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.”
The other officer laughed and grabbed at his friend’s arm. “I am the major and you are the colonel.” The two men guffawed raucously and thanked Wickham for stepping in and retrieving their swag for them.
Wickham made a magnificent leg and accepted their praise and thanks graciously. Then Masters offered Wickham a chair at their table and invited him to sit for a game. “To thank you properly as a gentleman for your steppin’ in, don’t you know.”
He accepted.
Wickham smiled as he took a seat. He held his arm up and called to the barkeep for a bottle of his favorite and one for his new friends. They raised their glasses to his generosity and shuffled the cards again. The barkeep sent over a bottle for each of them and an empty glass for Wickham.
After pouring his own glass, he surveyed the officers over the rim as he brought it to his lips. They were not nearly so drunk that they could not play cards but too bosky to suspect being fooled again. He was satisfied.
For the next few hours, the three men grew stinking drunk. One got richer, the other two poorer. The bar filled with their loud teasing and ribald comments. The two officers were cautious with their drinks and often managed to empty them onto the floor unnoticed. Wickham, however, seemed to be well on his way to oblivion and a bad headache. With all the finesse of supposed men on the cut, the officers conducted their maneuvers of loosening Wickham’s tongue. The conversation grew more bawdy and licentious as the evening progressed.
Near three in the morning, the two officers chortled good-naturedly as they passed the last of their coin to their new friend Wickham. Leigh turned to the other officer. “I suppose it was not our night for Lady Luck, my friend.”
They stood and swayed dangerously a few times before they steadied themselves and reached to shake Wickham’s hand.
“’Tis a pity to lose, but you’re a fine chap to lose to if’n a man has to.” Major Whitman covered a gurgle from his throat and placed a hat crookedly on his head.
Wickham was satisfied with his evening of easy pickings from two poor card players. “Any time you gentlemen come back, I would be honored to sit with you.” He swayed a bit himself as he stood.
Leigh looked as if he was going to fall asleep on his feet, but he nodded and said, “Maybe next time we meet, it will be your luck that is down, George Wick . . . umph . . . Wickham.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the spittle from his chin.
The two officers attempted a bow but only just managed not to fall to the ground in the process. They turned and sang an old army tune as they stumbled out the door, thanking a patron for holding the door as he exited before them.
Wickham could hear their loud singing for several minutes after they left. He opened up his own purse and swept his winnings into it. Throwing a small pile on the bar for his friend and another bit for Jem and Stoney at the other end, he walked out the back door and up a side alley to a staircase belonging to the boarding house where he kept his rooms.
On the other side of the block, the two officers, as sober as a Sunday, followed the ‘patron’ from the pub into a waiting hired hackney.
“Well, what do you think?” The patron, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, took off a heavy, well-worn coat and hat.
Major Whitman and Colonel Masters shook their heads. The major answered, “The man is the worst kind of sleaze I have ever met! I do not know how he considers himself a gentleman after what we heard in there.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded in agreement. “Thank you both for enduring. I suppose it was worse than I thought, so I ought to owe you now.”
Masters answered with a laugh. “After meeting Wickham, I would dare say putting him away would be reward enough for me.”
Whitman agreed and added, “We will come by your house tomorrow and give you a full report. I am sure you did not catch everything.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “I did not. I could not risk his recognizing me, but I could not stay away; you understand.”
The hackney slowed and finally stopped; they exited and walked the distance to their lodgings, leaving Richard to continue on his way back to Mayfair.
* * *
“And you are sure?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel before he spoke. “As sure as I can be. I was there, you know. I saw Wickham finish off an entire bottle himself. I saw him ape-drunk.”
“What did he say to your friends?”
The colonel waved him off. “Too depraved to repeat. But there was never any hint or suggestion of Wickham laying a hand on Lydia.”
Darcy drew in a slow breath and held it. His heart began to beat faster as he was filled with a sense of hope he had not allowed himself to feel since getting his cousin’s letter summoning him to London. Could he really be free to go to Elizabeth now? Free in his conscience, too, that Wickham was as despicable, wicked and villainous as ever but not guilty of murder? He released the air he had been holding and looked at his cousin.
“What exactly did they say to him?”
“They bragged about supposed conquests with Haymarket ware . . . and hinted of convenient, gently bred ladies and” — Richard’s face contorted with disgust — “Even spoke of the need to lay a firm hand on ladies sometimes. All the things we previously discussed. All manner of falsehoods that would provoke Wickham to share his own stories.”
“And I assume he did.”
Richard mumbled a low oath. “Oh yes, he had many stories of his own to share. Of course, his stories are likely true or at least exaggerations.”
“And nothing he said was familiar to the story with Lydia?”
“I questioned them thoroughly, Darcy. I assure you, if Wickham had said anything even remotely suspicious, I would have had his hide.”
Darcy nodded, satisfied. “Then you do not think he did it.”
“I did not say that,” Richard mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Oh hell, Darcy! I do not know. Something does not seem to fit. Nothing points to Wickham and ye
t everything in my gut does. Satisfied?”
No, Darcy was not. It was how he felt, too. He picked up the book on his desk and looked at it. It was the one Elizabeth had been reading the day he found her in his study. He had not returned it to the shelves yet. It was beginning to seem they would never know whether Wickham was guilty or not. That was no reason for Darcy to hold back any longer though. A slow smile grew as he looked down at the plain brown binding.
“So I am free to go to Hertfordshire then.”
Richard laughed despite his foul mood. “I suppose you are. Go. Claim your beauty. Who knows, maybe I will get lucky and she will refuse you, professing a fondness for your devilishly handsome cousin the colonel.”
Darcy’s quiet growl only made his cousin laugh louder. His mind brought him easily back to the feel of Elizabeth in his arms when she was overwrought at Hunsford; Elizabeth smiling at him in his studio at Pemberley, admiring his art; Elizabeth responding to his kiss with sunbeams in her hair. His face spread into a wide grin.
The roguish glint in his eye caught Richard off guard, and his laughter died.
“I do not think that will happen, Richard. I believe I can safely say where the lady’s preferences lie, and they are not with you.”
The colonel grinned before his face turned serious. “You deserve her, William.”
Darcy acknowledged the heartfelt sentiment. He knew his cousin only called him ‘William’ under the most staid of situations. He was always ‘Cousin’ or ‘Darcy’.
Darcy was thrilled to be returning to Hertfordshire — to return to Elizabeth. His heart ached with want to see her lovely face again and to witness the spark in her eyes light up at his entrance.
He stood and walked towards the bellpull to summon his butler. When Mr. Carroll arrived, he asked that the man convey his request for Georgiana’s presence in his study.
While he and his cousin waited, he poured them each a glass of wine and toasted his future happiness. He felt freer than he had in weeks and now was eager only to go one place, to be with one person.
Georgiana opened the door and exchanged greetings with her brother and cousin. “You wished to see me, William?”
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