Chapter Three
Darcy stared at the woman seated before him, taking in how her every feature creased with misery.
How she twined her hands so tightly in her lap that her knuckles stretched white.
The anguish radiating from Mrs. Younge seemed incongruous with the airy cream-and-floral parlor of the cottage he’d rented for Georgiana’s stay in Ramsgate.
As did her limp demeanor, thinness, and pallor, for Mrs. Younge indeed appeared to have been ill for some days.
Had his sister and Richard in fact poisoned her, or had they simply used Mrs. Younge’s indisposition to make their escape?
Trying not to loom menacingly, yet unable to sit with so much agitation roiling through him, Darcy stood before Mrs. Younge, the woman he’d hired to protect his sister, and said slowly, “Let me see if I have this correct. My cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, spent the past month here, calling on Georgiana nearly daily, until, last week, the two departed together?”
Mrs. Younge nodded, the movement jerky. “He joined us for tea, as had become his habit. The last thing I recall of that day was becoming suddenly ill, and Miss Darcy helping me to my room. When I woke, days later, and asked after Miss Darcy, I was informed of their departure. I sent the staff out looking, and when they found nothing but rumor of a phaeton that matched their description departing town, going north, I searched Miss Darcy’s chamber. Her jewelry is gone.”
Tightness clenched Darcy’s chest, making it difficult to breathe. “And you have not seen nor heard anything since? Received no communication from them?”
“Nothing. I sent a rider to locate you, and had the footmen keep searching. Two here in Ramsgate, and two following the north road.”
“This makes no sense,” Darcy muttered.
Richard and Georgiana? It was…impossible. Laughable. Except, no mirth touched the room in which he stood.
“I am so very, very sorry. I should have written to you to ask permission for Colonel Fitzwilliam to spend time with Miss Darcy.” Mrs. Younge shook her head.
“It is no excuse, but he is her cousin and co-guardian, and twice her age. More than that, though I admit I had never met him until he happened upon us here, he has a reputation as an honorable gentleman. I had no thought, no idea, he would abscond with her.”
“No,” Darcy murmured, pressing fingers to his forehead in a fruitless attempt to dispel the pounding there.
“No. How could you?” And yet, despite the reasonableness of her error, despite her strange illness, she had failed.
She must be dismissed. Nor could he provide her with any references.
Not after how unsuccessfully she’d discharged her duty.
“And you already have men searching? Following them north?”
“I do.”
Still, he would need to go. He must make every attempt to overtake the two, though he was days behind and had already asked at every inn between London and Ramsgate, and learned nothing. He should write to—
He halted that thought. What good would writing to Richard do? Would anyone even know where to find him? Should Darcy write to his uncle instead?
The thought of informing the earl that Richard had run off with Georgiana made Darcy queasy. There simply must be some other explanation than the obvious one. Richard would not do this.
“I should have known,” Mrs. Younge said bitterly. “A man that charming, with that handsome a visage, cousin and guardian or not, should be left alone with no woman, let alone an impressionable one of fifteen.” She shook her head, the picture of misery. “I should have known.”
Darcy dropped his hand, the pain in his head forgotten. “Handsome?” Affable. Reliable. Easy to converse with. Those were terms people used to describe Richard.
Mrs. Younge blinked up at him. “Well, yes. I would say so. Most anyone would say so.”
Darcy shook his head. “No, most would not. Describe him to me.”
“Describe your cousin to you?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged, her expression perplexed, but said, “About half a head shorter than you. Charming smile. Wavy golden hair. Blue eyes. Engaging dimples and—”
“Dimples? Golden hair?” Darcy interrupted. “No. That is not Richard.”
“But it is.” Twin lines appeared on Mrs. Younge’s brow.
A horrible suspicion bloomed in Darcy. He knew a man who met Mrs. Younge’s description.
The question was, did she know? Was she a fool, or playing one?
Her very real frailty after her illness suggested the former.
“How do you know the man who was spending so much time with my sister was Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“Miss Darcy introduced us. We met by chance while walking the promenade.”
Cold dread coiled in Darcy’s gut. “You met by chance, and my sister introduced him?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Younge frowned at Darcy, obviously wondering why he found that so odd.
Oh, Georgiana, what have you done? “And why did you not write to me about his marked attention to my sister?”
