CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Colonel Forster Sets a Trap
Colonel Forster read Wickham’s letters in silence.
Richard watched his face harden line by line.
They sat in the colonel’s office at the militia quarters, a plain room smelling of wax, damp wool, and smoke.
Outside, boots struck the yard in regular cadence as a company drilled in the cold.
When Forster finished the fifth letter, he laid it flat on the desk. “How old is Miss Lydia Bennet?”
“Sixteen.”
Forster swore. “My wife likes her.”
“I know.”
“She is a child.”
“Yes.”
Forster stood and walked to the window. “I should have watched Wickham more closely.”
Richard did not offer comfort. “Yes.”
Forster looked over his shoulder.
Richard’s expression remained steady.
After a moment the militia colonel nodded. “Yes. I should have.” He returned to the desk. “The pay arrives Thursday afternoon.”
“So Wickham says.”
“Only six men know the exact timing.”
“Then one of them has been talking.”
“Or Wickham has been listening.” Forster tapped the letter. “He and Harris have been assigned near the quartermaster’s stores twice this month. Cole keeps accounts badly but reads them well enough.”
Richard leaned back. “Will you cancel the delivery?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Forster’s eyes sharpened. “You expected that answer.”
“If we frighten them now, they will simply invent another plan. Better to know where they are when they act.”
Forster nodded. They planned for two hours.
The real pay chest would arrive as expected but be moved secretly before nightfall.
A second chest, weighted and containing a smaller quantity of marked coin above layers of scrap metal, would remain in the quartermaster’s locked room.
Two trusted sergeants would hide nearby.
Another squad would wait beyond the south road.
The most difficult question was Lydia.
“She is not to participate,” Richard said.
“Agreed.”
“But Wickham must believe she will.”
Forster frowned.
Richard took up a pen. “She can answer under supervision.”
Back at Longbourn, Lydia was horrified. “I must write to him?”
“You do not have to,” Elizabeth said immediately.
Richard looked at her, then at Lydia. “Your sister is correct. You have already done enough. We can construct another reason for the distraction.”
Lydia stared at Wickham’s letter on the table. “What would I say?”
Richard answered, “That you will do as he asked. Nothing more.”
“Will he believe me?”
“Yes.”
Lydia flinched.
Richard’s tone softened. “Because he believes you foolish. Use that.”
Something offended flashed through her fear. “I am not that foolish.”
“No.”
She picked up the pen. The note she produced sounded so thoroughly like Lydia that even Elizabeth was impressed.
Dearest Mr. Wickham,
La! You do make everything sound terribly exciting. I shall do just as you say Thursday, and no one will suspect a thing. Kitty thinks I am going to Mrs. Forster’s, which is very funny. Do not forget what you promised me when you are free!
L.
Richard read it. “Perfect.”
Lydia burst into fresh tears.
He looked alarmed. “What did I say?”
“Nothing! I hate him.”
Elizabeth put an arm around her.
Darcy watched from across the room, his face unreadable.
Later, when Lydia had gone upstairs with Jane, he said, “I would like him dead.”
Richard looked at him. “That may be arranged without your assistance if he steals military funds.”
Elizabeth’s head came up.
The room quieted.
Richard’s expression became grave. “Do not mistake what these men intend. A regimental pay chest is Crown money entrusted for soldiers’ wages. They plan theft, desertion, conspiracy, and likely violence if challenged. The court will not treat it as a youthful prank.”
Darcy said, “Wickham knows that.”
“Yes.”
“And still he involves Lydia.”
“Yes.”Elizabeth felt cold despite the fire.
Darcy looked at her. “Do not blame yourself.”
“I introduced nothing.”
“You exposed his debts.”
“I suggested merchants compare accounts.”
“And if you had not, he might have remained free to charm Lydia for months.”
Elizabeth looked down.
Darcy’s voice was quiet. “You cannot know whether a good action will force a bad man to reveal himself sooner. That does not make the good action wrong.”
She lifted her eyes. It was almost precisely what she had told him about Georgiana.
She smiled faintly. “You have been listening.”
“Occasionally.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“So I am discovering.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Night of the Pay Chest
Thursday came raw and windless.
By four in the afternoon Meryton knew the regiment’s pay had arrived. Wagons had been seen. Men moved between quarters. A sentry was posted outside the storehouse.
Nothing appeared unusual. At Longbourn, everything felt unusual. Lydia was forbidden to leave the house. This had required explanation to Mrs. Bennet, who reacted to the truth in stages.
First disbelief. “Our Lydia? Writing secretly to Wickham? Oh!”
