CHAPTER 2 DARCY STEPS IN #2
After exploring two branches of another corridor, he encountered a porter carrying luggage who pointed Darcy to a dank walkway smelling like pipe smoke and cheap tallow.
He found Room 7 at the corridor’s end and knocked on the door. “Georgiana? It is Fitzwilliam. I have come to escort you to Netherfield.”
The door opened without anyone replying. Concerned that his sister might be ill, Darcy stepped into the room.
His blood ran cold as he gaped at the scene in front of him.
Instead of his sister, a young woman in considerable disarray stood near the bed whose rumpled linens told stories he had no desire to read. Her hair was partially loosed from its pins around her disheveled dress.
“Who are you?” the young lady asked, then turned toward a man opening the window. “George, where are you going?”
Darcy wheeled to face the man at the window, his blood turning to ice.
Wickham. George Wickham, his father’s irresponsible godson.
“Darcy!” Wickham’s expression flickered momentarily with triumph before arranging itself into feigned surprise. “What excellent timing. Come to join our little party?”
Darcy stepped backward toward the door, certain he had entered the wrong chamber. “Forgive the intrusion. I was directed to my sister’s room—”
“Don’t rush off before proper introductions,” Wickham said, his voice carrying that familiar blend of charm and insolence. “Miss Lydia Bennet, may I present Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. Darcy, Miss Lydia Bennet. Though I believe you’ve already been acquainted at Mr. Bingley’s introduction?”
Bennet. Of course. The youngest Bennet girl, whose flirtatious behavior at dinner had bordered on impropriety. Her presence here, in such a state, with Wickham of all people—the implications were too disturbing to contemplate.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy acknowledged stiffly, propriety overriding his shock. “I apologize for the intrusion. There has clearly been some confusion. I shall be leaving.”
“Not so quick, Mr. Darcy.” Wheeling toward him, Wickham grabbed the Bennet girl around the shoulders and shoved her toward him.
Acting on instinct, Darcy caught her as she stumbled against his chest.
Wickham then lunged for the open window and vaulted through it with the ease of a man who had escaped many a creditor or outraged husband in like manner.
“Stop!” Darcy pushed Lydia aside, perhaps more roughly than he intended, and rushed to the window. Wickham was already sprinting across the courtyard—directly toward Darcy’s carriage, which had just arrived.
Darcy leaped out of the same window and gave chase.
“By order of Mr. Darcy, I’m here to escort Miss Darcy home,” Wickham was calling to Darcy’s driver, his voice carrying clearly across the yard. “Open the door for me.”
To Darcy’s horror, his driver nodded respectfully. “At once, Master George.”
Master George. Of course. His father’s godson, known to the older servants since childhood. The perfect manipulation.
“Fifty pounds if you leave immediately,” Wickham added, reaching for the carriage door.
Darcy’s heart stopped as the carriage window curtain parted, revealing Georgiana’s face. Somehow, she had seen the carriage and had her luggage loaded while he was searching for the wrong room.
“Stop that man!” Darcy shouted, sprinting across the courtyard. “He is not authorized!”
The driver hesitated, looking between Wickham and his master in confusion.
“Sir?” The footman’s uncertainty provided the crucial moment Darcy needed.
“Do not let that man on the carriage, by my authority as your master!” Darcy commanded, still running.
Wickham glanced back and saw Darcy closing the distance. With a curse, he slipped toward a group of militia officers and disappeared among them.
Darcy skidded to a halt beside his carriage, heart pounding with exertion and shock. Through the window, he could see Georgiana shrinking back against the seat, fear and alarm written on her face.
“Brother!” she called through the glass. “What is happening?”
“Be calm, Georgiana,” Darcy said, his breathing still labored from the chase. He maintained the rigid composure that was second nature to him, despite the pounding of his heart. “Thank heavens I arrived in time. That ruffian attempted to commandeer my carriage.”
“Will we go home now?” Georgiana asked, her voice muffled by the glass, her eyes wide.
Before he could step into the carriage, a commotion and shouts erupted from the courtyard behind him.
“That’s him, Papa! Mr. Darcy!” The young Bennet girl, now wrapped up in a spencer and a shawl, pointed her finger at him.
