by Gail McEwen
He never made it to that quiet spot because he noticed his cousin attempting to catch his eye across the room, conveying without words a desire to speak to him. Darcy nodded and followed the crowd into the dining room. Positioning himself away from the refreshment tables, he waited until Fitzwilliam had seated his companion, paid her little attentions, brought her a plate and a glass of wine, and then excused himself.
“You make a lovely couple,” Darcy observed non-committally.
“Father is really putting the screws to me.” Fitzwilliam shrugged. “She is not so bad. But that is not why I wanted to speak to you.”
Darcy raised an inquisitive brow and waited.
“You will never guess who has stolen upstairs, no doubt to one of the empty bedchambers, and with whose wife.”
“Fitzwilliam,” Darcy snapped, “I have no time, interest, and certainly no patience for gossip tonight.”
“You will be interested enough when I tell you that it is our old friend, up to his usual tricks with that old fool of a baron’s wife.”
“Wickham?” Darcy’s face blackened with anger.
“The very one. I normally do not take the trouble to notice his behaviour, but knowing that Mrs Wickham is here, I cannot help but find it truly disgusting.”
Darcy’s mind whirled. Amid the anger and outrage was an urgent imperative to act. Something must be done to punish the blackguard who had used, deceived and degraded Elizabeth and was now treating her with such open disrespect.
“If Miss Greyson can spare you for five more minutes, do you think you can discover exactly where they have gone?”
“Of course, I can. In fact, I am intimately acquainted with the most convenient rooms for tête-à-têtes such as these.” At Darcy’s curious look, he smiled. “I have been to three balls in this house, Cousin.”
“Good.” Darcy ignored the implication. “Find them out, but wait for me. I shall be up shortly.”
After Fitzwilliam left, Darcy stood for a moment to control the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted nothing more than to run up the stairs, fling open the door, and tear the man’s head off with his bare hands, but calm, measured action could do just as well as violence in this instance. A moment more to settle his thoughts and he would act.
* * *
A short time later—had her world turned upside down so quickly?—a stunned Elizabeth walked into the supper room. The room buzzed with multiple conversations, laughter, and shouting while she numbly searched for George. She did not want him; she did not want to be anywhere near him, but more than that, she wanted to leave. It was too bright, too warm; if she could find George, perhaps she could get money for a hackney to take her home. Home, where she could be alone and sit staring into the cold darkness, and eventually— hopefully — grow numb.
She searched all the faces, but her husband was nowhere to be seen. Evidently, the dining table was not incentive enough to tear him away from the card table. She finally recognised that odious business partner of his, Lord Smythe-Hamilton, sitting near the dessert table, and she started towards him. She would ask him to take a message to her husband. However, before she got very far, she was stunned to see Mr Darcy approach his lordship, leaning in to speak privately in his ear. Smythe-Hamilton’s complexion immediately turned a brilliant red, and he looked affronted, but Mr Darcy spoke again calmly, and soon the two men left the room together.
* * *
Without speaking further, Darcy and Smythe-Hamilton went up the stairs and came to a halt outside a door where Colonel Fitzwilliam waited. At Darcy’s nod, he opened the door, and the three of them stepped inside to view a spectacle suddenly illuminated by the lights in the hallway.
“My lady,” Fitzwilliam dryly observed, “I hope you do not kiss your mother with that mouth.”
* * *
After that, everything passed in a blur. At the sounds of screams and angry bellows, the crowd surged out of the supper room and into the corridors, pressing Elizabeth along with it. At the top of the stairs stood George, his hanging shirt tail unable to conceal the fact that his breeches were undone. They descended in a noisy parade: a red-faced George with his arms pinned roughly behind him by a grim Colonel Fitzwilliam, an enraged Lord Smythe-Hamilton sputtering filthy epithets, his dishevelled wife screaming incomprehensible excuses and apologies, and following at a distance, a cold, foreboding Mr Darcy.
