by Violet King
If Mr. Wickham was inclined towards crises of conscience, he might have felt badly about how he’d spent the past two days cleaning out the other man’s purse, but luck was a fickle mistress. More often than not, she took from Wickham more than she gave.
Mr. Smith fiddled with his cards before taking two of them and placing them facedown on the table. “Deux,” he said, with a remarkably smooth French accent.
Mr. Wickham smiled, “You must have had an excellent tutor,” he said and slid two cards across the table.
“Oui,” Mr. Smith smiled. Beneath his bushy mustache, his teeth were white and straight. “She was like a mother to me.”
A stab of jealousy passed through Mr. Wickham. He’d never been able to forge as close a relationship to the nannies or governesses as Darcy. Probably because Darcy had been the young master of the house, while Wickham only a hanger-on, or as whispered in the servant’s quarters, a by blow. Thoughts of Darcy fanned an inner core of rage inside Wickham that never eased. Simply by an accident of birth, proper, stick up his bum, Darcy had stolen from Wickham what ought to have rightfully been his.
Mr. Wickham discarded the jack and took another card from the top of the pile. A queen of hearts. He was experienced enough cards not to let his delight show on his face. Though they were not of the same suit, it was a lovely straight, and that would allow him to make enough of a payment to keep his creditors off of his back for at least a few more weeks. If he didn’t instead spend the bulk on whores, like he had last night after Mr. Smith had retired.
Mr. Smith looked at his cards. His finger paused at tapping on his cheek for a brief second, then resumed. He had pulled something good, but Mr. Wickham had confidence in his own hand.
Mr. Smith started the betting. “One hundred pounds.”
Mr. Wickham made a show of squinting at his cards, but he knew he had the other man. It was only a matter of how much money he wished to take. And Mr. Wickham planned to take it all.
The bets went back and forth until a staggeringly large sum was promised on the table. Then, they agreed to show their cards. Mr. Wickham triumphantly bared his straight. Mr. Smith, his hands trembling, put his cards down with a sudden bright smile. “I got this, old man,” he said. In front of him was the queen, king, and ace of diamonds.
Mr. Wickham cursed his own luck. Calculating the sum on the table against his previous winnings, much of which he had won over the past two days had gone to whiskey and loose women, Mr. Wickham realized he lacked the funds to pay. Nor would any of the local moneylenders extend his credit. In fact, he had taken to avoiding them as their requests for repayment grew increasingly insistent.
Mr. Wickham forced a smile. It was bad luck, pure and simple. The same bad luck that had plagued him throughout his entire life. Luck was a fickle whore who displayed her wares and then after allowing a man the briefest touch, snatched them away and left him holding the bag.
Wickham would have to play another hand and win his money back. He was the better card player, and that, more than luck, would win out.
“You wounded me!” Mr. Wickham said with an exaggerated expression. “At least offer me a chance to win a little of my money back.”
Mr. Smith, who had been nursing the same glass of brandy for most of the evening, raised it to his lips and said, “It was mostly my money, Mr. Wickham, and I think it might be best for me to take my leave at this point.”
“The night is young,” Mr. Wickham said, and though he did his best to feign a casual manner, he heard in his own tone a hint of desperation. “I must have at least one more hand to redeem my honor.”
“Your ability at cards gives me pause,” Mr. Smith said with a laugh. “You have claimed the bulk of the winnings every day since we have met.”
“And it seems your luck is turned,” Mr. Wickham said. “It is I who should ask to the ending things, as another game will force me to pay a visit to my home vault.”
The vault was as imaginary as Mr. Wickham’s country estate, but Mr. Smith had no way of knowing that. And the tension in Mr. Wickham’s chest eased as he noted the gleam of interest in Mr. Smith’s gaze at the mention of the vault.
“Just one more hand,” Mr. Wickham said. “For your honor and mine.”
“As you wish,” Mr. Smith said. “But if we are to play, it should be for more substantial stakes, don’t you think?”
