Fitzwilliam Darcy, Man of Fortune (Dimensions of Darcy #5)

Chapter 1

LONDON

Spilled ale and urine assaulted Fitzwilliam Darcy’s senses. The soles of his boots squished against the floor of The Devil’s Tavern. Adding insult to injury, the putrid water of the Thames lurked a stone’s throw away.

Wishing he could breathe without smelling, Darcy squinted at Wickham in the dim, smoky room and wondered how his old friend had fallen so low. To think he had once considered Wickham as close as a brother.

Darcy never would have found this place had he not coerced Mrs. Younge to reveal Wickham’s whereabouts.

How could the profligate bring Miss Lydia to a place like this?

Darcy would never expose a young lady he claimed to love to this thieves’ den near the waterways—a tavern inn in the worst part of the east end of town where a man’s coat was valued more than his life.

Darcy had dressed accordingly, careful not to draw attention to himself.

He could neither afford to be mistaken as wealthy (a tempting target for thieves), or a seafaring man (a target for the press gangs desperate to fill the Navy’s demand for able-bodied men).

Even so, Darcy could not bring himself to sit or touch anything in the establishment. Already, his skin crawled.

In contrast, Wickham lounged against the soot-smeared wall, the rough bench creaking under his weight. Even in his red regimental coat and polished boots, he gave the air of a gentleman on the rocks. Pickpockets would not bother with him.

Leaning forward, Wickham clasped his hands together on top of the turned barrel that served as a table between them.

“I have no intention of marrying Lydia when I have an heiress ripe for the taking under my influence. Nothing you can say shall change my mind. I would rather attach myself to a rich, toothless harpy than saddle myself with Lydia Bennet.”

Darcy clenched his fingers into a fist, feeling every muscle in his body tense. Wickham did not have a sixpence to scratch with; nevertheless, he presumed to negotiate. Not for the first time, Darcy was tempted to bash the smirk from his face.

But he was a Darcy. Darcys did not give in to their base desires or impulses.

He controlled his rage and continued with his plan. He would not leave that vile room until the Bennets’ reputation was salvaged.

It was the least he could do for Elizabeth, though she must never know of his interference. She would think he was attempting to buy her affection. He could not bear for her to think worse of him than she already did. Or worse still, to prove her right.

No, he would right his wrongs and live alone with the consequences of his infernal pride that had built a haughty, reticent image of him in Elizabeth’s mind.

Even from afar—in distance and time, even after her impassioned refusal—Darcy loved her. He had thought perhaps there might be hope.

Until Wickham.

Darcy had believed himself free of him, and now Darcy would pay for his error in judgment the rest of his days. He had tried to protect the Bennets from Wickham, but his warning had been too weak, too late. He had failed Elizabeth.

And now he would spare her.

One irrevocable act to appease his conscience. One final interference to ensure she would have a chance of being as happy as he wished her to be.

His one path to redemption was right now, in this moment, and he would not let it slip. For Elizabeth, Darcy would bribe a man he despised and yet to whom he would make himself a brother. “I shall make it worth your while to marry Lydia Bennet on the morrow.”

Wickham chuckled and leaned back, stretching his legs in front of him.

Darcy was not joking, nor would he negotiate his terms. The marriage license was secured, as was the clergyman in Wickham’s parish who, with a few extra coins, was willing to perform the service at such short notice.

Darcy would give Wickham no time to think or renege once he agreed. He would accept now or get nothing.

Pulling a thick parchment out of his pocket, Darcy pushed it across the barrel to Wickham.

Wickham jolted forward, grabbing the paper greedily. “A commission in the regulars. How did you secure this?”

“That is of no concern to you.” His cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had called in several favors, and Darcy had paid a premium to obtain the commission as quickly as they could arrange it.

The parchment in Wickham’s grubby hands offered not only a reliable living with room to advance, but it also represented the prestige he so craved.

Not giving Wickham time to consider, Darcy pulled a stash of receipts out of his other pocket.

He retained every bill he had covered for the leech over the years for protection should Wickham attempt to blackmail him or Georgiana.

Never could he have dreamed that his caution would benefit Elizabeth.

Dropping the receipts, he let them smack against the table and spread. “Your debts, paid in full.”

Wickham thumbed through the pile, the sum of which was over one thousand pounds.

“Is that all of them?” Darcy demanded.

Struggling to maintain his nonchalance when he knew he had been bought, Wickham sneered, “Your man is thorough.”

As he should be. Darcy remunerated Hastings well for his exertions.

Darcy moved on to the next enticement. “In addition to the commission and paid debts, I shall settle one thousand pounds on Lydia to be paid once you sign the wedding register on the morrow, witnessed by myself and Mr. Gardiner, who shall act as Miss Lydia’s guardian in lieu of Mr. Bennet.”

Mr. Gardiner was as eager as Darcy to see his niece married.

He had agreed to hide Darcy’s role from Mr. Bennet, who should not be greatly inconvenienced with the paltry one hundred pounds per annum plus the settlement of Wickham’s debts in Meryton.

