Chapter Ten #4
No sooner had Elizabeth cleared the fourth stall then Fitzwilliam and Richard exploded out in front of her as though they had been shot from a cannon, one from the right stall, the other from the left.
Before she could do anything more than remove her finger from the trigger of her pistol and lower her arm, Wickham was on the ground, and Richard had his weapon.
As soon as Richard rocked back and his heels and stood, Fitzwilliam hauled Wickham up from the floor by his lapels and forced him backwards into one of the stalls, slamming his enemy’s back against the wall, his forearm pressing into the man’s throat.
Wickham continued to thrash, trying to hit Fitzwilliam and escape.
Richard gave Wickham’s injured leg a hard kick, eliciting a pained cry.
Elizabeth was shocked by the swiftness with which the men had moved. I was supposed to back up much faster, she thought, concealing her trembling hands in her muff. I would not make a good soldier. She squared her shoulders. She would not be afraid. She would not.
“Come, now, Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth chided, “did you truly believe you could fool the three people who know Georgiana Darcy best?”
Richard maintained a steady stream of taunting words that faded in and out of Darcy’s hearing.
“Terrible attempt to forge a letter from a girl” gave way to “street rats are loyal to coin, not employers.” There might have been something about Billy telling Wickham the men were leaving and placing him to overhear the argument between Elizabeth and himself.
He did note that Richard was pulling Wickham’s arms behind him and tying them together tightly.
His vision narrowed to Wickham’s thin, flushed face.
There was no contrition there, not even for being caught at last. No, there was only a contorted sort of frustration and fury as he struggled like a bug on a pin, face red, arms bound, derision on his lips and burning vulgarities falling from his mouth.
The instant Richard finished his task, Darcy shifted his hold, grabbing Wickham by the waist of his trousers, placing his other hand directly on Wickham’s throat, and shoving the man roughly up the splintered, wooden wall until his boots barely touched the dirt floor.
He heard choking noises replace the curses. Better.
“Not that we would avoid a terrific quarrel were he ever to speak to me in such a way,” Elizabeth was saying with a brittle kind of humor.
That Darcy heard clearly, along with the very small tremor in her voice.
She had been so composed he had almost believed she was not afraid.
She might have fooled his cousin and even Wickham, but she could not fool him.
I will kill Richard for this insane plan.
Elizabeth had agreed to it only because his cousin had spoken to her alone.
It had taken a few minutes before he had calmed enough to realize that the missive was not from Georgiana.
It had been a credible forgery, but the plea had been rather tearful.
Obviously, neither Mrs. Younge nor Wickham had understood his sister.
Tearful was not the way she would have written, even at such a moment.
Besides, he had already alerted his uncle.
Any threat Georgiana felt would have been taken seriously.
When Elizabeth had returned the letter, he had perused it again, attempting to discern its purpose.
Perhaps Wickham intended to take the money and run while they chased a false trail to retrieve Georgiana?
Darcy had only been pulled from his thoughts when Richard called Billy in from the kitchen.
Elizabeth had already agreed to his cousin’s plan.
He had agreed to use the boy to flush Wickham out, hoping Elizabeth would not need to participate, but the man was slippery as an eel—her presence had been required to make him reveal himself.
As much as Darcy hated to admit it, the plan had worked.
Wickham had not told them everything, but he had said enough.
The admission of his thefts from Darcy House were enough to see the man hang, though he was more likely to be transported.
But he had boasted about the letter that had sent Mrs. Russell to her bed as well as taking the shot at the duke’s carriage.
Bedford would have something to say about that.
Not that the duke would be doing much talking.
Darcy wanted nothing more than to crush the villain’s windpipe, wanted it badly, could imagine all the life draining from the reprobate before him. He felt a dark sort of joy as he pressed his forearm forward.
Then he felt one small, familiar hand on his arm and the darkness dissipated.
Not the desire—the desire to end Wickham’s life remained.
But he brought those less noble feelings under a tenuous sort of regulation.
He slackened the pressure on the man’s throat and allowed him to collapse to the ground, wheezing and choking.
“Please leave, Elizabeth,” he growled.
