Chapter 7
Mr. Darcy satin the parlor of his family’s apartments on St. James’s Street, poring over directories of various boarding houses and seedy hotels. The morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow on the papers scattered before him. He had arrived in London the night prior, set on locating Wickham so he might bring an end to this scandalous affair.
A soft knock at the door drew his attention, and a servant entered, announcing the arrival of Mr. Harper. Mr. Darcy rose to his feet, his heart pounding with anticipation as the bookkeeper entered the room.
Mr. Harper was a plain man with a narrow nose and intense eyes. He had a reputation for having his pulse on the underhanded dealings of gentry and merchants alike, and Mr. Darcy had relied on his expertise and contacts in the past to track down Wickham and his sister Georgiana.
“Mr. Darcy,” Harper greeted, his voice low and urgent. “I believe I have located Mr. Wickham.”
Darcy’s eyes widened. “Tell me everything.”
Harper stood in front of the desk, sensing this would be a brief stop. “A proprietor of a hotel near Cheapside told my informant that a man registered under a different name fits the description of Wickham. He had a young lady with him.”
Mr. Darcy rang a bell for a servant, his heart racing. “Are you certain it was Wickham?”
Mr. Harper nodded, his intense eyes meeting Darcy’s. “I am quite certain, sir. The proprietor was... persuaded to provide the information.”
He raised an eyebrow, understanding the unspoken implication. “I see. And what was the nature of this persuasion?”
A smile curled the corner of Harper’s mouth. “Let us say that the proprietor found himself in a position where his debts could be forgiven in exchange for his cooperation.”
His heart raced as he processed the information. The servant entered, and Mr. Darcy turned to him, his voice steady despite his inner turmoil. “Summon a hackney for us. We are to leave at once.”
The servant bowed and quickly left the room. Mr. Darcy turned back to Harper, his jaw set. “You have done well. Are you prepared to follow through with the rest of the plan?”
The man’s gaze didn’t waver, but he tilted his head. “Should I arrange for a party?” Fitzwilliam knew, however roundabout the phrasing, that Mr. Harper had no intention of hosting a ball.
“That will not be necessary,” Mr. Darcy said. “George Wickham is, after all, the most predictable of curs.” He motioned to the door. “Shall we?”
Mr. Darcy strodethrough the streets of London, his mind warring between anger and determination. Beside him, Mr. Harper kept pace, his eyes darting from side to side as they navigated the narrow, winding alleys. The coach they had hired waited several blocks away, a precaution to avoid drawing unwanted attention.
As they approached the inn, Mr. Darcy’s nose wrinkled at the sight of the worn, illegible sign. The building seemed to blend into the surrounding neighborhood, its facade unremarkable and easily overlooked. However, upon stepping inside, he was surprised to find the lobby clean and well-maintained, a stark contrast to the exterior.
The innkeeper, a wiry man with a sharp gaze, greeted them with a nod. Without a word, he pulled a set of keys from behind the desk and gestured for them to follow him up the stairs. Mr. Darcy’s stomach churned with anticipation, his mind racing with the possibilities of what he might find.
At the top of the stairs, the innkeeper stopped before an unlocked door. Fitzwilliam’s hand grasped the doorknob. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open, his eyes immediately locking with those of his nemesis, Mr. Wickham.
Wickham’s eyes widened in surprise, his mouth falling open as he took in the sight of Mr. Darcy. Beside him, Mrs. Younge and Lydia Bennet sat at a table, cards scattered before them, their expressions mirroring Wickham’s shock.
Mr. Darcy nodded to Mr. Harper, who swiftly ushered the women out of the room. The door closed behind them with a click, leaving Darcy alone with Wickham. The air crackled with tension, the silence broken only by the sound of their breathing.
Wickham’s face twisted into a smirk. “Darcy. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes narrowed, his voice low and menacing. “You know exactly why I’m here, Wickham. Your merry dance has gone on long enough.”
Mr. Wickham leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed despite the tension in the room. “And what, pray tell, do you intend to do about it?”
He stepped forward, his hands fisted at his sides. “You will obtain a special license and marry Miss Lydia Bennet. Immediately.”
Mr. Wickham laughed. The sound grated on his nerves. “And if I refuse?”
A humorless smile graced Mr. Darcy’s countenance. “Debtor’s prison. A possibility of a reduced sentence if you swear to silence.”
This wiped the smirk off of George’s face.
Lest he think him incapable of making good on his threat, Mr. Darcy continued. “Your name is in arrears all over Meryton and Brighton, and there are outstanding sums to collect from London, as well. My solicitor has already sent out notices to purchase your debts. If you so much as whisper Miss Lydia Bennet’s name or the Bennet name at all, I will turn those over to collectors who will not satisfied with giving you a stay in the Fleet or the Clink. Some unlucky few who manage to prove insufficient at producing the funds simply… disappear.”
He could tell Mr. Wickham, defiant though he might like to be, was at a loss for words.
Undoubtedly, Wickham’s scheme was to extort an exorbitant sum for Lydia’s dowry in order to settle his accounts. Mr. Darcy’s plan had counted on this and found the solution wanting. What was to stop Mr. Wickham from conceiving some greater threat that would cast a shadow across the Bennet door in the future? No, Mr. Darcy would pay off the accounts directly once the couple were on their honeymoon and no sooner, and he would leave a path open to utilize Mr. Harper’s services again, if needed, for a different type of cancerous excision.
“Think on it, sir. A modest sum per annum for the dowry and your debts delayed until you can pay me back, or a lengthy stay in prison. The army is not so desperate for soldiers that they will ignore a warrant. Let this be the mildest consequence, though you deserve far worse: escape the workhouse, gain a wife, and remove yourself and your bride from the vicinities that are through with you.”
“Two thousand per annum.” George swallowed. “I will never repay half of what I owe otherwise.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “One thousand for ten years. As I said, your debts are mine to discharge at will. And you will transfer to Scotland as soon as you are able.”
When Wickham rolled his eyes and chanced a look out the window as if he might fly through it, he knew he had him.