Chapter Ten #2
Truth be told, Darcy would have thrown a blanket on the billiards table and slept there if necessary.
Thankfully, Mr. Perry had merely nodded at his mistress.
Then he had turned to Darcy, given him the disapproving frown every butler worth his pay had in his arsenal, and remarked that there were ten bedrooms in the house.
He would see to having a suitable chamber prepared for Miss Russell’s guest. Darcy only hoped the room Mr. Perry selected would not be on the roof.
Upon concluding his conversation with Mrs. Russell, Darcy had written several letters.
One was to Bedford and another to Matlock House in London.
He had already written to his uncle about Lady Catherine’s appearance in Hertfordshire and his concern for his sister.
In this latest missive, he had both announced his engagement and explained his impending nuptials, though he warned that the precise date was yet to be approved by his bride.
He had also mentioned their current situation, if somewhat obliquely, so his uncle would know that the situation had not settled; the earl would need to alert his men in town as well.
In Matlock’s quick response, Darcy had been informed of their intention to be in town for the festive season, but given the safety concerns, he had not given an exact day.
He knew his uncle well; the earl would refuse to change his plans, but he would alert his outriders and hire more protection.
There was a part of Darcy that hoped they were already in town.
He was certain Georgiana would plague him forever were she not present at his wedding to her dear friend.
As it had for the past week, the problem of Wickham simmered in the back of his mind. The man was wounded now; he could not have gone far. Were Wickham wise, he would lay low until he was well and then make his escape.
Mrs. Younge’s establishment was an obvious choice.
Her house was in a nondescript neighborhood of the city.
As he had been sacked from his position in Devonshire, Wickham would be looking to remain discreet and conserve his resources.
Until Mrs. Younge began to complain about him making love to every female servant in town to forward his own ends, the woman would feel the full measure of the scoundrel’s approbation—a handsome, clever man raised as a gentleman.
A man who promised her a share his windfall if she would only offer him some trifling assistance.
He knew from his own experience that Wickham would make it sound as though the money were laying on the ground just waiting to be collected.
A footman approached with a note on a silver salver and Darcy took it up immediately.
It was a message from Richard. Mrs. Younge had been identified on her way home from posting a letter.
She was still in the same residence, and Richard wrote that the woman clearly knew something but was not willing to speak.
They would leave men behind to watch her establishment. He tossed the message aside.
Would Wickham cut his losses and run? Or would he make another attempt to wreak havoc?
He leaned back in his chair. If the man intended to finish this, he would likely return to Mrs. Younge.
If he meant to leave the country, as he would have to do now, he would make a trip to his bank.
Wickham, wanting to appear the gentleman, had always preferred to bank at Thomas Coutts & Company.
Hopefully that had not changed. He could write Mr. Coutts to alert them should Wickham clear out his accounts.
Better yet, Bedford could make the request.
Darcy took another sip of his port, turning the events of the last week over and over in his mind as the candles burned down.
When he was finally informed that his room was ready, he stood.
One way or another, Wickham, you shall have to surface.
He scowled, controlling his features only when he saw the footman blink and glance away nervously.
And when you do, you will be sorry you ever came back into my life.
Elizabeth rose to find that the general aches of her misadventure the day before had improved somewhat.
She was still sore, particularly where she had spied the worst of the bruising the day before, but the pain in her sides had ebbed away, only bothering her now when she reached suddenly to one side or the other.
She believed she had her new housekeeper to thank.
The woman had clucked at her the night before, saying that she had helped raise eight nephews, and her new mistress’s injuries were not unlike those she had tended many times before.
Elizabeth smiled at being compared with a group of wild young boys.
How could she pretend to be affronted when the comparison was so apt?
Goodness, she thought suddenly, I no longer need Aunt Olivia to scold me. Her voice is in my head. She felt a wave of guilt and changed the direction of her ruminations.
Elizabeth’s mind had been whirling as she pondered their predicament throughout the night.
