Authors: Karalynne Mackrory
Mr. Bennet chuckled. “I never believed that man, and it seems he was not a good man after all. His debts around town are confirmed, and I, for one, could not be happier he is gone from the neighborhood.” Mr. Bennet briefly allowed himself to wonder again whether Lydia’s death could have been . . . No, he would not think of it. He would trust Mr. Darcy.
“I like him, Papa.”
“Mr. Wickham? Oh, child, please say that is not so!” Mr. Bennet was already reaching for her hand.
Elizabeth wrinkled her brows and laughed as he took her hand. “No, Papa. I guess I should have been clearer.” Sobering, she continued, “I like Mr. Darcy.”
“I know, Lizzy.”
“You know? But you just thought —”
Mr. Bennet chuckled; he was doing a lot of that lately. “I wanted to hear you say it. But perhaps your feelings run deeper than you have indicated.”
Elizabeth puckered her lips, attempting to hide a smile as she blushed and turned her head away. “I think you might be able to say that.”
“He is a good man, Lizzy, and will make you happy. Of that, I am sure.”
“I believe you are right, Papa,” said she, adding to herself,
very happy, indeed
.
“Well you had better see what his sister writes then, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth smiled and nodded. She was already breaking the seal and unfolding the paper. Her smile faded as she read through the missive. Her friend was not going to be arriving until the week before the wedding. Her friend stated the reason for their delay being her brother’s business in town. Elizabeth was disappointed that she could not see her friend before then. She had looked forward to seeing him so much.
Him
? Of course, she meant
her
.
* * *
Willing himself not to breathe the putrid air too deeply in that part of London, Darcy grabbed his walking stick. It served both as protection and as
Mr. Burns’s
prop. Groaning, he stepped out of the hired hackney and walked the block to the pub where he was to meet Perkins. It did not get any easier, knowing what to expect inside.
Thankful for his gloves, he pulled at the door to the drinking establishment and walked in. As he looked around for Perkins, expecting not to see him there yet, he noticed a few of his cousin’s hired runners lounging around the tables. They blended in perfectly with the rest of the sordid inhabitants. Darcy looked down at his own black coat and trousers, satisfied to see that they put him above the rest but not so far above as to draw too much speculation. It matched the image Mr. Burns had kept before with Perkins.
Darcy scouted out a table in the back corner of the room. He removed his hat and placed it and his walking stick on the table. When he sat, he drew his hands together in front of him, realizing that his glove had already acquired some kind of sticky substance from the table’s surface.
Lovely,
he thought as he scanned the place again for Perkins.
A buxom barmaid sauntered over to take his order and give him an armful of her wares as she bumped into his side. Darcy did his best to hide his disgust, even offering up a small smile as he pushed a coin to her and ordered a strong drink. With a wink and another carefully maneuvered stumble, she left to fill a glass for him, dropping the coin down the front of her dress.
The man at the table in front of Darcy caught his eye. He had his back to him and wore a dank leather hat pulled low on his head. Darcy recognized the slight slant to his shoulders, the unmistakable greasy, dull brown hair visible under the hat and the way the man was even now twirling a coin under the table through his fingers. Perkins had flipped a coin up and around each of his fingers whenever he talked with Mr. Burns before. Darcy smiled, knowing that he had not been fooled this time. He sat back and waited for the man to make his presence known.
Eventually, and to Darcy’s growing annoyance, the man turned around about thirty minutes later and took the other seat at Darcy’s table.
“Burns.”
“Perkins.”
“What can I do fur ya gov’ner?”
Darcy leaned forward, controlled and precise. “I have decided to continue searching for the gentleman I hired you to find last time.”
Perkins dipped a finger in Darcy’s untouched glass of Whiskey and brought his dirty digit to his mouth. Darcy ignored this uncouth scamp’s attempt at intimidating him and signaled the barmaid for another drink.
“What’s ’e to ya?”
Darcy paused for thought; he must appear calm and collected. “He owes me.” That was true.
And I owe him a broken rib or two. Perhaps I could throw in a broken nose for free.
Darcy smiled, somewhat wickedly, causing his companion to swallow and sit back.
“My fees is more now.”
Darcy pulled a small purse out of his jacket. He tossed it on the table with a loud jangle of the coins. A few men turned towards the sound, and Perkins frowned as he quickly hid the sack in his jacket. He sat looking at Mr. Burns. He was good for some ready cash, it seemed. He had been making a pretty penny with Wickham while his dibs were in too. His job was to do exactly as he had done before, lead people Wickham owed down false foxholes. He was paid by Wickham and now thought he might gain a bit of the ready from the other half as well. No reason why they cannot pay for him to ‘find’ Wickham while the man himself pays Perkins to keep him hidden.
Perkins lied. “Might take time, gov’ner. Not on ’is trail, ya see.”
Darcy saw the greedy gleam enter his associate’s eye and vowed to see him find suitable employment — perhaps on a navy boat bound for the Peninsula — when this was all finished.
“I understand. I will pay you weekly. I expect you to report to me here to receive payment and to fill me in on any developments.”
Perkins was obviously pleased with the terms of their agreement and was currently calculating how many weeks he might be able to bleed the man by chasing down fake leads. Darcy collected his personal items from the table, not acknowledging Perkins when the scoundrel tipped his hat to him.
Darcy sighed as he got back into another hired hackney to take him away to a more reputable part of town where he could hire yet another to take him home. His part was done except for meeting weekly with Perkins. Darcy was hopeful, though, that Perkins would lead the runners to Wickham before the week was out.
So it was with great relief that, a few days before he had to venture out to meet again with Perkins, his cousin came striding into his study with news. They had found Wickham.
Chapter 14
Darcy stood looking out his study window to the square below, trying to comprehend his cousin’s news. He turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Tell me again why we do not just arrest Wickham?”
