One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (64 page)

They had just made a hasty departure from a pub on Drury Lane, when the colonel whispered to Darcy. “Do not look backwards, Pratt; I believe we are being followed.”

“Of course, we are,” Darcy muttered. “Some ruffians, no doubt, bent on beating us senseless for sport.”

“You are too cynical, Pratt. He is just a boy and an urchin, at that.” Richard laughed at his cousin.

Despite the colonel's warning not to, Darcy turned and looked behind them. Twenty feet back, there stood a youth, perhaps twelve years old. His clothing was dirty and ragged and far too thin for winter. Underneath a slightly askew cap were two alarmed eyes of the palest blue. The boy had stopped walking the moment Darcy turned, and he stood ready to flee. They stared at each other, boy and man, each believing that the other may hold a key to what they searched for, and each rooted temporarily in his place by fear. The boy's fear seemed primarily that of pursuit, but Darcy's fear was that they would frighten the boy away and be unable to find him again, a thought shared by Richard—who stood motionless behind Darcy. The colonel watched in astonishment as his tall, austere cousin gradually lowered himself, one knee on the ground before he tipped his head, beckoning the boy to approach.

From his position behind Darcy, Richard could not see the transformation of Darcy's expression, but he did see as Darcy reached into his pocket and produced a coin, which he held up—an act that was tracked by the sober blue eyes of the lad. His expression was that of one who contemplated what appeared to be a worthy offer. After a brief hesitation, the lure of the coin won over his caution, and he boldly closed the distance and reached for the shilling, which Darcy pulled back as he did so, denying the boy his prize.

“You want this coin, boy?” Darcy asked quietly. The child nodded, even as he danced lightly on his toes, ready to run.

“I will give it to you, after you have answered a few questions. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy said quietly, looking around to see who else might be on the street to see him talking with the stranger.

Darcy, seeing the boy's discomfort, replied, “Let us step aside to a quieter place. Do you know somewhere we could talk?”

The boy nodded, and with a look over his shoulder to see if they followed, he led the two men to a storefront half a block away, where faux marble columns provided a semblance of privacy.

“I see that you are clever.” Darcy half-smiled as he once again lowered himself to the same height as the boy. “This spot is perfect. What is your name?”

“Davey.”

“Davey is what you are called then ... is your Christian name David?” Darcy asked kindly.

“Aye.” The boy nodded.

“Very good. You are named for the courageous boy who killed a giant with a stone between the eyes. You have no stones with you today, I hope.” Darcy chuckled softly.

“No, sir,” the boy replied seriously.

“My head and I are very glad to hear it. My friend is Mr. Smythe,” Darcy pointed to the colonel, “and I am Mr. Pratt. We came here in search of another man, Mr. Wickham. Have you heard of him?”

“Aye,” the boy said nervously. Darcy noticed that for all his bravado, he was quivering.

“Do not fear, Davey; we will not harm you.” Darcy tried to be reassuring. “Did you see Mr. Wickham, yesterday perhaps?”

The child nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Me mum sent me ta find 'im.”

“Your mum? What does she want with Mr. Wickham?”

“My sister, sir, 'as sprained 'er ankle.” The boy blushed.

“Was Mr. Wickham the one who did it?”

“'Aye, 'e tol' 'er they'd be yoked afore she showed.” Davey whispered seriously.

“So your mum wants to find Mr. Wickham so he will marry your sister?” Darcy asked kindly.

“Aye.” The boy said fervently.

“When did you last see him?”

“T'was yesterday, same time as now.”

“Do you recall where it was that you saw him?”

“Aye, 'e was gowin inta the Bucket o' Blood.”

“The Cooper's Arms*, on Rose Street? You are certain?” Darcy smiled victoriously.

“Aye, 'e went in, but I dinay see 'im come out.”

“Thank you, Davey, you have done well.” Darcy went back into his pocket. “Here is your shilling as promised. As for finding Mr. Wickham, tell your mum that Mr. Pratt said to go see the housekeeper at Darcy House. Here is the address.” He placed a small card into the boy’s hand with the coins.

Davey nodded his understanding, pocketed the shilling and card, thanked Mr. Pratt profusely, and disappeared into the throng of people.

“Mr. Pratt, you are suddenly good with children?” Richard teased as soon as the boy was gone. “I wonder what other hidden talents my cousin will discover in his pursuit of domestic bliss, eh?”

Darcy stood up and turned to the colonel. “I advise you to focus, Mr. Smythe, on the task at hand. You are too easily distracted. That
 
was
 
a stroke of good luck that you spotted the boy! Now we know Wickham was at The Cooper's Arms. Do you believe he was fighting, or gambling?”

“Drinking,” replied the colonel, “and it was not luck, but my keen abilities of observation that spied the child. You owe your
 
luck
 
to my military training, Pratt.”

“I shall send a letter of thanks to Prinny.” Darcy said dryly as he began walking west. “I am certain he would love to know that his officer's training was put to such good use in detecting a lad with no training whatsoever.”

“That is where you are wrong, Pratt. Living on these streets, that boy has been in training since he was born.” Richard lengthened his stride and pushed ahead of Darcy. “You would be wise to learn a lesson or two from that child—when we get to The Cooper's Arms, we should not openly declare our purpose.”

“All that military training has left you sadly devoid of tact, Smythe—do they not teach you diplomacy? I am not accustomed to being shut down so, but it is of no matter, as I agree that discretion is the order of the day.” Darcy nodded. “
You
 
should likewise mind your tongue. We will discover more listening.”

