thing was resolved?
One thing he did know was that he could not go check on her himself. Not only would she likely not recognise him, but his going to her might turn out to be the very thing that put her in danger.
Darcy knew exactly whom to enlist. After writing a short note of explanation and supplication, he called Tom-Tom back over to him, handed him two coins, and instructed him to take a hackney cab to Grosvenor Square. Bingley was at number seventy-three.
That handled for now, Darcy and Wickham headed in the direction of St Luke’s Hospital. No sooner had they passed the third brothel on the left did Darcy spot a familiar pair of men—one short and stout, one tall and burly. The massive one was Nigel, he remembered, though he had never got the name of the other.
“Look there!” Wickham shoved Darcy behind a tall fruit cart. “Those are the two men who were in Meryton just before I was discharged. Colonel Forster said they might have arrested me, had he not told them I was away.”
They wanted Wickham dead, too? Darcy knew from experience there was no truth to the accusations they had brought against Wickham. A thought flashed through his mind that, perhaps Wickham recognised the thugs because he was the one who had hired them. He discerned the old thrum of distrust and willed it away. No, these men were hired killers, looking to track Wickham down and toss him into the Thames just as they had tried to do to Darcy.
But why?
Darcy was done running. He thought of the power lurking in Wickham’s wiry frame and the confidence he himself had gained since learning to box. He wanted to know why they were after them and who was behind all this. And he was going to find out right now.
“I hope you are all healed after last night’s bout,” he offered.
“You mean that tickling contest? Yes, I think I am recovered.”
“You are clearly the stronger of the two of us, then? The better fighter?” Darcy asked.
“Is that even a question after that farce of a match last night?” Wickham replied with a cocky grin.
“Good, then I say, as you are in top fighting form, we go find out why those two thugs have been trying to kill us,” Darcy patted him on the shoulder. “You take the big one.”
“Big one? Kill us? Wait—Darcy!” Wickham shouted to his back as Darcy strode across the cobblestones towards the two assassins.
Ten seconds later, Darcy tapped the shorter man on the shoulder, waited for him to turn about, and socked him on the jaw so hard, the villain fell to the ground clutching his face and blinking in shock.
“Horace!” Nigel howled at seeing the surprise attack. Before the beast could act, however, Wickham had jumped onto his back and put him in a chokehold. Nigel clawed at Wickham’s arms, tossed his torso back-and-forth in an effort to dislodge the sinewy man, and ultimately threw him over his head so that Wickham flew to the ground. Without missing a beat, Wickham leapt to his feet, smirked at Nigel with a raise of his eyebrows, and went at him again.
Darcy spared the two a glance, noting Wickham’s agile bobbing and weaving as the great lummox clumped about, throwing slow overhand punches that again and again failed to hit their mark. Then, Darcy looked down at Horace, whom he assumed to be the brains of the operation, and knelt upon his chest, pinning him to the ground.
Without much of a fight, Darcy wrested Horace’s hands behind his back and secured them with the man’s own leather suspender. All the while, the villain was shouting for Nigel to run. Nigel, whose attention had been fully fixed on pummelling Wickham—if he could ever catch him—looked over at his partner in panicked agitation. Upon finally understanding what Horace was directing him to do, the large man set to running.
Of course, if Wickham had wished to, he could have easily caught up with the plodding fellow, but at Darcy’s call, he let him escape.
“What have we here?” Wickham asked, standing over the two men and breathing hard.
“This is Horace. He and Nigel back there were hired to kill me. And probably you.” Darcy looked down into the frightened eyes of the wretch and added, “And now we are going to find out who sent them.”