Chapter Seven #2
When the housekeeper had excused herself, Darcy addressed his cousin. “You think Susan involved.”
“We might be able to catch her in the act if she is,” Richard replied. “What if she is connected to your letter writer? Her night off would be the best time to meet with him.”
Darcy rubbed the back of his neck but removed his hand when the food arrived. Until everything had been set out and the footman had departed, the men were silent.
The moment the door was shut, Darcy addressed his cousin. “You think whoever this is wanted me to be called to Kent so he could continue to steal from me in my absence?”
Richard snapped his napkin out before laying it across his legs. “I think he wanted you gone to Kent; for what reason, I cannot say.”
They began to eat, but neither was much interested in the food on their plates. After a time, Richard spoke quite abruptly. “I have great respect for Bedford, but I do not think the letters are unrelated.”
Darcy shook his head. “I have been thinking the same thing. The question is, who has access to and a grievance with both myself and the Russell family?”
“There is one obvious answer to that, you know,” Richard said, spearing a piece of fish and popping it in his mouth.
He chewed slowly, then swallowed. “I cannot speak to access, but as to grievance? Miss Russell corresponded with Georgiana this summer; you told me yourself it was on her insistence that Georgie reveal all to you.”
Darcy set his fork down. He had believed Ramsgate was the dastard’s final play—he had made it clear that the man was to stay far away from the Darcy family or he would call in every last debt.
He had perhaps been too complacent where his father’s former favorite was concerned.
But his cousin was correct—novacula occami could be successfully applied in this case.
“Wickham,” Darcy stated flatly.
Richard nodded sagely. “Wickham.”
Elizabeth sat on her aunt’s bed, her legs curled up as she worked on Jane’s wedding present.
“We must choose a date for your wedding, Lizzy,” Aunt Olivia said, placing her book aside and clasping her hands in her lap. “John has put his title to good use for once and has purchased a special license.”
Elizabeth paused in her drawing, pencil suspended in air. This was unexpected. John had not seemed overly welcoming of Mr. Darcy, and it was so soon. She had assumed Aunt Olivia would want a large London wedding after her come-out. “Is there a rush, Aunt?” Elizabeth asked.
Aunt Olivia tilted her head at Elizabeth and gave her a searching look. “Dearest, you have seen me. Even before yesterday, I have been decidedly unwell. You must know . . .”
Elizabeth shook her head defiantly. “You will rally, Aunt Olivia. You are too difficult a creature to remain ill for long.”
Aunt Olivia hesitated. Finally, she kissed Elizabeth’s forehead. “Very well, dear, we will not speak of it tonight.”
Elizabeth suddenly felt cold, and she wished nothing more than to be wrapped in the arms of her betrothed. She longed for his strength, for she found herself abruptly devoid of it.
“Mr. Darcy will come tomorrow?” her aunt asked, breaking into her ruminations.
“He has said he will.” She placed the drawing and pencil aside.
“Bring him to visit me, Lizzy. I have not seen him since he was little more than a boy. I wish to thank him for the letter he sent after Phillip’s passing.”
“I am sure he will be anxious to see you, Aunt,” Elizabeth told her, but the words felt like paste in her mouth.
“Well, I am not sure of that,” her aunt teased, “but I should like to see him, and I am an old lady. It would be ungentlemanly of him to refuse. You tell him I said that.”
Elizabeth swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I shall, Aunt Olivia. I promise.”
“I have always thought it was a rather formal name, Fitzwilliam,” her aunt said reflectively. “Would you not prefer William? Or Will?”
“I do not mind Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, “but I would be happy using whichever name he prefers.”
“You might wish to consider it, dear,” Olivia said pertly. “Fitzwilliam rather puts one in mind of his cousin.”
“No,” Elizabeth corrected her immediately. “His cousin is a good man. But he has never put me in mind of Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy sat in an armchair in the library, the fire low but still hot, when he heard footsteps in the hallway.
Before he could respond, a young maid slipped into the room.
He sat up, alarmed that she would so brazenly enter the library when she should be seeking her bed in the servants’ quarters.
There was a flash of red hair in the candlelight. Susan.
She was facing away from him, the candle held high in one hand, until she reached the shelves where the atlases were kept.
