Chapter Four
Richard Fitzwilliam let out a low groan as he slid stiffly down from his horse and handed the reins to a groom.
Brighton to London and back again in a single day wasn’t a trip he cared to repeat any time soon, even with high-class horses waiting for him at every stop.
He was getting too old for this game, he thought, walking towards the inn’s rear doors and thinking of the pint of ale and hearty meal he would consume before he sought his bed.
He should be in bed already, sleeping in his comfortable bed at his father’s luxurious London townhouse, but the Home Office had deemed his dispatches important enough to insist he return to Brighton immediately with a return missive for the High Command.
There was no arguing with the Home Secretary when he had that expression on his face, so Fitzwilliam had just said “Very good, sir,” and ordered a fresh horse.
Wellington was already abed when Fitzwilliam arrived at his house, and there was no way his aides would disturb him before dawn, so he needn’t have hurried. He had no need to earn any more credit with his superiors.
A hack chaise waiting in the inn yard caught his eye as he approached the inn door, and he frowned at it, wondering who would be leaving Brighton by carriage at this hour of the night when every soldier could go by horse much faster.
Something about the figure standing beside the chaise rang distant bells of recognition in his weary mind, and he paused mid-stride.
It can’t be. Why would Wickham be in Brighton?
The figure turned slightly, torchlight from above casting light on the features Fitzwilliam knew so well and hated so much.
“Wickham.”
Wickham whirled at his snarl, panic flooding his expression, and Fitzwilliam strode forward.
The blighter had vanished after that disastrous episode in Ramsgate, and all Fitzwilliam’s enquiries had not turned up a single trace of him.
Which was probably for the best, since if Fitzwilliam had found him when his rage was still hot, he might have ended up being taken up for murder.
Now, however, he was icy cold and calculated.
Wickham had a string of debts in Ramsgate and more in London, and Fitzwilliam had laid out a good portion of his personal wealth to buy them up.
Seeing Wickham rotting in the Fleet as a defaulted debtor would be even more satisfying than seeing him dead.
“Seize that man,” he barked an order to two nearby troopers, pointing to Wickham, who had taken a step backward and now whirled to flee, though he had no hope of escape.
“Unhand me,” Wickham shouted as the troopers grasped his arms. “You have no right!”
“The Colonel says to take you up, and that’s enough for me,” one of the troopers said gruffly. “What’s to do with him, sir?”
“Take him to the local lockup for the night. I’ll find the magistrate in the morning to settle my business with him.”
“You can’t do this!” Wickham blustered, but he was dressed in civilian clothes and Fitzwilliam wore his formal uniform. No soldier would take orders from a civilian over a full colonel.
“Wicky!” a feminine voice cried, and Fitzwilliam groaned inwardly, mentally girding himself to deal with whatever local ladybird Wickham had managed to gull into believing herself in love with him.
“Lydia?”
Fitzwilliam gaped in horror as Lydia Bennet hurried across the inn’s cobbled yard, her hood falling back to expose her face, the picture of distress as she called out to Wickham, asking what was going on.
Intercepting her before she reached Wickham, Fitzwilliam grabbed her roughly around the waist and bundled her into a shadowed corner of the inn yard, yanking her hood back up to hide her face.
“How,” he demanded fiercely, “do you know Wickham?”
Looking up into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face, Lydia gulped at his fierce expression. Lit by the flickering torchlight, he looked like an avenging angel, his blond hair gleaming fire-gold.
“We met in Hertfordshire,” she said in a small voice, completely cowed by the sheer rage on his face. “He’s with the militia.”
“Forster’s?”
Lydia nodded meekly, and then gasped in shock as Fitzwilliam let out a foul curse. He was grasping her shoulders firmly, gave her a slight shake then.
“What are you doing here, at this hour?”
She gulped nervously. “We - we were going to Scotland, and then to London. Wickham has been offered a position...”
Another lurid curse escaped his lips before he shook his head sharply. “I’d wager any money there is no position, and you’d never have reached Scotland.”
A tear slid down Lydia’s cheek. Fitzwilliam spoke with such certainty, she immediately believed every word that passed his lips, whereas in her heart of hearts she’d doubted Wickham’s sincerity.
All her dreams of a romantic elopement and then life as the toast of London were gone up in smoke, it seemed, and the taste of ashes was very bitter.
