Chapter Seventeen
It took Darcy five tortuous days to find Captain Henderson.
Fitzwilliam had pursued him through a bewildering chain of acquaintances, half-remembered introductions and frustrating dead ends, each enquiry leading only to another name, another regiment or another tavern where Henderson had been seen only hours before.
Twice they had arrived to discover he had already departed.
Once they had followed entirely the wrong Henderson.
By the fifth day even Fitzwilliam's formidable network of military connections had begun to show signs of strain, until at last a young lieutenant, who had lately lost a regrettable sum of money to Captain Henderson at cards, was able to direct them to a tavern near Covent Garden where their quarry was said to be spending the evening.
Darcy had said very little during the carriage ride that would bring him to the captain.
Burke sat opposite him in the carriage with an expression of careful neutrality.
Fitzwilliam, for his part, had been uncharacteristically quiet, though when they pulled up before the tavern he gave Darcy one long look and said, "You will allow me to speak first."
Darcy did not answer.
"That was not a request," Fitzwilliam added.
The tavern stood in a narrow street not far from Covent Garden, its windows filmed with years of smoke, its crooked sign creaking above a doorway worn smooth by generations of dubious patrons.
Burke opened the carriage door. "Best agree, sir. The colonel has a way with troublesome men. Also, if you begin by killing the captain in the public room, it will make the rest of the evening awkward."
Darcy stepped down into the rain, his fists clenched by his side.
They found Henderson in the back parlour, lounging at a table with a glass of brandy in his hand and a self-satisfied smile upon his face that made Darcy's blood turn to fire.
He was laughing at something said by a red-faced companion and had evidently recovered very well from Burke's fist, though the yellowing bruise along his jaw remained visible.
His eye travelled over them as they entered, first carelessly, then with growing attention.
He recognised Darcy at once and Burke a heartbeat later.
Fitzwilliam he did not know, but something in the colonel's bearing, his military dress and easy confidence caused Henderson's smile to falter.
"Well," Henderson drawled, though there was a slight stiffness about his mouth. "This is quite the deputation."
Fitzwilliam smiled pleasantly. "Captain Henderson, I believe."
"And who asks?"
"Colonel Fitzwilliam."
The name struck its mark. Henderson's eyes sharpened and darted over him again, taking in the cut of his coat and the polish of his boots. Then recognition dawned in stages.
"Fitzwilliam," he repeated. "As in—"
"As in the Matlock Fitzwilliams," said Fitzwilliam. "The second son of the Earl, if you wish the full account."
For the first time since Darcy had entered the room, Henderson looked uncertain. He glanced around at his companions, all of whom had become suddenly interested in the content of their glasses.
"I see," he said, adjusting his cuffs and sitting straighter in his chair. "Then perhaps, Colonel, you may explain why you have chosen to interrupt my evening."
"Gladly. You will come with us."
Henderson laughed, "I think not."
Burke stepped forward and rested one hand lightly upon the back of Henderson's chair. The captain shrank back at his touch. "I should think again, Captain," he said. "You did not much enjoy our last conversation, and I was in a charitable humour then."
Henderson's face darkened, but he rose. Pride demanded that he do so slowly, as though the decision had been entirely his own. Darcy did not care. Every restrained movement, every insolent glance, every effort the man made to appear untroubled only sharpened the fury inside him.
They took him through a narrow passage to a private room at the rear of the tavern.
It smelt of damp wool and cheap wine. Fitzwilliam closed the door and slid the bolt across.
Burke took up a position before it, folded his arms and settled himself comfortably, as though he expected to be there some time.
Henderson looked between them. "If this is about money, I advise you to speak plainly. If it is about that bit of skirt at the Goose, I advise you to be less sentimental."
Darcy moved so quickly that Henderson had no time to retreat. He seized him by the front of his coat and drove him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the panelling.
"You will not speak of her."
Henderson's eyes widened and then narrowed again. "Ah. So it is about the little country piece."
Darcy struck him, hard. The sound of the blow cracked through the room. Henderson's head snapped sideways and blood appeared at once from his nose. Burke let out a low whistle.
"That will improve his pretty face."
Fitzwilliam shot him a look.
"What? It will."
Henderson laughed then, a low, ugly sound that sent something black and uncontrollable through Darcy's veins. "Touched a nerve, did I? Come now, Mr Darcy. You cannot expect me to believe you were so very outraged on her account. She seemed a willing enough little—"
Darcy's hands closed around his throat.
It happened before thought, before reason, before any part of him that had been trained to self-command could assert itself.
One moment Henderson was speaking. The next Darcy had him pinned hard against the wall, both hands at his neck, his thumbs pressing beneath the jaw while Henderson clawed at his wrists.
The man's face reddened. His mouth opened, but no words emerged.
Darcy saw only Elizabeth's pale, stricken face, the way she had shrunk from his touch, the shame Henderson had planted in her like poison.
