Chapter Nine The Royal Oats #2
“She does not need a sword,” Elizabeth murmured, watching the dowager part the crowd simply by existing. “Her parasol is sufficient.”
“I am grateful not to be the object of her displeasure.” Mr Darcy kept his voice low. “She and my Aunt Catherine would either conquer the continent together or destroy each other within a fortnight.”
Wickham, unaware of the impending disaster, reached Miss Smythe. He deployed his usual practiced charm. He bowed gracefully and smiled. He leaned closer, speaking in the soft, intimate manner specifically designed to make a romantic young woman believe she was the only person in the universe.
Miss Smythe blushed furiously and clutched her gothic novel to her chest as though it were a shield against her own racing heart.
Wickham leaned in a fraction further.
Lady Clement arrived. She planted herself exactly two feet away from the militia officer. She said absolutely nothing.
The silence coming from the dowager was so potent that the surrounding conversations began to falter, the air in the immediate vicinity growing noticeably colder.
Wickham turned his head and saw her. The charming smile fractured.
“Mr Wickham.” Lady Clement’s greeting dripped with an icy, lethal politeness. “I see you have abandoned your literary pursuits at the circulating library in favour of equestrian ones.”
Wickham attempted a hasty recovery. “Lady Clement. I was introducing myself to Miss Smythe. We were discussing the magnificence of the Regent’s horses.”
Lady Clement raised her quizzing glass, subjecting Wickham to a public, microscopic inspection.
“Indeed?” She lowered the glass, her voice carrying clearly over the quieted courtyard. “I had previously thought your expertise lay in acquiring substantial debts and avoiding your tailor.”
A collective gasp rippled through the immediate crowd.
Wickham’s face flooded with fury. His hands clenched at his sides and he opened his mouth to reply.
Lady Clement did not permit him a single syllable.
“Return to your regiment, Mr Wickham.” She spoke with absolute, dismissive authority.
“You are cluttering the courtyard. Furthermore, if I catch you attempting to introduce yourself to another young lady of my acquaintance, I shall personally ensure your commanding officer is fully informed of your remarkable financial versatility.”
Lady Clement turned her back on him, linked her arm firmly through Miss Smythe’s, and steered the bewildered heiress away without a backward glance.
The public damage was instantaneous and complete.
Within the space of two minutes, Lady Clement had transformed George Wickham from a charming, tragic officer into a known, desperate fortune-hunter in front of Brighton’s elite.
The gossip would spread through the town before nightfall.
No heiress would look at him without recalling the public humiliation in the royal stables.
Elizabeth felt a thrilling rush of victory. They had put an end to the threat, Miss Smythe was safe, and the other wealthy young women of Brighton were effectively warned.
Then, the true nature of the victory settled over her.
Elizabeth watched Wickham. He stood alone near the ornate carriages. His fists remained clenched, his handsome face blank, tight, and dangerously cornered.
He had no money, no prospects, and no hope left of securing a wealthy heiress.
He was going to resort to extortion.
Wickham turned his head slowly. He was no longer hunting for a wife. He was hunting for a hostage. His gaze swept the courtyard and fixed with alarming precision upon Lydia Bennet.
Lydia stood near the stable entrance, laughing uproariously over the groom’s yapping terrier. Her bright yellow silk pelisse made her an unmissable target.
Wickham’s expression changed, the charm gone. The new smile that twisted his lips was malicious, cold, and desperate. He had found his potential extortion payment.
He began walking directly to Lydia.
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. The entire game had shifted. This was no longer a covert operation to protect wealthy strangers. This was a desperate battle to protect her foolish sister from a man with nothing left to lose.
Elizabeth gasped. “Look,” she said, her voice trembling.
Mr Darcy followed her gaze and saw Wickham advancing upon Lydia. The muscles in his jaw tightened until they resembled carved stone.
“He is moving to his final option.” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. “He will attempt to compromise her soon. He will extort your family to pay for her reputation.”
“We must stop him.”
“We will. I will not allow him to take her, Miss Elizabeth. I promise you.”