Darcy would have been happy to spare Elizabeth’s father that expense as well, but he had to lend some credibility to Wickham’s sudden marriage to the gentleman’s most undesirable daughter.

Mr. Bennet was too clever by half, as was Elizabeth.

They would suspect another’s involvement if it was too easy.

While Wickham considered the offer, Darcy pressed his advantage.

“Hastings will ensure your travel costs to Newcastle are covered. Additionally, he will secure suitable accommodations for you and Mrs. Wickham that shall be ready after you have been seen as a properly wed couple and have allowed your wife to bid her adieus to her family. I think a fortnight should suffice.”

Wickham scoffed but held onto the commission firmly, obviously aware that it promised instant relief. “You have thought of everything, as you always do. However, I could really use that thousand pounds tonight. I owe some unsavory men—”

Darcy shook his head firmly. He would not budge. “Once I witness your signature in the register—and only then—shall I pay. That is my final word on the subject.”

And now, the ultimate incentive. Collecting the pile of receipts, Darcy tucked them inside his pocket. “If you do not accept my conditions, I shall call in your debts.”

That had Wickham’s full attention.

“The commission does you no good if you are in debtor’s prison.” If looks could kill, Wickham would have impaled Darcy with his eyes. “Marry Miss Lydia, and you may leave for your new commission free of debts, reclaim your dignity, and be a thousand pounds richer.”

Wickham clenched his jaw and slammed his fist against the barrel. Darcy had won, and Wickham knew it. “Devil take you, Darcy. I am not in a position to refuse,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Do we have an agreement?” Darcy folded his arms over his chest and glared down at Wickham.

Bowing his head, Wickham snarled, “You have my word. I shall marry Lydia.”

Darcy turned toward the door. Breaking glass, bawdy laughter, and angry, drunken shouts awaited him on the other side of the street. It was only a matter of time before shots were fired. Uncrossing his arms, he said, “Meet me at St. Clement’s at ten o’clock on the morrow.”

Without further leave, he departed, shoving his way through the odorous bodies, trays of rancid beef, and raised tankards. As wretched as the Thames smelled, it was a relief to breathe the night air outside the tavern.

He would order a bath the moment he returned to Darcy House. A couple of glasses of his finest brandy ought to dispel the remnants of the tavern.

Glancing cautiously about, Darcy walked swiftly to the corner, his gaze roving for a hackney to convey him far away from this unsavory neighborhood. He wished he could have brought his own carriage, but a gang of ruffians would have harmed his men and stolen his conveyance.

He rounded a corner, raising his hand when a hackney came into view, his voice catching in his throat when he heard a scuffle behind him.

Nerves on point, he turned. There was a blur of motion, then his hat flew off his head. At the same time, he heard glass shatter and felt his head part. Blurry and unbalanced, he flung out, catching his assailant with his fist.

“Pretendin’ to be a gent. Almost didn’t recognize him,” he heard in a strange man’s voice.

He felt another hand—a rough one that scratched against Darcy’s shaved cheeks—pressing something against his mouth and nose, smothering him. “Don’t forget how dangerous he be. Stay alert ‘til he sleeps.”

“Busted yer nose proper, didn’t he,” chuckled the other.

Two men. Darcy struggled, but the cloth smelled sweet, and his limbs grew heavy. He felt himself fading into the night.

“Elizabeth,” he whispered before he succumbed to the black void.

Darcy woke hours later—days later. He did not know.

His head swam and throbbed. Careful not to make any abrupt movements, he tested the strength of his limbs, discouraged when his body did not react as he needed it to.

Unable to do much more, he observed his surroundings. Curtains billowed at the small, round windows. Ruffles and frills adorning bright silks and shimmery fabrics were draped over the open door of a closet. A woman’s room.

The ground swayed beneath him, and Darcy groaned. If this was a dream, he wished he would wake.

He thought back, remembering his assault.

There had been two men. They had rough accents—Devonshire men.

Seafaring men, no doubt. Press gangers? No, Darcy thought as he recalled bits of their conversation.

They had spoken like they knew him. But how could that be?

He had few friends in Devonshire, and certainly nobody of their sort.

Where had they brought him? And why did it look like the inside of a mantua maker’s shop?

They had claimed he was dangerous, pretending to be a gentleman. Clearly, they had mistaken him for someone else, but for whom? This was a horrible misunderstanding. He had to get out of there so he could make it to the church on time.

Had he already missed the wedding? Would Wickham marry Lydia if Darcy was not there to make him? Bile rose in his throat, and his stomach churned.

Darcy tried to sit up. He needed to find someone and tell them of their mistake.

From the shadows, a woman appeared. “Ye always had a hard head.” She reached down her side and pulled a dagger from her boot. “I’m not ready for ye yet,” she sneered, her voice full of venom as she flung the dagger at him.

He tried to move, but she was faster. He heard the crack of the blunt end of the weapon against his skull before he felt it. Once again, Darcy slipped into oblivion.