The crowd around her exploded in frenzied anticipation. Her eyes clouded over, and her ears buzzed; she was pressed this way and that as she heard more shouts and accusations, giggles from nearby ladies, and guffaws from the men. Then a frisson of excitement travelled through the room as the words “challenge” and “duel” were first whispered in disbelief then shouted in glee.
“Swords or pistols?” The words carried loudly through the room.
“There are pistols in the game room!” Someone excitedly offered to smash open the display case.
The jostling of the crowd and the tinkling of glass.
“Who will second?”
“I shall.”
“And I.”
The doors to the ballroom were thrown open to the outside. The mob surged forward, straining for a view. A shot, and then another, so loud she threw her arms over her head and cried out.
Then silence.
In the cold air, smoke twisted and swirled, carrying the acrid smell of gunpowder into the hushed room. Guests looked at each other in shock and shame then quickly looked away. A horrified hostess stood in disbelief over what had become of her fine event.
“Someone call the authorities!”
Then she was being pushed along again and bustled into a carriage with Mr Darcy and an older couple she did not recognise.
“What? Where are we going?” were the only words she could articulate.
“To your sister’s house,” someone said; she could not tell who.
Once there, she stood dully in the entry until the household was roused. Jane, followed by her husband, rushed down the stairs and embraced her tightly, but all Elizabeth could think was that Jane should not be out of bed. She was given over to the care of her sister and a maid, and hurried upstairs while the gentlemen talked below.
“Jane, you mustn’t—”
“None of that, Lizzy,” Jane interrupted, leading her into a bedchamber. “I am quite well.”
The maid arrived with an armful of nightclothes, another followed behind bearing a glass of milky-white liquid on a tray. Confronted with such competent industry in the face of her own stupor-like state, she submitted to being undressed and put to bed.
“Jane, what happened? I could not see. Is he—?”
“Shush, Lizzy, shush,” Jane murmured soothingly, brushing her cool, smooth hand over her face. “Drink this; it will all be better in the morning.”
Elizabeth did as she was told and let herself be tucked in. Soon the soothing liquid coursed through her veins, her toes tingled and she felt warm all over. Jane was right, she thought just before sinking into a deep sleep. She would wake up tomorrow back in her own bed at Longbourn, and the long nightmare would be over.
Chapter 13
George Wickham sat as still as the cold stone wall that pressed into his back, knees drawn up against his chest. He took shallow breaths, but even the neck cloth wrapped around his nose and mouth made little difference in the unbearable stench of human excrement and sickness. After a night of gaming, he did not have enough money on his person to buy his way into one of the better wards, so he had been clapped in irons and thrown into the common felon’s ward of Newgate Prison in the middle of the night. It was pitch black. The floor was a mass of sleeping, stinking bodies, and even though his legs and feet were aching with the cold and loss of circulation, he dared not try to shift his position. Every movement disturbed a sleeping felon and brought a chorus of curses so intense and foul that it shocked even him. The heavy shackles chafed his wrists and ankles. His mouth was dry, and he could not swallow without his throat closing in.
In short, he was terrified.
Somehow, all his careful plans had come undone. He had lost control, and now he was in gaol—arrested for murder.
His mind was a whirl of questions, fears, and a desperate need to place the blame anywhere but on his own shoulders. It was that stupid bitch Gwen’s fault! If she had not been such a flirt, so obviously interested in him… Why she had practically been the aggressor in the whole affair, and if Smythe-Hamilton had not been such a blind idiot, he never would have been tempted. Why was he to blame if the woman could not keep her skirt down?
And to be caught by Fitzwilliam, with Darcy just behind. His face burned with indignation. What interest did either of them have in his affairs? What business was it of Darcy’s —
Of course! It was revenge. After all, had he not pursued and married Elizabeth for the sole purpose of making Darcy jealous? It had been so long ago, and Elizabeth had grown so sharp and unpleasant, he nearly forgot how it had all come about and how much Darcy had wanted her. And before that, he had nearly managed an elopement with Georgiana. He would have managed it had the little twit not been so timid. Ah, he still regretted that £30,000. But, Darcy had seen his chance and now had his revenge. That must be it, or why would he have orchestrated that ugly scene? Had he also instigated the duel?
