Chapter Two A Matter of Penance #2
Richard Fitzwilliam was draped across the upholstery in a silk dressing gown, holding a tea saucer against his forehead. Darcy suspected his cousin had enjoyed London society far too much the previous evening.
“Close the curtains.” Richard kept his eyes tightly shut. “The sun is far too loud today.”
Darcy removed his hat and placed it in the centre of a side table. “It is noon, Richard. The sun is performing its function.”
“Its function is to torment me.” Richard shifted his head slightly and the saucer clinked against his signet ring. “Have you come to judge me, or is there a specific reason you are invading my sanctuary?”
“We are leaving for Brighton tomorrow morning.” Darcy peeled off his leather gloves.
Richard lowered the saucer and cracked open one bloodshot eye.
“We absolutely are not.” He closed the eye again. “Brighton is filled with noise, sea gulls, and people who wish to talk. I cannot abide talking.”
“My trunks are being packed.” Darcy took a seat opposite his cousin. “Johnson is securing our lodgings as we speak. You will accompany me.”
“I am a grown man.” Richard pressed the porcelain back against his brow. “I have survived Napoleon’s troops and Lady Catherine. I do not have to follow you to a crowded seaside town because you have developed an inexplicable urge to ingest salt water.”
“Wickham is there.”
Richard froze.
The saucer slowly descended to his lap, both eyes opening. The lingering effects of the previous night’s revelry vanished from his features, and his gaze focused on Darcy.
“Wickham.” Richard sat up straight, ignoring the throb in his temples.
“He is with the militia.” Darcy met his cousin’s gaze. “The encampment is set for the summer. Brighton is overrun with wealthy young women.”
Richard set the saucer down and stood up without swaying.
“I shall tell my batman to pack my trunks.” Richard tightened the belt of his dressing gown. “We leave at dawn. If necessary, I shall walk to Sussex.”
The journey to the coast the following morning was an exercise in extended discomfort.
The carriage was spacious, but the atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions. Darcy sat on one side, staring out of the window at the passing countryside. Richard sat opposite him, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed firmly on Darcy.
Horlicks occupied the corner seat next to Richard. The valet sat upright, his hands folded neatly in his lap, presenting a portrait of utter neutrality.
The silence stretched from London to Croydon.
“You fled Kent.” Richard broke the silence just as the carriage hit a deep rut. “We departed Rosings with such haste I barely had time to pack my boots. You refused to speak of it then, and you have refused to speak of it since.”
Darcy adjusted his cuffs, finding the stitching on his sleeve extremely fascinating. “I recalled urgent business in town.”
“You are a terrible liar.” Richard leaned forward. “You have always been a terrible liar. It is your single redeeming quality. We left because something happened at the parsonage.”
“Nothing of consequence happened.”
“You spent every afternoon walking in the park, hoping to accidentally encounter Miss Elizabeth.” Richard tilted his head. “And then, suddenly, we were galloping to London as though the hounds of hell were snapping at the carriage wheels. Tell me.”
Darcy looked at his cousin, then at Horlicks. The valet immediately closed his eyes, feigning sleep with professional courtesy.
“I offered for her.” Darcy kept his voice devoid of inflection.
Richard’s eyebrows shot upward.
“You proposed to Elizabeth Bennet?” Richard sat back against the squabs.
“I did.”
“And?”
Darcy looked out again. The Sussex hills were rolling past, green and indifferent to his misery.
“She declined.” Darcy swallowed the tightness in his throat. “Comprehensively. She detailed my faults with remarkable precision. She considers me arrogant, conceited, and responsible for her sister’s unhappiness.”
A strange sound filled the carriage.
Darcy turned his head.
Richard was attempting to smother a laugh, pressing his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with the effort.
“You find my humiliation amusing.” Darcy felt a surge of cold indignation.
“I find it magnificent.” Richard let the laugh loose. It was a joyous, booming sound. “Oh, Darcy. The great Master of Pemberley, rejected by a country gentleman’s daughter.”
“I am pleased to provide entertainment for your journey.”
“Do not sulk.” Richard wiped a tear of mirth from his eye.
“It is the best thing that could possibly have happened to you. You have spent your entire life surrounded by people who agree with your every pronouncement. You desperately needed a good set-down. Miss Elizabeth has performed a public service.”
“She despises me.”
“She challenged you.” Richard grew serious. “And judging by this covert expedition to stop Wickham, her words have actually taken root. You are finally doing something uncomfortable.”
Darcy could not argue with the assessment. He turned to the corner.
“Horlicks.”
The valet opened his eyes. “Sir?”
