Chapter XXIX
Before the household assembled for breakfast, Darcy had already crossed half of London.
The address proved respectable enough. A narrow brick house in a quiet street, neither fashionable nor shabby. Nothing about it suggested intrigue.
He knocked.
After a short delay, the door opened only a few inches.
Mrs. Younge had altered little. She started almost imperceptibly at the sight of him before recovering herself with remarkable speed. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Mrs. Younge.”
“I did not expect…”
“No,” he replied calmly. “I imagine you did not.”
For several moments neither spoke.
“I should like to ask you a few questions.”
“I fear I cannot assist you.”
“You have not yet heard the questions.”
“I believe I know what they are.”
Darcy regarded her steadily. “Mr. Wickham.”
Her expression did not change. “I have neither seen nor heard of Mr. Wickham for many months.”
“You are certain?”
“Entirely.”
She met his gaze without hesitation. Too readily.
Darcy had spent enough years managing estates to recognise rehearsed answers. “You would not object if I repeated the question tomorrow?”
“I should only repeat the same answer.”
“I thought perhaps you might.”
He thought of bribing her with a few coins but reconsidered for the time being. He inclined his head politely. “Good morning, Mrs. Younge.”
She seemed almost relieved when he turned away.
Darcy did not look back until he reached the end of the street. The front door remained firmly closed. He stood for a moment considering the house.
She had lied. She had denied Wickham’s existence before he had even accused her of knowing it.
That was enough.
A groom waited with the carriage nearby.
Darcy beckoned him over.
“I want two reliable men from… here.” He took a card out of his pocket. “Find this man. Tell him to send two men as soon as possible. I shall wait in the pub here and keep watch until then.”
“Sir?”
“They are to watch this house continuously.” He glanced once more towards the quiet doorway. “If Mrs. Younge leaves, they are to follow her.”
“Without being seen?”
“Precisely.”
“And if she leads them to someone?”
Darcy’s expression hardened.
“They are not to interfere.”
The man looked surprised.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
Darcy’s eyes remained fixed upon the house.
“They are to discover where he is.”
In an hour, the men took over the watch. It was nearly three hours before anything happened.
Mrs. Younge emerged carrying a small covered basket upon her arm.
She looked both ways before setting off on foot.
The first man followed at a comfortable distance. The second remained farther behind.
Neither was noticed.
She crossed several streets, doubled back once as though from habit, and finally disappeared into one of the poorest quarters of Westminster.
Only then did she enter a narrow lodging house.
One of the men left a few coins with the proprietor, learning the names of his lodgers, and had Wickham identified.
The other rode as quickly as possible to find Darcy.
Within the hour, Fitzwilliam Darcy was on his way.
***
The room was little more than a garret above a public house. The air smelt of stale ale, damp wool, and smoke. A single window admitted only a reluctant light through grimy panes.
When the door opened, George Wickham looked up from the table with astonishing composure. Then his smile vanished.
“Darcy.”
He looked from Darcy to the two men behind him. “This is quite an entrance. I wondered why you had frightened Mrs. Younge half to death this morning. What can I do for you?”
Darcy gave his hat and walking stick to one of the men.
Wickham’s mouth twitched. He leant back in his chair with affected ease. “You have been looking for me? I thought they had given up, but then the search started again. I should have known it was you. You have gone to a remarkable amount of trouble.”
“I have.”
“To what end?”
Darcy let his eyes travel slowly around the miserable room.
“Now you come with me.”
Wickham laughed. “I do nothing of the sort.”
“You have little choice.”
“I always have a choice.”
Darcy removed several folded papers from his coat. “You owed money to more people than I would have thought.”
Wickham glanced at the papers and shrugged. “I have always enjoyed credit.”
“You no longer possess it.”
Darcy laid the receipts upon the table. “Every debt you contracted in Meryton has been purchased.”
For the first time, uncertainty crossed Wickham’s face. “You?”
“Yes.”
“You have bought them?” Wickham searched Darcy’s face for the familiar signs of hesitation or pity. He found neither. He glanced once toward the window.
“I have.”
Wickham stared. “You must have spent a fortune.”
“I considered it well spent.”
Silence settled between them.
Wickham recovered first. “So this is revenge.”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Justice.”
Wickham laughed again. “My dear Darcy, debtor’s prison?”
“Unless you can pay all this, yes.”
“You would really imprison an old school companion? Why?”
“I would imprison a man who abandoned a young lady.”
Something flickered across Wickham’s face. It was gone almost immediately. “Lydia Bennet appears to have acquired herself a formidable protector.”