Well, well. Wickham managed a smile in the darkness. There was his leverage. There was his way out. Whatever else he was, Darcy was a man of principle. He may have acted impulsively in the night, but he could not be proud of his motives when he reflected on them in the cold light of day. He would appeal to the man’s better nature, to his family pride, and to those weaknesses of character that always gave Wickham the upper hand in the end.
* * *
Elizabeth slept fitfully, only dimly aware of the passage of time. Several times when she was on the verge of wakefulness, another glass of the chalky liquid was pressed to her lips, and she fell back into a deep slumber. Once, she woke to the cool feel of a hand on her cheek. It was an effort to open her eyes, but when she did, she saw Jane’s gentle smile. She tried to form a question, but her tongue was thick and heavy in her mouth, and she could not quite think of what she wanted to ask, so she rested her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes again.
Sometime later, she was awakened by a quiet tap on the door. Her mind was fuzzy, and her first thought was that she was not freezing cold. Her second was to realise that it was because she was not in her room in Castle Street. Only when the maid entered, with Jane close behind, did she remember where she was.
“Lizzy, dearest, are you feeling quite well?” Jane asked, sitting on the bed beside her.
“I think so,” Elizabeth answered. “I feel so strange. Have I been ill?”
“The doctor thought it best to keep you sedated, while…” Jane stopped. “But I should let the gentlemen explain. How much do you remember?”
Elizabeth absently watched the maid quietly and efficiently open the draperies and stoke the fire while she pieced together recent events. The ball. Mr Darcy. The devastating revelations about the letter. George and his lordship and that woman and…
“Oh.” The weak syllable escaped of its own accord as memories came crashing in on her.
“Lizzy,” Jane said, as another maid appeared with a breakfast tray, “the gentlemen are waiting in the parlour with Bingley. They have requested you join them at your convenience.”
“Gentlemen?” she asked woodenly. “What gentlemen?”
“Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
She turned frightened eyes to Jane, whose own were swimming in tears. So there was a delegation awaiting her downstairs. She knew why they had come, but she would not allow herself to articulate the thought. Best to remain numb, not to think about it until she must. Hold on tightly and be strong. What does it matter if the entire world knows my most intimate business? He has paid for it now, and all I can do is conduct myself with dignity. Somehow, I shall survive this. She focused on staying strong; if she allowed herself to succumb to the emotions that lay so close to the surface, she would not be able make it through whatever lay ahead of her.
She sat down to eat but, despite her sister’s urging, only managed a few bites before her stomach threatened to revolt. Could I go back to Longbourn? Would I be welcome there? If not, perhaps a small place by myself—I wonder whether Kitty might come? — somewhere remote and quiet… The maids flitted in and out, bringing one of Jane’s old frocks, and she forced herself to stop thinking. Meekly, she stood while they fitted it on her, working quick magic with thread and needle, pins and sashes until it looked like it had been made for her. There is the money in the bank he could not touch; surely I can make do…
Taking a deep breath to prepare herself, she followed Jane down the stairs and to the parlour, holding herself stiffly upright. The three men shot out of their seats when she entered and bowed formally. Jane stood by her husband, who, along with Mr Darcy, looked to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Mrs Wickham,” the colonel said solemnly, “please know you have our sincerest respect and sympathies. We are dreadfully sorry to intrude upon you at such a time, but please believe we are here only to offer you any and every means of assistance possible.”
Elizabeth tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Keep calm; keep in control. She cleared her throat.
“Thank you, Colonel. That is very kind of you.”
The colonel’s face was grave but kind as he approached the matters at hand directly. “I spent much of yesterday with the authorities in order to bring you as clear a picture as I could of what is to come. And, as I am sure you have many questions, I am at your disposal.”
“Where have they taken him?” she asked, trying to settle her mind by turning to practical matters. “I do not know… Surely there are arrangements that need to be made.”
