by Jann Rowland
“Before we depart,” said Fitzwilliam, staying Darcy’s desire to leave at once, “I wish to know your opinion of Mr. Collins. You mentioned that Miss Elizabeth had some suspicion concerning his involvement—do you think he is unconnected with Wickham?”
“I cannot see how he is,” said Darcy. “Their goals are by no means compatible, and while Mr. Collins feels he is being ill-used in the matter of Longbourn, I doubt he would descend to such methods Wickham employs without thinking.”
“You do not know that man,” said Bingley.
“No,” acknowledged Darcy.
“I do not believe we can trust Aunt Catherine’s judge of character,” said Fitzwilliam. “I would not suspect most men of the cloth to become involved with such intrigues, but in this matter, I do not wish to take anything for granted. When we arrive in London, could we not dispatch someone to Kent to see if Mr. Collins has returned to his parish? If he is there, that would negate any notion of their being in league.”
“A footman should suffice,” said Darcy. “He would not need to go to Rosings—visiting the tavern in the village and observing the parsonage to determine if Mr. Collins is present should be enough.”
“Then let us see to it,” said Fitzwilliam.
The appropriate preparations complete and farewells were given, and after Darcy and his cousin had changed to their riding leathers, they departed. It was a cold, miserable journey, for though the weather had not turned too wintry, they easily felt the lateness of the season through their great coats and jackets, and the mist of their breath rose in the air, falling behind as they pressed on.
Throughout the journey, they said little, an occasional comment on the subject of Wickham, Georgiana, Collins, or even the Bennets, or an infrequent comment on their progress. When the lights of London rose in the distance, Darcy, who had started to feel like they had been on the road for weeks, released a sigh of relief. The city never truly slept, but it was still and calm, greeting their coming with indifference, the denizens awake at this time of night going about their tasks in a swift and efficient manner.
Soon, the trotting of their horses brought them to Mayfair, and they entered the street on which Darcy’s house lay, noting the utter silence of the neighborhood. Beyond the end of the street, the dark expanse of Hyde Park rose, and the bark of a dog rent the air. Darcy House was situated on a corner, a small garden his mother had adored on one side next to a bisecting street, the whole surrounded by a high fence. All was still as they approached the front door.
Chapter XXX
The bulk of Darcy house rose before him, a monument to wealth unimaginable, to freedom and security, a life of luxury, the power to have anything. It was nothing to Pemberley, that great estate in the north with its ten thousand a year, its wide and spacious halls, reeking of affluence and power. But the London house held a special allure, for it was in the center of society, decadent and hedonistic as it was.
The house had no particular attraction for Wickham, though he knew its master possessed more wealth than he could imagine. It was a residence, no more, regardless of its finely appointed rooms and rich décor. There were many others like it, for the street and most of those beyond groaned under the weight of all that wealth. No, the house was not important to Wickham—it was the owner of the house, the history between them and the just desserts Wickham meant to mete to the sanctimonious bastard which dominated his thoughts. Darcy would not miss the money Wickham meant to have for he had more of it than he could ever use. But to Wickham, it meant everything.
Perhaps some vengeance was in order. Wickham grinned at the possibility, rubbing his hands together as much with glee as in a way to keep them warm in the cold of the late night. Ruining his sister would be exquisite though not the level of revenge Wickham wished to take on his old friend. Miss Elizabeth might be another avenue, he supposed. However, Wickham knew he could not allow such matters to distract him, for it was the prize of his freedom which was important. Such thoughts could wait until later.
A glance at his watch revealed it was almost the agreed upon time; only a few more moments and he would have what he deserved. Last time that accursed Thompson had intervened through means Wickham did not care to know. This time, however, it was certain to go as planned, for Thompson, along with most of the rest of the house, would be sound asleep. Wickham would abscond with the girl would before they knew, and with Fitzwilliam gone to Hertfordshire chasing the phantoms he had left behind, there was no one to stop him.
When the time arrived, Wickham made his way from his place of concealment down the side street toward the back of the house. There, not far from the stables, set in the side wall stood a small servant’s entrance. It was always barred, for the butler was a conscientious sort who had been in his position for many years, knew every inch of the house and checked everything it seemed like twenty times over. But this evening, Wickham had an edge, a failsafe which would allow him entrance.
Sending a quick look down both directions, Wickham noted there was no one in evidence. All was still. Knowing the time had come, he stepped up to the door and knocked, three times in rapid succession, followed by three slow taps, and then one more after a short pause. A trick of the night, a hint of the danger of what he was doing, caused the raps to echo in his ears as if it had been the ringing of the Westminster bells. For a long, agonizing moment he waited, and then he heard the latches grating against the door.
A grin settled over Wickham’s countenance, one that might have been described as feral, had anyone been present to witness it. A moment later the last latch clicked out of place and the door swung open revealing the face of his confederate.
“Sarah,” said he, his voice silky soft, caressing her name. “How beautiful you appear tonight. How beautiful it will be when we possess Darcy’s lovely money. Is everything ready?”