Mr. Wickham, with reckless confidence, downed the last of his whiskey and waved for another glass. “Certainly,” he said. “I am not one to brag of what I possess,” as he possessed nothing of value, “but of my lands, I do have a small country estate. I’ve spoken of it to you before. Pemberley. Such a small country house may not interest someone of your means, and it is not the most ostentatious country homes, but…” Mr. Wickham described his childhood home.
Mr. Wickham would never have dared to make such an assertion had he been playing cards with someone local, but Mr. Smith had only been in London for a short time, and as Mr. Wickham described the French and Christian influences as well as the natural elegance of the estate’s gardens, he fell into his own tale. What made Fitzwilliam Darcy more worthy of inheriting this estate and the rest of his father’s lands than Wickham himself?
They had both grown up together, they had had the same tutors, and hadn’t Wickham also excelled? At least in so far as one could excel at impressing an instructor who only required one regurgitate a simple series of facts and opinions as similarly as possible to the instructor’s own thoughts? Wickham had as much right to Pemberley as Mr. Darcy himself! Only an accident of birth, of luck, that fickle whore, led Mr. Darcy to have everything while Mr. Wickham gnawed at the scraps.
At the least Darcy could have allowed him Georgiana’s dowry.
Mr. Smith leaned forward on his elbows, his chin on his palm as he listened to Wickham’s description of the estate. Mr. Wickham was struck again at the unfortunate mix of features that made Mr. Smith appear at first glance far older and less handsome than his smooth skin and bright, brown eyes suggested. Set beneath heavy brows, the eyes were sharp and almond-shaped. His brows and bushy, unfashionable mustache were a slightly darker color than his thick, sandy-brown hair, which receded at his temples.
When Wickham finished, Mr. Smith said, “I am uncertain I have any lands of equal value. All I can offer is a small sum,” Mr. Smith stated an amount that made Mr. Wickham’s breath catch in his throat.
“Thirty thousand pounds!” Mr. Wickham exclaimed. It was the price of Georgiana’s dowry without the burden of a wife. With that amount of money, he could pay his creditors and live comfortably for the rest of his life. It had been his original plan with Georgiana, if only Darcy had capitulated instead of snatching the girl out from under his nose. Restraining his glee, Mr. Wickham added, “Yes, thirty thousand is acceptable.”
It was a pittance compared to the value of Pemberley, but Mr. Wickham did not care. Pemberley was a mirage. Thirty thousand pounds, earned cleanly at the gambling table, would be enough to pay off Wickham’s creditors, lease a small home, and still have enough set aside to slake his desires for women, wine, and a lifetime’s friendly games of cards.
As the pair engaged in negotiations, some of the other gentleman, officers mostly, had begun to gather around the table.
“Shall we begin?” Mr. Wickham asked.
“Yes.”
They asked for paper to write down what they were offering for the bet.
From his purse, Mr. Wickham took out his most valuable and dangerous possession, a copy of his late father’s seal. The elder Mr. Darcy had been foolish enough to trust Mr. Wickham, his unacknowledged progeny, with free range of his office and papers. Mr. Wickham had stolen and copied the seal after the old man’s death. He didn’t use it often. Possessing such an item could see him jailed or possibly hung. But for special occasions, such as now, it was warranted.
This paper confers upon the bearer the ownership of Pemberley estate.
Mr. Wickham wrote out the relevant informatio
n about the estate and pressing the seal to a lump of hot wax at the bottom of the page, sealed the bet.
The cards were dealt.
Wickham looked over his hand. A pair of nines and the two of clubs. It took all of his willpower to keep his fear from showing on his face. If he lost this game, he would have to leave London for good. He might even have to leave England altogether and flee to Scotland.
Mr. Smith stroked his mustache. “If you wish to end this, we can call it a draw and––”
“I’ll see it through.” It was an insult to Wickham’s courage to imply that he should forfeit before the game had even begun. More importantly, he didn’t have the money to pay Mr. Smith his winnings for the last game.
Mr. Smith nodded. He took two cards.
Mr. Wickham discarded the two of clubs and took a new card. He hesitated and then picked it up. Queen of diamonds. A middling hand, but it was unlikely Mr. Smith had much better since he had discarded two of his three cards.