“Did your men make it to Rose Street in their inquiries yesterday?” Richard inquired.

“No, although they covered several parts of Covent Garden, they thought it did not seem promising. Sanders and Stewart mentioned inquiring at the brothels on Hart Street for him but did not speak of Rose Street. They were so close—perhaps he was warned.” Darcy frowned.

“If so, it could not have been much of a warning—it did not spare him.” Richard sighed. “I do not think he was warned—ambushed perhaps.”

“That is one possibility,” Darcy replied thoughtfully. “From the time that boy saw him enter the tavern to the time he was left for dead upon the doorstep at Darcy house, it could not have been more than five hours. Smythe, I fear that discovering what befell Wickham in his last hours may not in fact lead us to Mrs. Younge. How we are to discover
 
her
 
is constantly on my mind.”

“We are following a trail, Pratt. Be satisfied to go where it leads.” Richard counseled.

Quiet fury surged in Darcy's eye. “Satisfaction will come only when I have put that blasted letter to the flames and set the deeds of Wickham behind me forever. He perpetrated much evil in his short life—I refuse to accept his torment from the grave!”

“To grant him such power would be insupportable, indeed.” Richard replied calmly. “We will bury his deeds with him, and Georgiana will be safe from his treachery.

“All of England is safe from his treachery now, although I must wonder how many foolish women he used ill and abandoned.” Richard shook his head.

“I do not wish to contemplate it, Smythe,” Darcy replied. “The heartache he has wrought just to the house of Darcy is sufficient for my lifetime.”

“There is the turn off to Rose Street ahead,” Richard said. “It is time to enter the lion's den.”

Rose Street barely qualified as a street—it was, in fact, a dim, narrow alley, littered with the dregs of humanity. The cobblestones in front of the Cooper's Arms pub were darkened with dried blood for at least thirty feet from the threshold, and the stink of rotting garbage, stale urine and unwashed men combined to generate a distinctly unpleasant stench. Pratt and Smythe approached the doors, passing clusters of filthy, drunken men staggering to and from the place, stepping over one who had fallen from overconsumption. They closed the distance in silence, each mentally and physically preparing for what lay ahead.

The view through the dirty glass panes revealed that the place teemed with rowdy men, and despite the cold weather, many stood outside to consume their pint. Pratt pushed the doors open and stopped in the threshold as he was assaulted with smoke, billowing so thick that faces beyond a few feet away were obscured in the swirling haze.

“Go.” Smythe hissed and gave Pratt a helpful shove from behind to propel him past the doors and into the room.

They worked their way through the crowd, careful not to incite anyone's ire as they moved toward the narrow bar, where the bawdy and bold jostled and jockeyed for position. Pratt and Smythe, after assertive, slightly impatient maneuverings, eventually arrived at their destination. Their size, soberness and comparatively imposing presence attracted the barkeep's attention, and he waited relatively quickly and with no mean degree of curiosity on the two strangers.

Smythe ordered a pint of strong beer for each and signaled to Pratt that they should move away from the counter. They soon stood away from the bar in a recessed nook, which insulated them slightly from the din. Smythe gleefully mirrored the ill-mannered actions of the carousers around them, while Pratt stared morosely into the depths of the liquid in his cup, appearing to be lost in thought—although he was instead tuning his hearing to the drunken conversations taking place around them.

He learned that they had just missed a particularly brutal fight in the back room, but that another was to take place shortly. Smythe was easily persuaded to change their location to the back room, and they—along with at least half of the noisy crowd—migrated to the cave-like venue where the fight would soon begin.

The tenor of this group was different. Fully inebriated, they were possessed of a shared lust for the violence that was soon to unfold, and when it did, they erupted as though this were the Roman Amphitheater and the sparring men gladiators of old. For Smythe, the mood stirred his warrior self, the manly revelries calling to his baser instincts. It was with great fortitude that he resisted giving into it altogether. Pratt, however, was disgusted by what he saw. A swarm of men whose greatest aspiration was their next pint of beer or gin garnished with the spattering of blood from some poor fool's broken nose or worse. Pratt drew himself to the back wall, where he forced himself to watch the fisticuff fight, half-heartedly raising his glass of beer to the cheers that erupted each time a bare-knuckled blow landed well from either party.

His attention was soon diverted, however, to the hollered discourse between the two old codgers in front of him, who freely complained that this fight was nowhere near as exciting as yesterday's unscheduled fight between 'that swell Wickham' and a man they called 'the Frenchie.” The fight, Pratt learned, had been over gambling debts owed by Wickham, who at first had tried to get out of it. Wickham, they reminisced, had fought like a madman, all the while screaming that he would be able to settle within a week—that his ship had come in. The two men cackled like old women over that, speculating with lewd suggestions about the name of the ship, where it had docked, and in which seas it had sailed.

He was frustrated for some time that the men were so well entertained by their own vulgar humor that they disseminated no new information about Wickham. Then, as if these very thoughts had reached out and extracted the desired information, they spoke of four hoodlums who had saved Wickham from the Frenchman and carried him away through the alley that ran next to the pub. Their next turn of phrase caused Pratt's blood to chill in his veins, as the men speculated as to whether the four had actually collected the handsome reward they expected from Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Pratt rather abruptly drank the rest of his beer, and when he lowered the glass from his lips, he discovered that their musings had invited others nearby to join in their discussion about what Wickham might have done to capture the particular attention of one of the richest men in England.