Had Wickham not known he held this woman in the palm of his hand, he might have been concerned at the severe look with which she regarded him. As it was, he knew she was a serious sort, though when given the right encouragement could be a tigress. They complemented each other in many ways, his flair with her dependability, his schemes and her planning, his charisma and manners and her ability to mingle in polite society. It was unfortunate Mrs. Sarah Younge had no notion that Wickham did not mean to share the money he extorted from Darcy with her. It was unfortunate, but Wickham knew money flowed through his fingers quicker than water, and a woman of her expensive tastes would soon deplete the fortune he knew he could deplete himself, and far more rapidly than he would wish. Wickham’s confidence was that he knew he could increase his wealth this time, but he did not need some female hanging onto him, no matter how pleasant her company.
A pinch of the same substance he had given her for the servants of this house, and he would be rid of her, and what she did he did not particularly care. Then freedom would be his, freedom from Darcy and his scruples, freedom from this woman’s neediness, freedom from restraint. It was all he had ever wanted.
“Wickham,” said Mrs. Younge, still regarding him in her inscrutable way. “I had wondered if you would come.”
“I am exactly on time,” said Wickham. “Surely you did not expect me earlier.”
“No, I did not. Given what happened last time, however, I wondered if you would reconsider.”
“Not when the prize is within my grasp. Are the servants asleep?”
“The entire house is asleep,” said Mrs. Younge.
“Excellent. Then let us be about our business.”
“A moment, George,” said Sarah, blocking his way into the house. “Before we proceed, I wish to know the truth of one matter.”
Wickham regarded her, exasperation worming its way into his thoughts. “Can it not wait until we have secured Georgiana? Time is wasting, and Darcy may be along at any moment.” Wickham snorted with disdain. “Though I hesitate to give him any credit, he is clever and may see the truth behind my ruse. If he does, he will fly h
ere like an avenging angel.”
Mrs. Younge peered at him, the slight lift of the corner of her mouth somehow offending Wickham. A moment later it disappeared, and she regarded him as seriously as ever. Wickham made a note to himself to ask her about it later.
“It will only take a moment.”
“What is it?”
“Just this,” said Mrs. Younge. “I wish to know how long it will be before you intend to betray me.”
A fleeting hint of surprise flicked its way across the edges of Wickham’s consciousness. He should have expected her to guess his intentions, for Mrs. Younge was not deficient herself. Wickham knew she was lying in wait to betray him as much as he was to rid himself of her—the trick was to act before she did. There was no honor among thieves, after all.
“I am shocked you believe me capable of such treachery,” said Wickham, pulling out his surprise and offense and hanging it about himself like a cloak. “Have I not demonstrated over and over my love for you?”
“Save your words, Wickham,” said she, glaring at him. “You profess love with an assurance born of much practice, and I am not deceived. You claim to love me, but I am capable of observing that you will only ever love one person—yourself.”
“Had I the leisure to consider your words, I might take offense. As it is, the night is waning, and I have little desire to speak of such matters in a cold doorway. You are familiar with my character, and I well know yours—do not play the martyr, for it becomes you ill.
“Now, shall we proceed?”
“I was a fool for ever trusting you. I doubt it would be two days after we secured the funds before you would leave me destitute.”
“Then we can split it in half as soon as we receive it,” growled Wickham. “What has become of you? Have you become timid in your old age?”
“Timid, no,” said Younge. “But perhaps I have grown a little wiser—wise enough to see through you, for certain.”
“There is no need to argue,” said Wickham, trying a different tack. “We can arrange matters between us in a satisfactory manner. But we need to act now, while we still have the opportunity.”
Mrs. Younge regarded him for several moments before the fateful words spilled from her mouth. “I did not use your powder, Wickham. I poured it in a chamber pot.”
Shocked, Wickham could only stare at the woman. “You did what?” the feral growl did not even sound like his voice.
“I rid myself of it,” said Younge. “I want no further part of your schemes. You should leave at once.”
The door swung closed, but Wickham stuck his foot in the jam, pushing it back inward and forcing her back into the entrance. He realized as he stepped close that she betrayed no fear, did not retreat as he might have thought, though she was a diminutive woman, and he a tall man. The look she directed at him was without fear, even if she was regarding him as one might a wild animal. At present, Wickham was feeling rather wild, indeed.
“What has become of you?” hissed Wickham.
“I have considered the matter and concluded there is little chance of success in this plot and every chance of disaster.”
“Have you lost your mind? If you had put the powder in the food as I directed you, there would be no one to stop us! How is that every chance of disaster?”
“You do know Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, do you not?”
Sarah smiled at him, a cruel gesture showing her triumph, for fear of the colonel’s retaliation had always been the one part of the plan over which Wickham had agonized. Several scenarios had come to him, each one examined and rejected until he had come on the perfect ruse to ensure he received his money and fled from the reach of Darcy and Fitzwilliam’s vengeance before they realized he had departed.
“I can see you do, though your overconfidence is once again your weakness,” continued Sarah. “It is best you leave, Wickham. After much thought, I have determined it is not you that I should fear—it is Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. At present, they have little reason to suspect me, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“Should I illuminate them to your own actions?” Wickham sneered. “What do you think Colonel Fitzwilliam would say if he learned you applied for the position at my urging? Do you think you would escape his wrath?”