“Shall we?” Mr. Smith asked. As always, his “sh” vibrated a touch too long and pronounced almost near the back of his teeth.
Mr. Wickham laid down his cards. Then he looked across the table at his partner. A pair of nines and the ace of hearts.
Mr. Wickham felt like he was made of wax. His skin was thick and numb, and the surrounding noise was officers clapping Mr. Smith on the shoulder while others avoided looking at Mr. Wickham as they murmured what felt like condolences whispered over his own grave. Mr. Smith took the paper with Wickham’s seal, the rights to an estate Wickham did not own, and folded it into precise quarters.
Luck was a fickle whore, but Mr. Wickham had expected more than this. Perhaps it was galling because the game had been so close. The difference between a queen and an ace.
Mr. Wickham threw back the rest of his whiskey. The buzz was gone, leaving Wickham cold and empty. The faster he got out of here, the better. He stood. “I will leave you to your victory. I would be a fool to tempt fate again for a third time.”
Mr. Smith, in a far more authoritative tone than Mr. Wickham had ever heard from the northerner’s mouth, said, “We will need a private room.”
“No need,” Mr. Wickham demurred.
Mr. Smith stood and walked around the table, extending his hand. Mr. Wickham, having no polite way to avoid his opponent, clasped it. This close, the slight twitch at the corners of Mr. Smith’s lips and the glitter in his once soft brown eyes seemed sinister. The edge of his mustache seemed to curl up from his skin as though it was pasted on and not grown from his own flesh.
What in the devil?
In a low tone, Mr. Smith said, “We have much to discuss.”
The accent, which Mr. Wickham had mistaken for some ill-disguised northern brogue, had thickened. Now, it sounded almost Continental. That perfect French pronunciation he had used earlier in the game.
“You’re a—”
“A man of means,” Mr. Smith said. “One who has much to offer and much he can take away from an ambitious man. Or shall we instead leave now so I might claim my estate of...what was the name...Pemberley?”
Mr. Wickham’s mouth was dry. Stealing away a dead man’s seal and using it to give away an estate one did not own was enough of a crime to see him hanged. And Darcy, already against him, would be vengeful in his rage at the discovery of Wickham’s audacity.
“We can talk,” Mr. Wickham said.
Mr. Smith grinned. “Excellent.”
Stepping away from Mr. Wickham, but not letting go of his man’s hand, Mr. Smith called out again for a private room.
The edge of Mr. Smith’s mustache was definitely peeling. It was subtle, and Wickham doubted anyone else would notice, but the mustache, like everything else about this man bothered him. Who was Mr. Smith?
As he followed Mr. Smith up the stairs to the private room he had requested, Mr. Wickham feared his question would be answered all too soon.
5
Despite Mr. Bennet’s initial recalcitrance, he called on Mr. Bingley almost immediately, and Mr. Bingley returned his call with a visit of his own a few days later. Though Mrs. Bennet tried to have Elizabeth stay in the study, the visit had nothing to do with code craft and so Mr. Bennet sent Lizzie to wait with her sisters.
“Once Mr. Bingley has left must get your father to tell us everything about the young gentleman,” Mrs. Bennet insisted. “Mr. Bennet can hide nothing from you, nor does he wish to.”
Elizabeth was less certain of that supposition. Nor did she have any desire to learn more about Mr. Bingley, who she had determined must have a similar temperament to his close and irritating friend, Mr. Darcy.
An hour after Mr. Bingley had left, with arms linked and Mrs. Bennet’s hand atop her daughter’s arm to keep her daughter from attempting to flee, Mrs. Bennet led Elizabeth into the study. “Lizzie, you must help your father complete that cipher. No dawdling.”
“I can walk on my own,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Bennet ignored her.
When they entered, Mr. Bennet stood in front of the window by his desk with his cane in his right hand.
“My dear! How delightful it must have been for you to receive company!”
“I suppose you wish to ask about Mr. Bingley.”