Wickham had been dragged away, protesting, by the two troopers, but there were others in the inn yard, staring blatantly at her. Ducking her head to try and hide herself, Lydia whispered;
“What am I to do now?”
She sounded so small and lost that Fitzwilliam could not help but pity her. On one of their walks, Lydia had confided that she was only just sixteen years old, and after all, he knew another teenage girl who had been taken in by Wickham’s good looks and smooth charm.
“I take it you sneaked out of Forster’s house?”
Lydia nodded, not lifting her face to look at him.
“Then all we must do is sneak you back in unseen, and nobody will be the wiser. I will make sure Wickham’s mouth stays closed on the matter, never fear.”
There was a little catch in Lydia’s voice as she whispered “Thank you.”
Hell’s teeth, was she crying? He never could bear to see a woman cry.
“He isn’t what you thought he was, Lydia.
” Fitzwilliam tried to make his voice gentle as he placed an arm around her shoulders and steered her from the inn yard back onto the street.
“I know Wickham of old. Whatever tale of woe he has spun to make you think well of him, I assure you it is entirely fabricated.”
Lydia’s head was bent, and small sniffles sounded from inside her hood. She was clutching a carpet-bag, Fitzwilliam noticed as it banged on his shin, and he reached down to take it from her hand.
“Let me carry this for you. There, we’ll soon have you safe in your bed.”
“Ho, Fitzwilliam!” a loud voice called then, and he cursed under his breath, feeling Lydia stiffen and shrink against him. “Found yourself a ladybird?”
It was Major Adams, the second son of a duke, and several of his equally well-born cronies. Despite his own lofty birth, Fitzwilliam had never found himself to have much in common with them, though by necessity he was careful not to offend.
“Let’s see the beauty who can tempt the saint,” Adams said jeeringly, approaching them. Fitzwilliam stepped in front of Lydia.
“I’ll thank you to leave the lady be,” he said coolly.
“Ooh, a lady,“ Adams eyed Lydia’s cloak, certainly of a finer cut and fabric than anything a doxy might sport. “What lady would be out at this hour of the night?“ His sneer was disbelieving.
“What’s this, then?”
Another voice came from behind them, and Fitzwilliam sent up a silent prayer to the heavens to just get him and Lydia out of the situation without her identity being revealed. He could stand a little gossip; her reputation could not.
“It’s General Lewes!” Lydia’s soft gasp reached his ears.
Unsure whether the general’s arrival would prove to be providential or disastrous, Fitzwilliam turned and saluted.
“Good evening, sir.”
“I see you’re back from London,” Lewes said with a nod. “Deliver your messages already, hm?”
“Yes, sir, I was just heading for my quarters when I encountered the lady here having a spot of bother and decided to escort her home.” Fitzwilliam kept his voice low and accompanied his words with a hopeful look at the general, who eyed him thoughtfully before looking at Lydia, who had the sense to keep her hood pulled as low as possible.
Unfortunately, they now had their backs to Adams, who was clearly in his cups, and he took the opportunity to sneak up on them and yank Lydia’s hood down. Glossy brown curls tumbled free and several gasps went up as some of the officers recognised her.
“That’s Miss Bennet!”
“Sneaking around with your ladylove now, Fitzwilliam?” Adams recovered from his surprise. “We knew you were courting her, but...”
“That will do,” General Lewes said loudly, and the whispers died down. “Miss Bennet,” he addressed Lydia directly, “I know how eager you were for your fiancé‘s return, but you should not have come out to greet him at this hour.”
There was utter silence for a long moment, and then Lydia said meekly, “I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Fiancé!” Adams gaped.
“You will keep that silent, Adams. Miss Bennet’s father has not yet given his blessing, though I do not doubt it will shortly be forthcoming. Now, Miss Bennet, I will escort you home, and all you rabble will be off to your beds. Good night.”
Such was the command in the old general’s tone that everyone took an immediate step back, and then they were bowing and making hasty farewells.
“Thank you, sir...” Fitzwilliam began, but Lewes cut him off.
“You will be waiting in my quarters for me when I return, to explain just what the hell is going on here.”
“Yes, sir,” was all Fitzwilliam could say as Lewes took Lydia’s arm in his and set off towards the Forsters’ house.