Darcy’s expression did not alter. “She has.”
A faint smile touched Wickham’s lips. “Why? She is nobody to you.”
Darcy remained perfectly still. “That is where you are wrong.”
“You surprise me, Darcy. Lydia Bennet? Is she not too young for you?”
“I could have said the same about you. This now seems a tendency of yours. You target young ladies who are not yet women. I sometimes wonder whether you fear older women would see through you.”
“Touché. I do like them innocent. Though I admit, they can be tiring with their virtue.” He stood.
Darcy took a single step towards him before he realised he had moved at all.
“Why now?”
“I should have dealt with you properly after Ramsgate.”
One of the men shifted behind Darcy.
Darcy lifted a hand very slightly.
The man became still again.
Darcy looked at him for a long moment. Part of him knew the magistrate alone would suffice. Another part remembered Georgiana. Remembered Lydia. Remembered Miss Elizabeth’s quiet voice:
I want him punished.
“Before I hand you over to the magistrate, you will fight me.”
“What? You are not serious. Come Darcy. She is not worth your trouble.”
Darcy shook his head. “Every gentleman who trusted you has regretted it. Every family that welcomed you has suffered for it.”
“Do not become sanctimonious with me.”
Darcy looked at him steadily.
“I offer you this chance to act as a gentleman. If you win, I’ll let you go. If I win, you go to debtor’s prison. Because you are not actually a gentleman, you can fight me with your hands.”
Wickham’s smile faded. “You want to fight me? You have no chance. I have beaten you before.”
“Now we have witnesses.” Darcy folded the receipts again with deliberate care.
“Makes no difference.”
“It makes every difference. I fight for honour. You fight for your measly life.”
He removed his gloves. He folded them carefully and handed them over.
He removed his coat and handed it to the other.
Wickham watched him curiously. “What are you doing? I had almost forgotten how pompous you can be.”
“I had almost forgotten how cowardly you are.”
That struck home.
Without warning, Wickham swung.
Darcy had expected it. He stepped aside, and the blow glanced off his shoulder.
“You still announce every punch,” Darcy smirked.
“I shall endeavour to impr…”
He never finished. Darcy’s fist came up beneath his guard.
Wickham’s answer came faster. It caught Darcy across the cheek. Pain exploded through his jaw.
Wickham grinned. “There.”
“Better,” Darcy answered with a straight punch that drove Wickham backwards into the table.
The table overturned. Receipts scattered across the floor. One of the watching men instinctively moved.
“No.” Darcy did not even turn his head.
Wickham lunged. He fought without method and without restraint, striking whenever he found an opening.
One blow landed hard beneath Darcy’s ribs. Air left his lungs. Another caught him behind the ear while he was still recovering.
Wickham laughed. “There is the great Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Darcy steadied himself against the wall. For a moment, the room spun. He heard one of the men swear quietly.
Wickham did not wait. He rushed forward again, driving Darcy backwards with a flurry of wild blows. One grazed his temple. Another glanced off his shoulder before a third struck his mouth. Darcy tasted blood.
“Have you forgotten how this ends?” Wickham taunted. “You should have chosen swords.”
Darcy closed his eyes for a moment to fight the pain at his ribs.
Wickham smiled. He shifted his weight almost lazily, as though there were no danger at all.
Darcy recognised the movement a heartbeat before the blow came. Too late. His blow struck the very place that already hurt. Darcy could not breathe.
As always, Wickham mistook advantage for victory. Another punch came, careless in its confidence.
Darcy caught the wrist, twisted sharply, and drove his elbow into Wickham’s chest. He swiftly turned and, with the same movement, punched him in the face with all his might.
The other man stumbled backwards, coughing. Wickham staggered but remained standing. “So,” he muttered, wiping blood from his lip. “You have learnt something.”
“I have.”
Wickham snarled and charged again.
This time he aimed low. Darcy barely saw it. The punch crashed into his injured ribs.
Pain shot through his side so fiercely that he bent instinctively.
Wickham seized the opportunity. His fist came down across Darcy’s back.
One of the watching men took an involuntary step forward.
“Sir…”
“No.” Darcy’s voice was strained but unmistakably firm. “No one touches him.”
He straightened slowly. His breathing had become heavier now. His cheek was swelling. Blood had found its way to his collar.
Wickham tried to hit him again, but Darcy deflected it with his arm and landed a hit at his jaw from below. Wickham spat blood.
He looked at Darcy with menace. “You should have seen how your sister ate up every word of mine. She was putty in my hands.”
