Chapter 9 #3
“If it is not enough,” Darcy said roughly, “speak with the merchants. Wickham has undoubtedly purchased on credit with many of them.” He paused. “It is unlikely that he has a way to pay them, meaning that the regiment shall have to make it good.”
Forster’s jaw tightened. “I shall, Colonel Black.”
There was no hesitation, no irony in Forster’s use of his new name. Was the man that good at his job? Or that bad?
“You may also be hearing from some rather irate guardians,” Fitz said. “I would not wish for you to be taken unawares.”
Forster rubbed his forehead. “Excellent,” he said sarcastically. “I have half a mind to let him fend for himself there.”
Fitz grinned. “Your regiment, Colonel. I would never presume to instruct you.”
“Is there is anything more you require, gentlemen?” Forster asked.
“Yes,” Darcy said. “May we speak with him again?”
Forster nodded and issued a command to a man just outside the door. When Wickham was shoved into the colonel’s office, he had clearly been on the wrong side of some additional blows. His lip was bleeding now as well as his nose, and a red welt was rising near his eye.
“What do you want?” he sneered. All pretense to gentlemanly behavior had vanished, leaving behind the real Wickham, the one that Darcy knew better than he wished. Fitz stepped forward, but Darcy stopped him with a glance.
“A name,” Darcy said coolly.
“Darcy,” Wickham said glibly. “There, may I go?”
Darcy ignored the jibe. “I want to know the whereabouts of the men who told you Miss Elizabeth Bennet was going to be killed.” It made him sick to say it, but he did not allow his revulsion to show.
Forster’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, but thankfully he remained silent.
Wickham smirked. “What is it worth to you?”
Damn the arrogance of the man. Darcy remained outwardly calm. He would not allow Wickham to rattle him. “The question is,” Darcy replied, “what is your life worth to you?”
Wickham rolled his eyes. “You will not kill me, Darcy.”
“You will call your superior officer by his rank, Wickham,” Forster barked.
Wickham frowned. “He is not . . .”
“Colonel Black,” Forster told him.
“You will not kill me, Colonel Black,“ Wickham spat out.
Darcy would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious. “I need the name of the man or men who told you this.”
“No man told me this,” Wickham shot back. He turned to Forster. “May I go, sir?”
Forster’s gaze was steady. “No.”
“Wickham,” Darcy said nonchalantly, “you can offer the names and earn fifty pounds, or I will accept Colonel Forster’s offer to invite the father, brother, and uncle of every girl wronged by you since the militia’s arrival to meet with you personally.
” He pretended to inspect the office. “You will, of course, require a larger room.”
The sullen look Darcy received quite delighted him.
“Money first,” came the demand.
“I do not carry that amount of coin on my person,” Darcy replied without losing his composure. “Nor would I release it to you before verifying your information. But I will sign an avowal to be kept in your colonel’s possession.”
Wickham relented, though his words were resentful. “I was not told,” he growled. “An acquaintance of mine from London came to Meryton for the ball. I invited him to cards, and he put me off rather rudely. I made it my business to discover his. Tobias is his name. Tobias Henderson.”
“And what did you discover?” Darcy asked when it appeared Wickham would not continue.
“His job was to watch you.” Wickham replied indifferently. “He had a partner. I wanted in, but they did not wish my help. Not my sort of thing, Toby said. I did not see why watching you would be so difficult.”
“Who hired him?” Darcy asked insistently.
Wickham shrugged. “Someone with cash to spare and a grudge against you, I suppose. Netherfield was likely filled with men who fit the bill.”
“What does Henderson look like?” Fitz inquired.
“He blends in,” Wickham said with a shrug. “Dark blond hair, brown eyes, entirely unremarkable.”
“Scars? Birthmarks?”
“He has a tattoo of an English rose.” Wickham grinned. “On his arse.”
Darcy stifled the instinct to goad Wickham by asking how he knew the location of such a mark, instead simply gesturing to Forster’s desk. Colonel Forster nodded, and Darcy picked up a pen. He held it over the inkpot. “Where can we find Mr. Henderson?”
There was no response. Darcy set the pen down.
“Without a location, we cannot find your friend. If we cannot find him and determine whether he is the man we seek, you will not receive your payment.”
Wickham sniffed and dabbed at his nose with a bloodied handkerchief. “He can usually be found at The White Bear in Piccadilly,” he said, refusing to meet Darcy’s eye.