Mrs. Younge shrugged. “For the reasons I told you. Oh, and because Miss Darcy said she had already written to…” She trailed off, her eyes going wide. “No. Surely not.”
Darcy scrubbed at his forehead again. Would Georgiana truly perpetuate such a horrendous lie? Not on her own, certainly, but if urged to, if charmed into doing so, she might. And Darcy knew precisely who could charm Georgiana into such recklessness.
Wickham.
“Her sketchbook,” Mrs. Younge exclaimed, coming to her feet. “She took very little. Her sketchbook is still here.” So saying, she rushed past Darcy.
He pivoted, following. Together, they went up to Georgiana’s room. Mrs. Younge crossed to her desk, practically flinging aside a pile of letters to get at a large, leather-bound volume that Darcy recognized as a gift of his. Turning back to him, Mrs. Younge flipped through the pages.
She held out the book. “She drew him here, and here.” She rapidly turned pages. “And here. There are quite a few, actually.” Pausing in her frantic page turning, she squeezed her eyes closed, the book held out. “I should have known. I should have seen it.”
Darcy stared down at the portrait open before him. It, like the others Mrs. Younge had flipped through, showed a grinning George Wickham in an officer’s uniform. Even sketched in pencil, his smugness as he gazed out of the page at Darcy was palpable.
“That is not Colonel Fitzwilliam, is it?” Mrs. Younge asked softly.
Looking up from Wickham’s smirk, Darcy shook his head. “That is George Wickham, son of my father’s steward.”
“She lied to me.” Mrs. Younge’s voice squeaked with indignation. “For weeks, she lied to me. To my very face.” Anger sparked in her eyes. She snapped the book closed. “What can I do to help?”
Darcy bit back the words, You have done enough. “I am afraid there is nothing you can do. I will go after them, gathering men to assist me when I reach London.”
“I can assist you.” She clutched the sketchbook to her chest. “I can copy these, and circulate them. Or give them to your men, to show to people.”
Darcy shook his head. Logically, he knew Mrs. Younge had been fooled by his sister and Wickham, who could charm pennies from a beggar, but she had also failed in her duty.
And logic played no role in the anger he felt when he looked at her.
“You will be given two weeks’ pay. I am afraid I can offer no reference. You are dismissed.”
“But, sir, Mr. Darcy, I can—”
“No,” he cut in coldly. “Do not force me to rescind my offer.”
She stared at him in clear misery, her lips clamped closed.
“I will depart now.” He tried not to feel how weary he already was after his headlong ride from London.
Hopefully Patrick and the carriage were not too far behind him and would be easily spotted on the road back.
Hopefully, as well, he could hire a new mount, for the one he’d ridden into Ramsgate was spent.
“All that can be done to find my sister will be done.”
Mrs. Younge nodded. “And this place?” She gestured to the room in which they stood. “Would you like me to see Miss Darcy’s possessions packed?”
“I will speak to the housekeeper. As I said, your services are no longer required, Mrs. Younge.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Taking in how frail she looked, he grudgingly added, “But you may remain until the house is closed, for you do not appear fully recovered from your illness.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Darcy nodded curtly. Perhaps he was being unfair. He could not think about that now, though. He could not focus on Mrs. Younge except to see the disaster she’d helped create. He had to go. He must find Georgiana before the worst took place. Before she forever bound herself to Wickham.
Richard stood at attention before Padgett’s desk, fighting a frown. Padgett flipped through a report Richard knew he’d already read, presumably to avoid meeting Richard’s gaze.
“You are certain only the remaining two owners were involved?” Padgett asked. “B.B.B. Shipping & Co. has three B’s in it, after all.”
“You know the two surviving brothers bought out their nephew when his father died.” Richard attempted to keep his voice crisp, rather than hostile, but could not help adding, “And this case could have been closed a week later. After I had gone to Ramsgate. Have you any notion what you have done by keeping me here?”
“A rider was sent to Mrs. Younge, as promised. After several days of trying, he returned with his message undelivered, for she was too ill to receive it, and he deemed the information moot. Had you gone, you would have arrived to find the same.” Padgett neatened the papers.
“Furthermore, your calling is to safeguard King and Country, not to act as a nanny.”
But had Richard arrived and found Mrs. Younge unwell, he would have gone after the two, not hung about for nearly a week and then scurried back to Padgett. “I am Georgiana’s co-guardian, and it was my name the dastard was using. I should have gone.”