“He is in Newgate,” Fitzwilliam replied, “but there is nothing immediately to be done. He will not be allowed visitors for — ”
“What?” she interrupted in shock. “Newgate? But why?”
Bingley placed his hand on her arm gently. “You may rest assured that I shall do everything I can to be of assistance. I shall consult with my attorney, and we will find the best—”
“Surely, there is no need for an attorney, Mr Bingley.” She tried to make sense of his offer. “George has—had—very little.”
“Regardless,” Bingley persisted, “I will spare no expense to see he is provided with the best defence. You are to think nothing of the cost.”
“Defence? How can there be…” Understanding began to dawn. “He is not… I thought I was…that he was…” Her eyes darted from one man to the next in search of an explanation, but their sombre expressions only increased her confusion. “Please, someone speak plainly to me. George is not dead? He was not killed in the duel?”
“He is not dead.” Mr Darcy spoke for the first time. “He is very much alive but in Newgate prison to be charged with the murder of Lord Smythe-Hamilton.”
Elizabeth paled. Not dead. Under arrest. Murder. A sudden clarity into what now lay ahead for her, so different from what she had just moments ago anticipated—charges, trial, testimonies. Unimaginable expenses, daily humiliation, all aspects of her life and marriage examined in detail in the scandal sheets. Her husband had been taken with another man’s wife; then, when his crimes were exposed, he had killed the man. She felt a dreadful mixture of shock and disbelief, and to her shame, she could not deny that mingled in with it all was a touch of disappointment.
Sitting down abruptly, she held herself straight in the chair, hands clasped on her lap, and as Jane rushed to her side, she asked for an explanation. It was Colonel Fitzwilliam who spoke, gently describing the progression of events. Wickham would be taken for an examination before the magistrate where the decision would be made as to whether to commit him to prison for murder. Her mind raced; she listened intently to the colonel’s voice but found herself unable to understand much of what he said. He
r fingers tingled from clenching her hands tightly to keep them from trembling. She felt the looks of the others in the room acutely. Jane was distressed, Mr Bingley showed only sympathy and concern, but although he watched her intently, Mr Darcy’s face was unreadable.
“Unfortunately, the law takes a dim view of duelling, regardless of the circumstances…”
“I doubt the circumstances could in any way be interpreted in my husband’s favour, Colonel.”
“Ahem, yes,” the colonel continued uncomfortably. “It is true that had he been the injured party rather than the uh…that is, sympathies would naturally tend towards…” At a loss, he turned to the others. Bingley just looked pained, but Darcy stepped forward.
“The unpleasant fact, Mrs Wickham, is that your husband took the life of a peer. The contest was contrived, badly done, and against all proper procedures, but regardless, even Wickham should have known enough to shoot into the ground and let the old man regain some of his dignity.”
“Wickham knows nothing but to act to his own advantage,” Colonel Fitzwilliam scoffed, forgetting himself. “After cuckolding the old fool, what possible expectation could there be for him to behave decently towards him?”
“For God’s sake, Fitzwilliam!” Bingley hissed with a significant glance towards Elizabeth.
“There is no need to concern yourself, Mr Bingley,” she said. “I have known for quite some time the sort of man my husband is.”
Bingley dropped his eyes in embarrassment, and an uncomfortable silence filled the room, interrupted after what seemed an age by the sound of the colonel’s shuffling feet.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but I must attend the hearing. I am required to testify to what I witnessed.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth nodded. “I thank you for all your efforts on my behalf. It was very kind of you to go to such trouble.”
“Not at all.” Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed in farewell.
A slight swaying motion beside her brought Elizabeth’s attention back to Jane, still standing staunchly at her side but grown pale and unsteady on her feet. Immediately, Bingley was at his wife’s side, escorting her out of the room while gently chiding her for over-exerting herself, and Elizabeth was left alone in the parlour with Mr Darcy. He looked on her with concern, but she dropped her eyes and focused on her hands clasped in her lap. Her breath came carefully in slow, measured movements.