Behind her, Mr. Bennet was accompanied by his aunt’s clergyman, Mr. Collins, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose expressive eyes now regarded Darcy with unmistakable contempt.
“Mr. Darcy!” Mr. Bennet’s voice cut through the courtyard. “What is the meaning of this outrage?”
Several of the militia officers turned at the commotion, and Darcy realized with sickening clarity how the situation appeared. He stood accused before a courtyard full of witnesses while Wickham had vanished like morning mist.
“Mr. Bennet.” Darcy struggled to maintain his composure. “There has been a grave misunderstanding. I came here seeking my sister, whose carriage broke down—”
“And instead found my fifteen-year-old daughter in a state of dishabille?” Mr. Bennet advanced on him, fury evident in every line of his face. “The innkeeper directed you to her room, you entered without permission, and now you attempt to flee the scene?”
“I was directed to Room 7, expecting to find my sister,” Darcy insisted, acutely aware of the growing crowd. “I departed the room immediately upon realizing my error.”
“He pushed me!” Lydia wailed, clinging to her father’s arm. “And then George ran—”
Her sister, Elizabeth, shushed her, drawing her aside while glaring at Darcy.
“I was only dislodging you so I could chase after your assailant,” Mr. Darcy replied, scanning the crowd. “And it seems he has disappeared.”
“Convenient that this fellow is nowhere to be seen,” Collins observed with sanctimonious displeasure. “While you, sir, were witnessed by multiple parties emerging from Miss Lydia’s room.”
“Sir, you will marry my daughter, Lydia.” Mr. Bennet’s voice was deadly quiet. “Today. I shall obtain a special license. You will accompany me to the parish at once.”
“I cannot,” Darcy replied, his world tilting on its axis. The very notion—marriage to Lydia Bennet, a girl of fifteen, was incomprehensible. “I need to remove my sister from this scene immediately.”
“Mr. Darcy, are you refusing to do the honorable thing after compromising my daughter?” Bennet’s voice was hard as steel.
“Mr. Bennet, I must first see to my sister’s safety.” Darcy gestured toward the carriage. “She is distraught and requires immediate attention. I give you my word as a gentleman that I will return to Longbourn this evening to discuss this… situation… further.”
“Your word?” Elizabeth Bennet’s voice cut like ice. “The word of a man who enters a young girl’s bedchamber uninvited?”
Her judgment should have meant nothing to him—she was merely a country gentleman’s daughter with more wit than propriety—yet the sting of her disdain wounded him more than it should have.
“Miss Bennet, I understand how this appears,” he said stiffly. “But I assure you, I was directed to that room expecting to find my sister, who had sent word of her carriage breaking down. I had no knowledge of your sister’s presence there.”
“Cousin Elizabeth, if I may interject.” Collins placed himself between Darcy and Elizabeth, as if she needed protection from him.
“Mr. Darcy clearly requires time to consider the legal settlement that will accompany this union. A man of his consequence would naturally wish to consult his solicitor before signing marriage articles.”
Mr. Bennet’s glare would not relinquish him. “And if I refuse to allow Mr. Darcy to leave?”
“Would you prefer to continue this discussion here, in front of an audience, rather than privately at Longbourn?” Darcy countered, knowing the older man would recognize the wisdom of discretion.
After a tense moment, Mr. Bennet nodded curtly. “Three hours, Mr. Darcy. If you are not at Longbourn by then, I shall bring the magistrate to Netherfield.”
“I shall be there with the necessary settlement papers for your review,” Darcy replied with a bow that cost him dearly in pride.
With a nod at Mr. Collins, he added, “I trust you gentlemen will see Miss Elizabeth safely home. It is most unfortunate that she should witness such a scene, when greater care might have spared her the impropriety of this public spectacle.”
The barb landed as intended, a subtle reminder of their own failure in allowing an unmarried gentlewoman to be present at such a confrontation.
Mr. Bennet’s jaw tightened, but he made no reply as Darcy turned and opened the carriage door, avoiding Georgiana’s wide-eyed gaze as he instructed the driver, “Netherfield. Immediately.”
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