"Darcy!" Fitzwilliam barked.
He did not hear him.
Burke swore and moved at once. It took both men to drag him back. Fitzwilliam locked an arm across Darcy's chest while Burke prised one hand free, then the other. Henderson slid down the wall coughing violently, one hand clutched to his throat.
"Enough," Fitzwilliam said sharply in Darcy's ear. "Enough, or you will hang for him, and I refuse to watch you ruin your life over that."
Darcy strained once more against him before some small thread of reason returned. His breath came hard. His hands shook. Henderson remained on the floor, coughing, pale now beneath the flush of drink and fury.
Burke adjusted his cuffs with exaggerated care. "I know he deserves killing, sir. Unfortunately the law remains tiresomely pedantic on the subject."
Fitzwilliam did not release Darcy until he was certain he would not launch himself forward again.
When at last he stepped back, the colonel crossed to the table and drew a folded packet from inside his coat.
He laid it down with deliberate calm. "Now," he said, all trace of amusement gone. "We shall discuss your future."
Henderson dragged himself into a chair, still breathing with difficulty. "You have no authority over me."
"No?" Fitzwilliam looked faintly interested. "How unfortunate. I was under the impression that my rank, my father's name, and my service with Wellington himself might combine into something approaching authority."
Henderson's eyes flicked towards the packet.
"What is that?"
"Your salvation, should you be wise enough to accept it."
"My salvation?"
"A posting." Fitzwilliam tapped the papers with one finger. "A regiment bound for Canada. You will leave England tomorrow. And my associate, Mr Burke, will be kind enough to accompany you to the docks. So as to prevent any… misunderstandings. "
Henderson stared at him as though he had spoken in Greek. Then he laughed, though the sound cracked in the middle. "You cannot simply send me across the Atlantic because your cousin has taken offence."
"My cousin has taken rather more than offence," said Fitzwilliam. "And I can do a great many things when properly motivated."
Darcy took one step towards him and Henderson flinched so violently that Burke smiled.
"Look at that," Burke murmured. "A little wisdom at last."
Fitzwilliam continued as if neither man had spoken.
"You mistake the situation. We are not here to prosecute you.
We are here to offer you the opportunity to disappear quietly before prosecution or a more permanent solution becomes necessary.
There are officers who dislike you and creditors who despise you.
You have lived, Captain Henderson, as a man with no thought to the consequence of your actions.
Tonight you have enjoyed the fruits of your labours. "
Henderson's throat worked. "You cannot ruin me."
Fitzwilliam's smile was cold. "No. You have made an admirable beginning yourself. I merely offer direction."
Darcy's voice cut through the room, low and rough.
"You will sign whatever papers my cousin places before you.
You will leave England. You will never speak Miss Bennet's name again.
You will not hint at what happened, not in a tavern, not in a mess room, not to a friend, not to a woman you hope to impress with your filthy little stories.
If a whisper reaches me that you have caused her further pain, I will find you and I will kill you. "
Henderson lifted his chin, though the effect was weakened by the swelling of his nose and a slight shaking of the hands at his side. "Is that a threat?"
"No," said Darcy. "It is a promise."
For several moments no one moved. Rain tapped faintly against the window. Somewhere beyond the door a burst of laughter rose and fell, ordinary life continuing within inches of the room where Henderson's future was being decided.
At last Fitzwilliam pushed the papers across the table. "Sign."
Henderson looked at them, then at Fitzwilliam. "And if I refuse?"
Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his voice soft enough that Henderson was forced to listen.
"Then tomorrow morning I begin with your colonel.
By luncheon I shall have spoken to two generals, my father and every club secretary willing to receive me.
By dinner, your debts, habits and treatment of gentlewomen will be common enough knowledge that even your most disreputable friends will find it inconvenient to acknowledge you.
You may refuse, certainly. I would not rob you of the pleasure.
But if you do, you had best develop a fondness for exile without uniform, income or introduction.
" He clapped his hands together and then added as an afterthought.
"With so few friends, no one will be too saddened should you suddenly disappear. "
Burke folded his arms. "Personally, Captain, I should choose the other side of the world. It’s a big enough place to avoid gentlemen whose patience you have exhausted."
Henderson glared at him.
Burke smiled pleasantly. "And their valets."
A pen lay upon the table. Henderson stared at it for a long time before grabbing at it with an unsteady hand.
Darcy watched every stroke of his signature with a cold satisfaction. When it was done, Fitzwilliam blew on the paper, folded it and placed it safely back inside his coat.
"There," said the colonel. "That was not so very difficult."
Henderson sat back, breathing hard. Hatred burned in his eyes, but beneath it lay fear. Darcy bent until his face was level with the other man's. "If you ever come near her again," he said quietly, "there will be no colonel to hold me back."
Then he turned and left the room.