“You may be correct,” said Mrs. Younge. “But it will be infinitely worse if I actually do something to endanger their charge. Thus far I have done nothing.”
“I will have what I want, Younge,” said Wickham, stepping close and looming over her. This time she retreated, keeping him at arm’s length.
“Not now, you will not,” said she. “As they have not taken the drug, the staff will awaken easily, and Mr. Thompson is, even now, prowling the halls of the house. I shall scream if you do not leave at once.”
“You will bring suspicion down on your own head,” said Wickham, feeling control of the situation slipping away from him.
“Better that than to inform them of my involvement by drugging the house and disappearing with you.” Mrs. Younge glared at him, still poised to flee. “Leave now, or I shall scream. Then we shall see if Thompson can free us all from your schemes forever.”
For a moment, Wickham peered at her, trying to determine if she would do as she said. The consequences for her could be severe, though perhaps not as severe as those he might face. Though Darcy and his uncle did not exercise the power they held, it was possible they could have him hanged if they captured him this night, especially if they learned what he planned. Mrs. Younge was only likely to be transported, a grim fate to be sure, but one which would at least preserve her life. Wickham judged the distance between them, assessing whether he could reach her and silence her before she cried out. The odds were not good, given the noise a scuffle would raise.
It was the hardness of her eyes which told Wickham she would do as she had said, would raise an alarm before he could reach her. She was no shrinking violet, a woman as hard as life had made Wickham. She would do what she promised.
“I shall have what is mine,” hissed Wickham. “You may be certain of that. And when I have it, a certain letter will make its way into Darcy’s hands, informing him what a wonderful underling you have been.”
Then Wickham turned on his heel and departed through the door, turning as he reached the street and stalking off to his horse. Perhaps she had thwarted him with respect to Georgiana Darcy. But there were other ways to achieve his aims.
The house was quiet with nothing seeming amiss as they approached. A glance down either street when they came to the corner told Darcy nothing for no one was in evidence—he began to wonder if they had raced off to London chasing after specters. The sound of his cousin’s voice brought Darcy’s thoughts back to the house before them.
“Let us enter quickly. There may be nothing amiss, but if Wickham has already made his move, it may have remained undiscovered.”
Darcy nodded, clucking his horse forward at a faster pace, its gait taking him to the front door, Fitzwilliam close behind. When they reached the drive, Darcy swung down from his mount, still watchful in the gloom of the late night. But nothing met his questing gaze.
A sharp rap on the door brought the footman on duty nearby to open it just a crack. The set of eyes peering at him was at first puzzled, then shocked, and the door swung wide, revealing the man in Darcy livery.
“Mr. Darcy!” exclaimed he, though he possessed the presence of mind to stay quiet and avoid waking the entire house. “We did not expect you, sir!”
“I am not surprised, Wilson,” said Darcy, greeting the junior footman. “Is all quiet in the house?”
“It is, sir,” said Wilson, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Thompson stopped by only fifteen minutes ago and then sought his bed. It is as quiet as the grave, sir.”
Darcy nodded, thinking it certain they had arrived before Wickham made his move if their conjectures were even correct. “Then stay at your post. Fitzwilliam and I will see ourselve
s to our rooms and retire for the night. When you see Gates in the morning, inform him of our presence.”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy. Good night.”
Leaving the man behind, Darcy’s long strides took him to the stairway leading to the second floor, and he bounded up, taking the steps two and three at a time, Fitzwilliam on his heels. The second floor was as dim as the lower one had been, the only light that filtering in through the long window at the end of the hall. The family wing lay to the left, and Darcy turned toward his sister’s room, only to halt in surprise at the sight of a shadowy figure approaching from the opposite direction.
“Mr. Darcy?”
It was Mrs. Younge. The shock of seeing her halted Darcy’s progress for the moment, and she stepped into a patch of light. The woman was not her perfectly coiffed self, for she had woven her hair into a braid for sleep and the dress she wore hung a little askew as if she had donned it hurriedly.
“Mrs. Younge? Why are you about at this time of the night?”
Mrs. Younge’s smile and her appraisal of him suggested she had thought of asking him the same thing. She did not voice that thought, however, instead saying:
“I arose a short time ago to walk the house and ensure everything is in order.” The woman paused and gave him a wry smile. “It has become a habit since the events at Ramsgate—it seems I am unable to sleep unless I assure myself that everything is well.”
“Is Georgiana in her room?”
“I checked on her not ten minutes ago,” replied Mrs. Younge. “After dinner, Miss Darcy indicated she was fatigued and wished to retire early. She has been sound asleep ever since.”
“Nothing is out of order?” asked Fitzwilliam, suspicion coloring his voice. “You have not seen Wickham since Ramsgate?”
“Though I responded to the commotion between Mr. Wickham and Mr. Thompson,” said Mrs. Younge, “I could not obtain a good look at Mr. Wickham, and as such, I would not know him if I saw him.”