She had struggled to find a comfortable position for sleeping, but in such a state of unease, it was unlikely she would have been able to rest in any case.
In the light of early morning, she had come to some conclusions.
Even wounded, she was sure that a man who had shot a gun at the Duke of Bedford’s coach would not give up his prize easily. It indicates frustration, recklessness. And I am certain it was him. Nobody else so bold or so foolish as a man who has been thwarted twice so near his goal.
Every reflection brought her back to the same place.
George Wickham had been abruptly and unexpectedly removed from his privileged position in the Darcy family.
He had gone into his final meeting with his patron expecting, perhaps, to have his inheritance explained to him.
Instead, he had been offered a profession and a swift farewell, nothing at all left to him in the will.
It must have been a terrible shock. Years later, when Mr. Wickham thought he had a chance to elope with Georgiana and gain control of her substantial dowry, he had again been denied.
Both times, it had been a Russell in the middle of things.
Surely the animosity he felt for the Russells was at least as sharp as that he held for the Darcys themselves.
He would not turn down Georgiana’s fortune should it fall his way, she thought somberly.
But I must now be his first object. To harm me would satisfy both his needs.
Money, of course. John would pay a great deal to recover me.
But also revenge. If he hurts Georgiana, he would see himself as hurting only Fitzwilliam.
If he hurt me, he hurts Fitzwilliam and Aunt Olivia—and me, of course. His revenge would be complete.
She wondered that a man in his position would take such a risk—he could not believe he would remain free for long after insulting a duke in such a personal way.
He might plan to escape the duke’s reach, though it would require he leave the country altogether.
She considered that notion. It would make sense to take his stolen fortune and try his luck elsewhere.
Had he managed to abduct her, would she have been forced to accompany him?
Would he have left her somewhere in England or would she have suffered an accident at sea?
Elizabeth’s mouth grew dry, and she clenched her fists defiantly.
No. He would never have succeeded. Despite her accident the day before, her guards had kept her safe.
Mr. Wickham had never gotten near her. She shut her eyes, remembering instead Fitzwilliam’s anxious face hovering over hers, the comfort of his arm around her waist as he helped her walk back to the house, his solicitude at dinner when she knew he was anxious to be elsewhere, dealing with the man himself.
She had not asked him to stay, concerned he might say no.
Fitzwilliam was easy in her company, but she knew his reticent nature.
He was ever mindful of propriety. It had been unfair of her, perhaps, but she felt safer, calmer, with him nearby.
So she had given orders that a room be made up for him, and to her relief, he had issued no protest.
When Elizabeth had composed herself, she took the stairs down to the kitchen.
Sitting alone at the servant’s table was a scruffy urchin who smelled like the stables and was currently trying to stuff two poached eggs in his mouth at the same time.
She took a plate and put a few slices of toast on it, then sat across from her young guest and slid the food over to him.
His eyes were wary. “Cook said I could,” he said, his mouth still full. He pushed the rest of the eggs in and chewed with some difficulty, his cheeks puffing out.
“I am the one who asked Cook to feed you. I am not here to take your breakfast away,” Elizabeth said. “Your name is Billy, correct?”
He eyed her as he worked on the eggs, finally swallowing them. “Maybe.” His hand snaked out to grab a piece of the toast. Elizabeth glanced around until she found a bit of butter on a butter plate near the larder. She retrieved it and set it down next to the boy, whose eyes grew wide with wonder.
“Maybe you are Billy?“ she asked lightly. “Are you not sure?”
He shrugged. “Dunno my real name. Billy’s good as any.”
Elizabeth nodded, unsurprised. There were thousands of boys like this in London.
“Why did you tell Cook to feed me?” Billy asked.
“You appeared hungry,” was Elizabeth’s blithe response. The boy frowned. “Do you like horses?” Elizabeth asked.
He eyed her suspiciously. “‘Course.”
“Well, I might have work for you here, if you promise not to get up to any mischief.”
He considered it. “I canna promise that, miss.”