Then fury. “He asked my daughter to help steal money?” Then a rapid inventory of blame. “Colonel Forster should have known. Mrs. Forster should never have encouraged so much familiarity. Lydia, you should be ashamed. Mr. Bennet, I told you officers were dangerous—”
“You invited half the regiment to supper last month,” Mr. Bennet observed.
“That was before I knew they were thieves!”
Then, finally, fear.
Mrs. Bennet sat beside Lydia on the sofa and took both her hands. “You are not to see him again.”
“I know, Mama.”
“Not ever.”
“I know.”
“And if any man asks you to keep secrets from your family, you come to me.”
Lydia blinked. “You?”
Mrs. Bennet drew back. “Yes, me! I was a girl once, though you all behave as if I emerged from the womb with five daughters and a headache.”
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
Mr. Bennet did not smile. He stood by the fireplace, looking older than usual. “I gave her too much liberty,” he said.
Mrs. Bennet looked at him.
“I made a joke of what required attention.”
Lydia’s face crumpled. “Papa—”
He crossed the room and kissed her forehead. “You were foolish. I was negligent. We may both improve.”
Lydia clung to him.
Darcy witnessed the scene from his chair near the window. He looked away after a moment, granting the family what privacy the crowded room allowed.
The hours passed.
At nine, Richard arrived briefly to tell them the trap was in place. “At eleven, Mrs. Forster will send a servant to the Red Lion claiming someone has overturned a cart outside the inn. Enough activity to explain the noise Wickham expects Lydia to create. He will believe she has done her part.”
Lydia shivered. “What if he comes here?”
“He cannot. Two men are watching the road.”
“Will you be there?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Richard—”
He smiled. “I have done this professionally, cousin-to-be.”
Darcy’s face darkened. “Do not call her that to distract from risk.”
“It nearly worked.” Richard knelt beside Lydia. “You have nothing more to do tonight. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
He stood.
Darcy held out his hand.
Richard clasped it.
“Be careful,” Darcy said.
“I always am.”
“You are never careful.”
“Then why ruin a fine farewell with lies?”
He left.
At eleven-fifteen, the false commotion began at the Red Lion.
At eleven-twenty, Wickham, Harris, and Cole slipped from their quarters.
They had acquired a key to the storehouse from a clerk who thought he had merely misplaced it.
Wickham opened the outer door. Cole remained at the corner as lookout.
Harris forced the quartermaster’s inner lock with a pry bar. The chest was where expected.
Heavy.
Locked.
Real.
Or so they believed. They carried it out beneath a canvas and loaded it onto a small supply wagon.
One hidden sergeant watched them pass within ten feet.
He did not move.
The orders were to let them leave the camp.
The conspiracy must be undeniable.
Wickham took the reins. Harris climbed beside him. Cole jumped into the back.
They drove south. A quarter mile from the camp, they passed the first hidden rider. Half a mile farther, the road narrowed between hedges.
Richard sat his horse in the darkness beyond the bend with Colonel Forster and eight armed men.
“Now?” Forster murmured.
“Not yet.”
The wagon came nearer.
Wickham was laughing.
Richard recognized the sound and felt something inside him go cold.
The wagon entered the narrowest part of the lane.
“Forster,” Richard said.
A lantern was uncovered. Light flared across the road. “HALT!”
Wickham hauled the reins.
The horse reared.
Cole shouted.
Harris reached beneath his coat.
“Hands where I can see them!” Forster roared.
For one second everything held. Then Wickham whipped the horse.
The wagon lurched forward. Two militia riders closed from behind.
Harris fired a pistol. The shot went wild, exploding into the hedge.
A soldier seized the bridle. Another dragged Harris from the seat.
Cole jumped from the wagon and ran three strides before colliding with Richard’s horse.
Wickham leapt down on the far side.
He ran.
Richard went after him. Boots pounded frozen earth. Wickham was fast, but panic made him careless. He vaulted a low gate, landed badly, recovered, and sprinted toward an open field.
Richard followed. “Wickham!”
The man glanced back.
Recognition flashed.
He changed direction.
Richard cut the angle.
Wickham reached inside his coat.
“Do not.”
He drew a pistol anyway. Richard struck his wrist before he could aim.
The pistol fell.
Wickham swung with his other hand. Richard took the blow on his shoulder, drove forward, and put him into the frozen ground.
Wickham gasped.
Richard pinned one arm behind his back. “You always did mistake charm for intelligence.”
Wickham spat dirt. “Darcy sent you.”
“No.” Richard pulled the man’s wrists together while a sergeant approached with restraints. “A sixteen-year-old girl did.”
Wickham stopped struggling.
For the first time that night, Richard smiled.