His great-grandfather had begun the collection in 1726 to mark the year he had acquired the townhouse.
Every ten years, another was added. The original atlas of the collection was bound in leather, the bindings a little loose now, and it was this volume the girl set down her candle to remove.
It was a distinctive tome, large, with many hand-colored plates; it was quite valuable and entirely irreplaceable. He stood, intent on blocking her exit.
The sound of his slippers on the floor must have alerted her, for she whirled in his direction, her face pale in the weak light, both thin arms crossed over the book.
“Susan,” he greeted her. “May I ask where you are taking that?”
She blinked rapidly, and her words came out haltingly. “I were just going to look at it, Mr. Darcy. I meant no harm.”
Darcy sighed. “Susan, you must tell me the truth.” Her eyes grew wide, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
She was little more than a child, seventeen at most. He allowed his hand to drop to his side.
“If you are in trouble, perhaps I can help. But there are other things missing from the house, and I suspect you are to blame for them all.”
Susan carefully set down the book on a reading table. She shook her head and cast her eyes down.
The door to the main hall opened and Richard stepped inside. “I was in your study, Darce, enjoying some of your port, and thought I heard someone returning,” he said. “I wondered if Susan might not have someone waiting for her outside.”
Darcy kept an eye on Susan. “Did she?”
“She did,” Richard said, “but he ran before I could get a decent look. I think he saw your horses in the mews.” He approached the girl, and Darcy knew it would not be long before Richard had the entire story.
“Susan, before I allow my cousin to begin this interview, you should know he was an officer in the Army.”
Susan’s slight body began to quake.
Richard’s tone was mild but buried within was a hint of steel. “Things will go far easier for you if you tell us all that you know. Do not make me question you.”
Susan kept her face turned resolutely to the floor and began to cry.
For the second time in as many days, Darcy found himself in the Duke of Bedford’s study discussing unpleasant news.
It was a distinction he would have been happy to forgo, particularly as the man was in a mood to place blame, and Darcy was the focus of his displeasure.
At least today he was not also facing Tavistock.
Bedford stood to the side of his desk, toying idly with a stack of papers. “You are telling me that whoever your maid has been dallying with could be the letter writer?” His words were curt—the man was fuming. “And you have brought this wastrel into our lives?”
Darcy held back the angry retort he wished to deliver—if this was Wickham, the Russells had been involved, but it was indeed their connection with the Darcys that had repeatedly brought the reprobate back for more.
“It is not quite that simple, Bedford. The girl was being threatened.” Romanced, and then threatened.
“She says she was being threatened. The fact remains that she has stolen items worth a great deal of money from your home without detection.”
He wished to shout I was not in residence! But there was no denying it. “She has,” Darcy admitted. “Wickham and I have a long history.”
Darcy collected his thoughts. He recalled the days of his youth spent despising George Wickham and being hurt by his father’s misguided preference.
How Mr. and Mrs. Russell had finally forced George Darcy to see what everyone around him saw: George Wickham was a careless spendthrift with a penchant for wasting other people’s money and seducing young women.
But he had not considered the man capable of extorting an old woman and a maiden or taking a shot at the carriage of a peer.
After Ramsgate, I should have, he thought gloomily.
I should have let Richard run the bastard through.
Bedford is right to lay this at my feet.
He took a breath. “My father had a steward. . .”
Elizabeth hurried to the drawing room when she heard that Mr. Darcy had come to call, entering with a bright smile.
Her betrothed had his back to her as he gazed out of a window, his hands resting on either side of the casement.
His shoulders were hunched. She approached him, touched his arm, and jumped when he startled.
He turned to face her, and she nearly took a step back. He was clearly agitated, for his hair was rumpled as though he had repeatedly run his hand through it—and his expression was grim.
“What has happened?” she exclaimed, grasping his arm. “Are you well?”
He let out a short huff and grimaced. “I am not.” He took her hands and lifted his eyes to hers. “Bedford has barred me from the house.”
Unspoken but understood was that her cousin had barred him from her company entirely. “What?” she asked, incredulous. “Why?”
He swallowed. “He blames me for what is happening, and I cannot say he is wrong.” His thumbs moved in light circles over the back of her hands.
“That is preposterous,” she replied heatedly. “How can you take this upon yourself?”