Chapter XVIII #2
“I do not,” replied Darcy, shaking his head. “This house is her means of supporting herself—she has done nothing wrong so far as I know. She may even sniff the possibility of profiting.”
“If Wickham came to her,” said Gardiner, “she may know why you have come.”
Darcy paused, then nodded. “She will not know of the connection to your family, but Wickham appearing on her doorstep with a gentlewoman must have spoken volumes.”
Footsteps on the stairs interrupted them, and for the first time in a year, Darcy saw Mrs. Younge.
The way she watched him as she approached suggested caution and perhaps a tinge of suppressed anger, though her face gave nothing away.
As she had passed herself off as a gentlewoman for several months, it did not surprise Darcy to see her controlled expression.
The only time he had ever seen her lose her composure was the moment he had arrived at the house in Ramsgate.
“Mr. Darcy,” said she when she reached the floor. “Your coming is unexpected.”
“Yes, I can imagine it is,” replied Darcy. “Trust me, Mrs. Younge, I have no more desire for this meeting than you do.”
“Then why have you come?” asked she. One glance at his companions told Darcy that she was choosing her words carefully. “I have abided by all the strictures you imposed at our last meeting.”
“Mrs. Younge, I care nothing for your current circumstances, nor do I suggest you have been false.” Darcy stared at her, not removing his gaze, knowing it would make her uncomfortable, and perhaps even a little anxious.
“The reason for my presence today is information—I would like to know where I can find George Wickham.”
Again, her eyes darted to the other men—especially Fitzwilliam who she knew and had reason to fear—before she focused on him again.
Wickham’s name had little effect on her, for she gave nothing away.
Yet Darcy was certain there was a hint of recognition beneath her controlled expression—Mrs. Younge had seen Wickham, and while she might not have expected Darcy to involve himself in Wickham’s intrigues, his whereabouts were not a mystery to her.
“Why you would suppose that I have any knowledge of Wickham, I cannot say.”
“Mrs. Younge,” said Darcy, not amused with her pretense, “do not insult my intelligence. You know I am aware of your confederacy with Wickham, and you can hardly be ignorant that he has now absconded with a young gentlewoman. I have nothing with which to accuse you, but I will find Wickham.”
“I have no information about Wickham,” insisted she. “You had best go about your business.”
The confrontation having proceeded as he had expected, Darcy stepped closer, lowering his voice so that the exchange became more private.
“Mrs. Younge, do not trifle with me. Your intimacy with Wickham is not unknown to me—I am aware that he approached you for assistance. Whether you are harboring him in this house or he is elsewhere, I care not. All I care about is finding him.”
“Mr. Darcy—”
Unwilling to listen any longer, Darcy cut her off. “Do not protest your ignorance, Mrs. Younge. If my assurance that I care nothing for your current situation does not sway you, then you should recall that the option to prosecute you remains open to me.”
Mrs. Younge grew angry. “For what? I have done nothing.”
“You aided your confederate to worm his way into my sister’s affection for the purpose of obtaining her dowry,” hissed Darcy.
“Trust me, Mrs. Younge—I have more than enough to prosecute you, and if that should prove insufficient, Fitzwilliam’s father possesses influence enough to ensure the matter is pursued to its fullest extent.
Unless you tell me where Wickham is, you will lose everything. ”
AS DARCY STEPPED TOWARDS Mrs. Younge, Bennet could hear nothing of what they were saying, though he could readily understand their adversarial stance.
There was something more than Bennet knew—Mrs. Younge had crossed Darcy in a way that was more personal than some failure of duty or another innocuous offense.
Bennet would not dream of asking, of course—a man was entitled to his secrets, after all, and whatever the matter was between them, it was not his concern.
Bennet had no interest in anything other than discovering his wayward daughter and restoring his family’s respectability.
That Lydia would suffer a loss of status was regrettable, though it was not a matter of complete indifference to a man recalling a bright, precocious child who sat on his lap and demanded stories.
But she had chosen this course of her own accord, and some consequence was now unavoidable.
The house was quiet—far quieter than Bennet might have anticipated.
There were a few noises—the housekeeper loitering in the hall, shifting her weight, the creaking of floorboards, the closing of a door above them, and even a whisper of traffic from the street outside.
Never having entered a place like this, Bennet did not know what he had imagined.
It was not even so fine as Longbourn’s dower house, an old, weathered structure that had not seen regular habitation since his grandfather’s time.
“You are asking me to betray confidences, Mr. Darcy,” said Mrs. Younge loud enough for them all to hear.
The way Colonel Fitzwilliam’s stare at her grew intense informed Bennet he was not the only one who understood that she had just confessed in an oblique fashion that she knew something of Wickham’s present location.
Every instinct urged Bennet to push forward, demand she tell them all she knew, but he held himself back.
Darcy’s plan was a good one—Bennet sensed that he had proceeded beyond the threats and was about to introduce bribery.
Bennet watched with some disgust—this was a grasping woman, one whom he suspected possessed few morals.
Not for the first time, Bennet wondered how Darcy even knew her.
“What confidence has Wickham put in you?” demanded Darcy.
“I have not said I know anything about him,” said she, backpedaling to cover her error.
“Nonsense,” rejoined Darcy. “You have all but confessed to knowing where Wickham is, Mrs. Younge.”
When she hesitated, Darcy forged ahead with his plan.
“Perhaps an incentive will induce you to remember where Wickham has gone.”
A shrewd expression came over her face. “Incentive? What did you have in mind?”
“Come, Mrs. Younge, do not pretend to be obtuse. Discovering Wickham’s location is of the utmost importance—if I must compensate you for the information you possess, then so be it.”
“The information is expensive, Mr. Darcy,” ventured she.
“Do not insult my intelligence and do not attempt to extort me,” snapped Darcy, his tone harsh and unyielding.
“Remember that I have other tools at my disposal that I can use. I am willing to pay you for the information I seek, but do not suppose you may name any price you please merely because the information is valuable—I will not play that game.”
Mrs. Younge did not appear taken aback by Darcy’s anger.
Bennet suspected she had provoked him deliberately, testing how far he would go.
Now that she knew he was serious, she began to negotiate in earnest. It was only a few moments later that they came to an agreement, which was more than Bennet expected and less than he feared.
It appeared that the adage was correct—there was no honor among thieves.
When she had the coins in hand—held tightly so they would not escape—Mrs. Younge offered the information without further delay.
“Wickham is here, Mr. Darcy.” She glanced at the stairs. “He arrived several days ago with a young gentlewoman in tow and begged a room from me. I almost turned him away, but I had one that had emptied that morning.”
Mrs. Younge’s expression grew pinched. “Wickham promised to pay me for the room, but he is two days late.”