Wickham reached Lydia. He leaned close, speaking in low, urgent tones. He effectively monopolised her attention, blocking the view of the grooms and the passing tourists.
Elizabeth instinctively stepped forward to intervene.
“Do not move,” Mr Darcy warned quietly. “If we intervene publicly now, he will know we understand his intentions and he will panic. He might attempt to take her from the stables right now, creating a public compromise.”
“He is laying the trap as we speak!” Elizabeth protested, her heart hammering frantically.
“But we are watching him as he lays it.” He turned his head slightly to look down at her. “We have the advantage of foresight. He believes us to be ordinary observers caught in the social bustle of the morning. We must preserve that illusion until we are ready to strike.”
Elizabeth released a shaky breath. The constant, unrelenting vigilance was exhausting. The burden of protecting a sister who failed to recognise the danger she courted was a terrible weight.
She looked up at the man standing beside her.
Mr Darcy’s entire attention was fixed upon Wickham and Lydia. He was willing to place himself between her family and ruin, asking for nothing in return.
The truth she had realised on the shingle beach solidified into something permanent and undeniable. Her love for him was undeniable.
She thought of her behaviour in Kent, how devastatingly wrong she had been. She had despised a caricature built of wounded pride and Wickham’s lies. She had failed to see the proud, awkward, fiercely loyal, honourable man who now stood protecting her sister.
She had to tell him. She had to begin, at least.
“Fitzwilliam.” She spoke his Christian name softly, testing the weight of it.
Mr Darcy did not look down, keeping his eyes locked on Wickham. “Yes?”
Elizabeth struggled to find the words. She was not a woman accustomed to stumbling over speech, but the magnitude of her feelings rendered her temporarily mute. She could not confess everything amidst the smell of hay and the noise of the royal stables.
“I wish to thank you,” she managed, her voice unsteady. “For everything you have done since we arrived in Brighton. For enduring my family and the absurdity of this town. For placing yourself in physical proximity to Wickham, in order to protect Lydia.”
She paused, willing him to understand the depth of what she was trying to convey.
“I understand the cost of such vigilance, Mr Darcy. I am deeply grateful,” she continued, lifting her face. She wanted him to look at her, to see the change in her heart.
He finally turned his head, and looked down into her eyes. He saw the raw sincerity in her expression and the severe lines of his face softened. He offered a small, impossibly tender smile, and the noise of the stables vanished.
He parted his lips to speak, caught in the fragile, breath-held moment between them.
“Miss Elizabeth! Oh, thank heavens I found you!”
Mrs Forster came tearing through the courtyard. She was dishevelled, her bonnet was askew, she was breathless, and full of self-importance.
The fragile moment shattered instantly. Mr Darcy and Elizabeth stepped apart, the space between them suddenly filled with the presence of the commanding officer’s wife.
“I am meant to be chaperoning the both of you!” Mrs Forster gasped for air, clutching her side. “But I was captivated by a horse with the most adorable mane! I had to try tying a ribbon onto it! But then some very silly officers forcibly removed me from the premises!”
She stopped to catch her breath, looking between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy.
“Oh.” Mrs Forster blinked. “Have I interrupted anything?”
“No!” Elizabeth and Mr Darcy answered simultaneously.
They were both flushed. Neither of them sounded remotely convincing.
At that precise moment, Colonel Fitzwilliam returned from his successful deployment of Lady Clement. He appeared at their side, looking immensely satisfied.
“What did I miss?” Richard looked between his cousin and Elizabeth with the same expression as Mrs Forster.
“I shall provide you with the details later.” Mr Darcy regained his composure with remarkable speed. He gestured to Elizabeth and Mrs Forster. “For now, we must enjoy the delightful company of these two ladies.”
Mrs Forster preened, smoothing her rumpled skirts, delighted to be the object of such distinguished attention.
The interrupted moment was firmly, securely forced back beneath the surface of Brighton society. Elizabeth offered the Colonel a polite smile, while her heart continued to hammer, full of hope.