“You have served my family for two decades.” Darcy gestured vaguely to his cousin. “Do you agree with the Colonel’s assessment? Do I require character-building humiliation?”
Horlicks did not hesitate. He reached into his coat pocket, produced a small silver tin, and clicked the lid open with his thumb.
“Would you care for a mint pastille, Sir?” He extended the tin. “They are excellent for settling the stomach during travel.”
Darcy stared at the tin.
Richard began to laugh again.
Darcy accepted a pastille and placed it on his tongue. It tasted of peppermint and diplomatic avoidance.
“Thank you, Horlicks.” Darcy folded his arms.
“My pleasure, Sir.” Horlicks closed the tin and resumed his posture of perfect neutrality.
They arrived in Brighton late in the afternoon. The town was a swirl of salt spray, shouting vendors, and bright red uniforms.
Johnson had secured lodgings on a respectable crescent set slightly back from the seafront. It was a tall, narrow townhouse featuring pristine white steps and a polished brass knocker.
Mrs Gable, the landlady, stood in the hallway to receive them. She wore a starched grey gown and a critical eye that meant she tolerated no nonsense. She inspected Darcy, Richard, and Horlicks as though she had seen far too many summer tenants, and was not impressed by them.
“The drawing room is on the first floor.” Mrs Gable pointed up the stairs. “The dining parlour is below. I do not permit smoking cheroots in the bedchambers, and I expect the front door to be locked securely by midnight. Brighton is full of gentlemen who forget their way after dark.”
“We shall be the very models of decorum, Mrs Gable.” Richard offered his most charming smile.
Mrs Gable remained unmoved. “See that you are. Breakfast is at eight. Promptly.”
They settled into the house. The rooms were spotless, though undeniably smaller than the cavernous halls of London hotels. Darcy found the proximity to the bustling street irritating, but he had not come to Brighton for comfort.
He had come for Wickham.
The following morning, Darcy sat in the drawing room with a cup of black coffee, attempting to read a newspaper but the noise from the street was deafening.
Richard strode into the room, wearing his finest coat, a finely knotted cravat, and an expression of grim purpose.
“Put the paper down.” He plucked the broadsheet from Darcy’s hands. “We are going out.”
“We have barely finished breakfast,” Darcy protested, reaching for his coffee.
“Wickham is not going to wander into Mrs Gable’s parlour and confess his sins.” Richard tossed the newspaper onto a side table. “We must find him and observe his movements. We are hunting, Darcy. One does not hunt from an armchair.”
Darcy considered pointing out the absurdity of treating a seaside promenade like a stalking ground, but after one look at his cousin’s determined face he decided against it.
He finished his coffee and stood up.
They walked to the Steine. The wide, grassy promenade was the very heart of Brighton society. It was crowded with people determined to see and be seen. The salt wind tugged at Darcy’s hat, the volume of humanity setting his teeth on edge.
They navigated through clusters of gossiping matrons and groups of loud, overly confident junior officers.
“There.” Richard stopped abruptly. He pointed discreetly to a large, elegant building at the edge of the promenade.
The sign above the door read Wright and Son’s Royal Colonnade Library.
The area outside the library was congested with patrons. It was the premier location for acquiring novels, purchasing stationery, and exchanging town gossip.
Standing on the pavement, at ease, was George Wickham.
He wore the red coat of the militia with casual elegance, the uniform fitting perfectly. His fair hair curled appealingly in the sea breeze. He had the same handsome, open countenance that had deceived half of Hertfordshire and very nearly ruined Georgiana.
Darcy felt a surge of cold fury, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
But Wickham was not alone. He was engaged in deep conversation with three young women.
Darcy and Richard stood by the wrought-iron railing, maintaining a careful distance. They had a clear view of Wickham’s posture, but the women were facing away from them.
The brilliant morning sun necessitated parasols. Three silken canopies obscured the ladies’ faces. One parasol was a vibrant shade of yellow, the other two were a pale blue and a sensible brown.
Wickham leaned forward and said something softly to the woman holding the yellow parasol.
The yellow parasol dipped slightly as the woman laughed.
It was a masterful display in manipulation. Wickham deployed his charm effortlessly. He was attentive, deferential, and apparently the very ideal of a respectable, admiring gentleman.
“He is working very quickly.” Richard watched the display with deep disgust. “The regiment has only been here a fortnight.”
“He wastes no time when there is prey to be secured.” Darcy kept his eyes fixed on the red coat. “We must discover who those women are. We must warn their families before he enacts another scheme.”
Wickham offered one arm to the woman holding the yellow parasol and the other to the lady with the blue. He smiled, a perfect, brilliant flash of teeth.
Darcy stood rigid against the wind.
The hunt had officially begun.