Darcy hit him. Again, again.
One of the men took half a step forward before Darcy mastered himself.
Wickham smiled triumphantly. “You are tiring.”
“So are you.”
“I can still stand.”
“Barely.”
For a heartbeat, they circled one another in silence.
Wickham had seen Darcy angry before. He had never seen him relentless.
Neither smiled now. Neither spoke.
Then Wickham threw everything into one final attack. He came wildly, abandoning all caution.
Darcy stepped inside the blow. His shoulder struck Wickham squarely in the chest.
The impact threw them both against the overturned table.
Receipts scattered beneath their feet. One of the receipts clung absurdly to Darcy’s boot.
He recovered first and attacked immediately.
Wickham crashed into the chair, recovered before it had finished falling, and snatched it aside with a curse. His eye landed on the poker. He looked back at Darcy for an instant. Then their eyes went to it together. Wickham grabbed it and danced in front of Darcy with it.
Darcy looked at Wickham and realised there would be no honour in this room except his own. Elizabeth’s face came to him. Not her request. Her face when she had spoken of justice. The strain she had carried for weeks. Lydia weeping in his arms. Georgiana in Ramsgate.
He drew one slow breath.
When Wickham rushed again, he stepped aside, caught the poker, and, with his left hand, stomped him, forcing him to let go of the weapon. Darcy threw it away, and his man picked it up. When Wickham attacked again, Darcy met him head-on. Years of fencing had taught balance, timing and discipline.
Wickham possessed only fury.
Darcy blocked the wild right hand, drove his shoulder forward, and struck twice in quick succession.
Before Wickham could regain his balance, Darcy struck him again. Darcy drove one fist into Wickham’s mouth, and before he could recover, a second blow folded him over.
His right hand had begun to ache. He scarcely noticed until he struck again. As Wickham struggled to straighten, the third ended the fight. The last blow sent him sprawling onto the floorboards.
Wickham did not move for a few moments. Only the sound of harsh breathing filled the room.
Darcy bent slowly, picked up one of the scattered receipts from the floor and folded it carefully.
Wickham tried to rise, but Darcy caught him by the coat and hauled him upright.
“You are a piece of dirt.” He had to stop to breathe heavily. Every breath stabbed beneath his ribs.
Blood trickled from Wickham’s mouth.
Darcy, still catching his breath, shook his head. “You never understood what was in your hands.”
Wickham said weakly. “Enlighten me.”
“You believed Miss Lydia your easiest conquest.”
“She was.”
“No. She was your greatest opportunity. Had you stayed with Miss Lydia when honour demanded it…” Darcy released him and stood. “I would have secured you a respectable living.”
Wickham stared up at him. For perhaps the first time since Darcy had entered the room, he appeared genuinely astonished. “What?”
“Yes. I would have done almost anything to repair the injury done to her family.”
He stared at Darcy. “You would have rewarded me?”
The two men looked at each other.
“No.” Darcy’s voice remained perfectly calm. “I would have protected Miss Lydia from the consequences of trusting you.”
His voice hardened. “But you abandoned her. You proved yourself not merely weak…” A pause. “… but dishonourable.”
Wickham sank back against the wall.
Darcy looked down at him. “You have spent your life believing honour to be a fool’s luxury.” He nodded towards the scattered receipts. “Today you discover its price.”
He turned to the men. “You may take him.”
As they stepped forward, Wickham managed one final bitter smile.
“You always did have to win.”
Darcy paused at the door. He brushed dust from his sleeve. He picked up his cravat. Without looking back, he replied, “No. It was never about winning. It was about ensuring that, for once in your life, you did not escape.”
Wickham looked from Darcy to the two men. “This is absurd. Darcy, I can still marry the chit.”
“I would not make her endure even a minute in your company.”
Neither man moved. They were waiting for Darcy.
He nodded to them.
For the first time, uncertainty gave way to something much closer to fear. “Darcy…” His voice no longer carried its customary amusement. “You cannot seriously intend this.”
Darcy paused.
He met his eyes. “I have never been more serious.”
“Come-come now. Over a silly misunderstanding? I was just trying to make enough money… I was going back for her…” He attempted a smile.
But Darcy was not looking at him anymore.
One of the men got hold of him; the other collected the notes.
“Darcy! You have made your point.”
“Have I?”
“We need never meet again.”
Darcy stepped into the passage. He wondered whether this would satisfy Miss Elizabeth’s sense of justice. Behind him, he heard Wickham begin to protest once more.
“That was always my preference.”
He did not turn back.