Darcy was pleased to hear it. He had been halfway convinced this would require a trip somewhere far more unsavory, like Seven Dials, where he knew Wickham had once spent some time.
He wrote the note with a flourish and handed it to Forster for safekeeping.
The colonel read it, and the infinitesimal lift of one eyebrow led Darcy to believe that the man approved.
“I thank you for your assistance, Colonel Forster,” Darcy said by way of farewell.
Forster nodded, a stoic expression still writ upon his countenance.
The man was animated enough in mixed company, but his professional demeanor was impressive.
Darcy was ashamed that though he had dined with the officers more than once, he had not previously bothered to take note of the colonel.
Had he been so assured of his own superiority that he did not even bother to observe the people around him?
Elizabeth had been right to chastise him.
Fitz was right, too. He was a mutton-head.
Wickham was ushered outside again, and Forster waved a hand at Darcy’s uniform. “I presume there is a reason this man is in military dress, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“There is, Colonel Forster,” Fitz replied. “A good one.”
“I presume he does not intend to spy on Boney?”
Fitz shook his head.
“Good,” Forster replied stonily. “I would fear for us all.”
When they were at last on their horses and heading for London again, Fitz shot a disappointed look at Darcy.
“What?” he asked.
“I cannot believe you gave that cretin more money, Darce,” Fitz complained. “I would have enjoyed taking it out of his hide instead.”
Darcy released a soft laugh. “When Wickham reads my avowal, he will see that the money must first be applied to his debts in Meryton. He will never see a farthing.”
“Debts you would have felt obligated to pay in any case. Well, I feel a good deal better now.” Fitz pushed his mount to a quicker pace. “Let us get you back to your beloved so you can stun her with your proposal.”
“What do you mean, stun her?“ Darcy asked as his cousin widened the distance between them. Elizabeth might not want to marry him, but she must have some inkling . . . “Fitz?”His cousin was gone.
“Smug, infernal . . .” Darcy grumbled, and urged his horse on.
As she raced up the stairs, Elizabeth heard a set of tinkling bells being pulled three times, very distinctly.
She hoped that it was Mr. Slipworth summoning aid.
As she reached the servants’ floor at the top of the house, all was quiet below.
There were more doors along the corridor here, but one was smaller than the others.
It was stuck. She threw her entire body against it, squeezing through when it gave way a little, and shoved it closed behind her.
There was another set of stairs inside, only half as long as a normal flight, the treads smaller and narrower.
Elizabeth’s head ached. Her breaths were short and shallow.
She stepped up carefully but with haste and found herself in a dark room the length of the entire townhouse.
The ceiling was low, and there were no windows.
It was an attic of sorts. At the far end, she could make out a chimney in the center of the wall.
As she carefully picked her way closer, she saw that the hearth was surrounded by wooden boxes stacked three high and three across on each side.
Several dozen trunks were stacked haphazardly throughout the room.
Where to hide? There was no obvious place. The wooden boxes were too small and appeared to be stuffed with files. Elizabeth tugged at the lid of the trunk closest to her. Locked. She dragged herself to the next one and shook the latch. Locked. She tried a third. Locked.
Downstairs she thought she heard a man shouting.
“Who locks trunks in an attic?” she asked as her fear and frustration grew. Sixth trunk. Locked. Seventh trunk. Locked. Perhaps she could hide behind them?
Finally, on the eighth try, when her distress had nearly consumed her, she tugged on a trunk and the lid lifted. Elizabeth stepped inside and curled up, pulling the lid shut.
Inside, it was dark and quiet. Her legs were cramped, and the clothes were musty, though there was a faint odor of citrus.
Elizabeth tried to slow her breathing. She focused on the pleasant scent and the rhythm of her breaths.
Her heart was beating so hard that the sound of it filled her ears, making it impossible to hear whether anyone was entering the room.
Elizabeth touched the wooden lid only inches from her face and tried to recall happier times, when hiding in trunks was a game, one at which she excelled.
As she imagined playing with her sisters, her breathing slowed, and her heart calmed.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She held a hand over her chest, but it was not her heart making the sound. Someone was ascending the stairs.
“Miss Elizabeth?” called a voice she recalled, low and menacing. “I know you are hiding somewhere.”
Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth and shivered.
The floorboards creaked, and she swallowed, closing her eyes tightly. The footsteps stopped. Then there was another step. Another pause.