“Fitzwilliam?” she asked, and he felt her apprehension. He did not move his eyes from Wickham to her, however, lest he lose his anger. He did not wish to lose his anger.
“I will not kill him, Elizabeth,” he promised, though the words were difficult to say. “But I shall not leave him unmarked. I would rather you not witness that.”
Her hand remained.
“Perhaps you could write your cousins and let them know where they can pick up the pieces,” Richard added.
Elizabeth did not reply, but she did turn to leave, slipping past them all. Darcy saw her glance back once, nervously, before disappearing into the winter sunshine.
Once Elizabeth was away, the head groomsman filled the doorway, blocking most of the light. “Shall I send Taylor and Clark in, sir?” he asked, boisterous and menacing all at once. “They be rather keen to join in.”
Darcy did not reply. He was too busy enjoying the way Wickham’s face had paled. “This is just the beginning, Wickham,” he said. “For once we are finished with you, we shall turn you over to the duke.” He smiled. “He is seriously displeased.”
In the end, it was Richard who answered Isaac. “Send them on in,” he said, exultant. He rubbed his hands together. “The more the merrier.”
“It was terribly foolish, Lizzy,” Aunt Olivia rebuked her. “I can see why you did not inform me earlier. Why not just have the boys take him up immediately?”
“You will be pleased to know that Fitzwilliam objected strenuously,” Elizabeth replied, abashed.
“However, Richard believed Mr. Wickham would be only too happy to brag to me if he believed he had succeeded.” She fussed with her aunt’s bedclothes, straightening them and tucking them around the older woman’s legs. “I was very well protected.”
“I am sure the men are perfectly capable of getting him to confess,” her aunt replied, pulling the blanket out again.
Elizabeth frowned as she poured out the tea. “And I am sure we now know he was confessing the truth of his actions rather than yielding to torture.” She handed her aunt a cup. “You know how John would have handled this.”
Olivia pursed her lips but nodded.
“I am sorry for your anxiety, Aunt Olivia, but truly, I was always safe.” She took up her own cup with a steady hand.
She had recovered quickly, and she knew why.
“Fitzwilliam would never allow me to be hurt.” She bit her bottom lip and gave her aunt a pleading look.
“You cannot tell me you would have done differently.”
Aunt Olivia harrumphed. “I am an excellent shot.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Did you tell the Archbishop that in your interview?”
Aunt Olivia just gazed steadily at her. “No, dear. It did not take many words to convince him that there were extenuating circumstances surrounding your wedding.”
Elizabeth ignored Aunt Olivia’s response. Pretended it did not exist, that there was no reason for a special license other than for John to show off.
She withdrew from the conversation to think about Fitzwilliam.
She had been able to feel the trembling rage in his arm when she touched it.
She trusted that he would keep his promise not to kill Mr. Wickham, but she had wanted that promise more for Fitzwilliam’s sake than Mr. Wickham’s.
She felt no compassion for the man who had threatened her aunt and made her ill; such implacability was a foreign feeling, but she could not regret it.
As a peer, John had the right to apply for a special license—but he wielded influence that went far beyond that.
He might use his power to discreetly dispose of Mr. Wickham, and the law would never touch him.
Elizabeth did not believe John would kill the man any more than Fitzwilliam would.
It was not his way. But placing him in a position that would make the man miserable, would make him suffer—that he would only be too willing to do.
An idea occurred to her, and for the first time since breakfast, she smiled.
When the men returned to the house several hours later, they repaired upstairs to refresh themselves. Elizabeth gave orders for their care, and listened, impatiently, to their low voices and high spirits.
I do not understand men, she thought, then sighed to herself. Dinner was in an hour. She would go upstairs to change and insist on an accounting when she met them at the table.
When the men did come down, she was surprised to see that Francis was with them. She motioned to a maid, and with a quick nod at her cousin, the girl scurried away to set another place at the table.
“Francis,” she said, confused, “what are you doing here?”
He laughed and slapped Richard on the shoulder. “I came in response to your message, Lizzy. I could not allow these scapegraces to have all the fun.”
Fun? “Where is Mr. Wickham now?” she asked. She did not inquire how he was.