“Why, Mr. Bennet, I would never presume, but as you have brought up the subject—”
“He is a fine young man with pleasant manners.”
“And handsome?”
“I could hardly be trusted to give such an opinion, now could I?”
“My dear Mr. Bennet! Your eyes are not failing so much as that! Was he fair or dark? Large or thin? He appeared from the window to have wide shoulders and an easy gait.”
“Are you wishing our daughters to marry the young stallion or race him?”
Elizabeth smothered a laugh.
“Mr. Bennet!”
“He is young enough and fit enough I suspect for both endeavors.”
“Must you always reduce things to jest?” Mrs. Bennet coughed furiously. “This conversation is not fit for a young lady’s ears.”
“Then I will spare you further humor, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said. “For you are as fair as the day I married you, and I would not ask you to age a day.”
“Well!” Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands at her throat. “Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet.”
Elizabeth averted her gaze. Her father was never needlessly cruel, but she sensed some manipulation in his compliments. Perhaps it was because of the traits he valued, beauty had become—with the deterioration of his eyesight—the least important to him.
Still, it made Mrs. Bennet happy, and that happiness eased some of the tension between mother and daughter. For that, Elizabeth was relieved.
Mrs. Bennet attempted to pull a few more details about the gentleman from her husband, but it was in vain. Eventually, in a flurry of movement and chatter, she left again.
Elizabeth went to the shelf and took down some of her and her father’s notes on previously solved and common keys for substitution ciphers. She dropped the books on the desk with a satisfying thump before beginning to page through them.
“And you, Lizzie, did you have questions about young Mr. Bingley?”
“He is a friend of Mr. Darcy’s, is he not?”
“Mr. Darcy is staying at Netherfield Park as Mr. Bingley’s guest.”
“Then there is nothing more I need to know.”
“You should not let this Mr. Darcy irritate you so,” Mr. Bennet said.
“It is fortunate I dislike him. If he were a gentleman in manner as well as inheritance, then for fear of breaking my mother’s heart at the possibility of a good match, I would feel badly for letting him learn of my eccentricities,” Elizabeth said bitterly.
“Eccentricities?”
“Most men do not search for ciphering in a wife.” Even if Mrs. Bennet had not insisted on telling Elizabeth such at every available opportunity, Mr. John Dunn, her first suitor, had taught her how damaging to her prospects sharing her love of codes and
ciphers could be.
“A woman may play with puzzles, but for heaven’s sake, no more talk of war. Such missives are not appropriate for a lady or a wife.”
Jane had grabbed and held Elizabeth’s arm before she could smack him, and then later that evening, Jane held Elizabeth as she cried.
It was fortunate then, that Elizabeth despised Mr. Darcy. His dismissal of her had been irritating, but since she had no hope or interest of a match with him, she was free to prove herself and, without physical violence, remove that expression of smug coldness from his face.
Mr. Bennet said, “Lizzie, you are a diamond of the first order. If a man cannot recognize that, it is his failing, not yours.”
Elizabeth swallowed. Her father was sometimes selfish in his jests, but he loved her, and, almost as importantly, he understood her.
Unfortunately, he was also wrong.
To secure a husband, Elizabeth would have to play the fool and hide her own abilities. It didn’t preclude a love match, which was her true desire. After she had achieved her husband’s regard in other areas, she would reveal her ciphering. Society expected a man and woman to marry knowing little about each other. Every person had their secrets. Love was born of an instinctive understanding of another’s character. She would do better to abandon the foolish hope of finding a husband who encouraged her less acceptable interests. It was foolishness, plain and simple.
“Papa, would you have chosen a wife who could decipher as well as you?”
Mr. Bennet laughed. “Dear Lizzie, I doubt any woman could decipher as well as myself, excepting you, who are a part of my flesh and blessed with a youngster’s eyes.”
Definitely impossible.
Elizabeth flipped through the books quickly. None of the standard keys had yielded results or inspiration, a surprise to neither her nor her father.
Over the following week, Elizabeth split her time between a slew of decoding requests from Sir Drake’s office and Mr. Darcy’s cipher.