Chapter 3 #2
Richard’s reaction was crisp, tinged with the quiet satisfaction of a soldier given purposeful work.
Darcy saw this as a worthy endeavor befitting a gentleman of his station, preserving invaluable knowledge for humanity, aligned with his sense of responsibility and stewardship.
Just as importantly, it would offer him the opportunity to propose to Elizabeth.
With a common license, they could wed before sailing into the sunset over the Mediterranean Sea. A worthy endeavor.
Meanwhile, in London
George Wickham was as broke as a man could be.
With two days’ furlough earned from hours of needlessly digging trenches around the militia encampment in Meryton, he used his last coin to secure a place atop the post coach to London.
At the Golden Garter, no one cared that he was covered with dust from the road.
The tavern squatted like a festering wound between two warehouses, its walls blackened with soot and grime from the nearby coal wharves.
Inside, the air hung thick with tobacco smoke, gin fumes, and the stench of unwashed bodies.
Although it was one of London’s most notorious gaming establishments, gambling was not the sole occupation of the horde inside.
Information was bought and sold with equal fervor.
For Wickham, this hellish place represented an opportunity.
His handsome face and genteel mannerisms, though somewhat tarnished by recent hardships, still allowed him to prey upon the na?ve or intoxicated.
He might win a few shillings at cards from drunken sailors or charm information from loose-tongued merchants about valuable cargo arriving at the docks.
On particularly desperate nights, he was not above relieving inebriated gentlemen of their purses, though he preferred to call it “evening the odds” instead of common theft.
When Wickham spotted a well-dressed but disheveled young man slumped over a gin bottle, muttering bitterly about “father's mad treasure hunt” and “Egypt,” his predatory instincts sharpened. Then the young man muttered Darcy’s name, and Wickham’s interest was complete.
He slid into the seat across from his prey. “You look like a man with troubles, my friend. George Wickham, at your service.” He signaled to the innkeeper for another bottle.
The gentleman looked bleary-eyed. “Troubles? Ha! You cannot know the half of it. Arnold Burton, Viscount Levinson, if you must know, though the title’s worth precious little when your father controls every farthing.”
Surely there is a story here. Wickham poured their drinks. “What brings nobility to such humble surroundings?”
The viscount took a long drink. “Lost almost everything at White’s last night. There is more silk lining in my purse than coins. And now the old man expects me to go traipsing off to Egypt, of all godforsaken places, to chase some secret cache like common treasure hunters.”
Wickham leaned forward with interest. “Egypt? How fascinating. What sort of treasure are we talking about?”
“Some crackpot professor convinced my father that there is a wealth of artifacts to be found. Real treasure, supposedly. But does the old man go himself? No! He plans to send his wastrel son instead, expecting me to play at being an explorer.”
Treasure? Wickham’s favorite word. If only he could find riches enough to be set for life. “And who else has this professor recruited for his expedition? Surely you are not the only one.”
Levinson laughed bitterly. “Oh, he has gathered quite a collection of gentlemen. There is a country squire named Bennet from Hertfordshire, and”—he paused dramatically—“the great Mr. Darcy of Pemberley himself. Can you imagine? Darcy? Digging about in foreign ruins like a common laborer?”
Wickham stilled, though his voice remained conversational. “And you are expected to work alongside such distinguished company?”
Levinson scoffed. “Work? Me?” He sipped the gin. “I have no intention of breaking my back digging through old Pharaoh’s tombs. Let Darcy and the others do the searching. I intend to profit from this venture with little effort on my part, should I even decide to go.”
Pouring more gin, Wickham’s mind raced. “A wise approach. Though I confess, I am curious about this treasure. Gold? Jewels?”
“Who knows? Who cares? Whatever it is, it is valuable enough to attract men like Darcy. Not that it matters to me now.”
“Oh? Have your circumstances changed?” Wickham sat up straight.
The viscount pulled a crumpled letter from his coat.
“This arrived this morning. Father discovered my losses at Whites over the past few weeks. Now he insists that I join the expedition and use the time away from England to ‘contemplate my sins.’” With a harsh laugh, he waved the letter and a cheque drawn on the Bank of England.
“As if I would travel during the summer in anything less than a first-class stateroom.”
So speaks the man floundering at the Golden Garter. Wickham studied the letter with apparent sympathy. “How unfortunate. Though…” He waited a moment for dramatic effect. “No, it is too much to ask.”
“What? Speak up, man.”
Wickham peered closer. The cheque was for an even greater amount than he had hoped. “Well, it seems a shame that this opportunity should go to waste. This invitation, the information about the expedition…surely, for the right person, it would be a challenge.”
A shrewd wariness cut through Levinson’s drunken haze. “What are you suggesting?”
Wickham sighed, giving the impression that he was doing the man a favor.
“Simply that I might be interested in assuming your place in this venture, thus allowing you to remain in London. Once I return, anything recovered in Egypt would be split between us. I need only information and sufficient funds to cover the journey expenses. As you say, you deserve only the best accommodation. I would be satisfied with less.”
He bent toward his companion conspiratorially. “Besides the details you have already shared, you might tell me where they are meeting…that sort of thing. I have my own reasons for wanting to encounter Darcy again.”
The viscount leaned back. “You know, I like you, Wickham. And you would bring me half for this?” He waved the cheque under Wickham’s nose. “Before I agree, I want to know why you are so interested in Darcy.”
Wickham smiled coldly. “Darcy and I have unfinished business. Old debts, you might say, that require settling.”
Levinson raised his glass. “To old debts, then. And to those foolish enough to go treasure hunting while wiser men profit from their efforts.”
Wickham clinked his glass against the young man’s. “Now, tell me everything you know about this journey.”
Over the next hour, he extracted every detail, including the first clue.
Relieved that he would not have to forsake his haunts, Levinson staggered to the bank and exchanged the paper for coins.
The viscount willingly gave most of it to Wickham, carelessly arming his new friend with the means to pursue a far more dangerous game than either the professor or Darcy imagined.
Wickham had no intention of sharing anything of value that he might find.
And he had his own plans for settling an old score with Fitzwilliam Darcy.