“Darcy,” Richard said warily, “We cannot arrest a man on speculations.”
“Then arrest him for his debts. I will wager they are substantial.”
“True, but Wickham has accumulated quite a stash of money with his latest luck at the tables and would probably be able to buy his way out of most of them, leaving the rest holding his vowels and no wish to prosecute. No, the way I see it, all we need is time and we can rid England of him once and for all.”
“Time.” Something Darcy did not wish to give up. Wickham’s location was known, the runners were watching him, and now he was told he must wait — wait for Wickham to make a mistake, which was bound to happen with time. Darcy let out a heavy sigh. “What if there was a way to force his hand. His tongue was always loose when he was in his cups. We could get him drunk and question him.”
At the suggestion of drinks, Richard stood and poured himself one. He stood contemplating his cousin’s suggestion as he savored his own glass. “It might work, but our involvement must remain a secret. Even foxed, Wickham would never say a thing if he suspected a trap.”
“Your runners.” Darcy was becoming excited about his plan. “They could ingratiate themselves into some of Wickham’s tables. They have to watch him anyway; let him think they are other low-life gamblers.”
Richard sat down, shaking his head. “No, Wickham considers himself a gentleman. It would have to be among company he would want to impress, though not so high that Wickham might restrain himself in his speech as not to offend their sensibilities.”
Darcy took his seat next to his cousin. They were silent for a while. Suddenly the colonel shot up. “Of course, George and Leigh would be perfect for it.” Richard laughed to himself at some memory involving the two. “Major George Whitman and Colonel Leigh Masters, lately of His Majesty’s army and friends of mine. They owe me, too, after that little hobble in Bath last year.” Richard chuckled again, and Darcy cleared his throat. Richard, now obviously in jovial spirits, refocused. “They could be our men.”
“Do you think they can do it then?”
Richard nodded his head confidently. “As long as Wickham is not suspicious, we should be able to find out whether he was involved in Lydia’s death.”
Darcy nodded. “How soon can we set it up?”
“No more than a few days, I am sure.” Richard rubbed his hands together with excitement.
“Well, at least I can drop Perkins. There is a positive side to all this after all.”
“No, you have to keep Perkins.” Darcy groaned. “Darcy, we have to make sure no one associated with Wickham gets suspicious.”
Darcy reached over, took his cousin’s glass of port and finished it, stifling the man’s protest with a raised brow in his direction.
* * *
Wickham leaned his arm against the bar and surveyed the room. Cigar smoke filled the air as thick as wool and heavy enough to block much of the poor light coming from the gas lanterns on the tables. He looked over his shoulder to the barkeep, one of his new friends. He smiled to himself. It was amazing how many friends one could have when flush in the pockets. When his luck was down, the same men would turn, but Wickham never stayed around that long. Wickham raised a finger towards the man who nodded his head, sliding a glass down to him. Picking up the glass of brandy, Wickham turned again to the room.
Men were drinking, cards out, cigars in their mouths. A loud round of laughter drew his attention to a table at his side where a couple of officers and a few regular patrons were playing a game. The men laughed again, the two officers at the table leaning into each other, obviously foxed and losing badly. Neither one seemed to mind; they were drunk as lords and oblivious to the Johnny cardsharps that were bleeding them dry.
Wickham turned back to the bar and set his empty glass down. He motioned to his friend and the man came to him.
“What can you tell me about the two reds over there?”
The barkeep picked up Wickham’s discarded glass and began polishing it with his dirty rag. He spit out a bit of tobacco juice to the floor beside him as he put the glass back on the shelf for the next patron. “They come in a few hours ago — swimmin’ in lard and lookin’ for a good time.”
The table erupted with laughter again, drawing Wickham and the barkeep’s eyes to it. A barmaid walked by to fill the officers’ glasses. One of the men reached for her hand and pulled her close to whisper something in her ear. She tittered, and the man pushed a coin into her grubby palm before allowing her to walk away.
Wickham turned to his friend. “They do not seem to be in luck this evening.”
His friend laughed. “I don’t suppose their luck’ll change neither. Not with Jem and Stoney bleedin’ ’em.”
“Dipping rather deep, I’d say. How long did you say they have been here?” Wickham was calculating how long they might stay and whether he might cash in on their good times as well.
“Aye, they’s regular wells, those uns. Drink like horses. A few hours, I reckon.”
Wickham nodded and straightened to his full height. He turned to the barkeep and said he would want a bottle sent to the table.
“What’ll ya be drinkin’ this time, Wick?”
He tendered a mischievous grin. “The regular for me, and a bit of your blue ruin for the chaps.”
Wickham tapped the bar and walked over to the table with the officers just as Jem placed his winning card on the stack. Wickham reached for the man’s arm and lifted it up, pulling out the extra cards he knew the man kept hidden in his sleeve.
“I suppose these cards just fell into your coat, eh, Jem?”
Major Whitman, flawlessly acting the soused fuddler, stood up angrily, knocking his chair on the floor. “I say, what gammon is this?”
Swearing a chain of oaths, Colonel Masters stood too, his chair falling behind him. “You both are a bunch of sharps!” He pulled at the other man’s collar. Stoney stumbled out of his grasp, losing his stash of secret cards in the process.
Wickham smiled as he knocked the two gamesters into each other. They were his friends, and he would repay them later for their losses. “Get out, the both of you.” When they reached for their winnings, Wickham elbowed one of them in the nose, causing him to spill his claret down his shirt. “I believe these two gentlemen deserve their purse after you cheated them.” Wickham pushed the pile of coins back in an attempt to placate the drunken officers.
“Right good of you, sir. Major Leigh Masters, and this is my friend” — he hiccupped and swayed on his feet — “Colonel Whitman.”