These Three Remain fdg-3

by Pamela Aidan

“Thank you, Tanner.” Darcy offered his hand to the surprised giant, who took it wonderingly into his. “You have my confidence in this. Any expenses you incur shall, of course, be covered; so do not fear to spend what is needed to acquire what I want.”

  “Yes, sir, and you are welcome. Now, you must go! You will hear from me soon.” Tanner drew open the door and bustled them out into the night and up into the cab. “Grosvenor Square, and look sharp, Jory,” he rumbled at the cabbie. “He be Mr. Dyfed’s friend. No tricks!”

  Monday morning saw Darcy in Lord ——— ’s study, where he laid out the matter of Lydia Bennet to the president of the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country. His Lordship listened carefully, taking notes as Darcy labored to give him all the particulars he could without putting the identity of Elizabeth’s sister in jeopardy.

  “A difficult case, indeed.” His Lordship sighed as he put down his pen. “Unfortunately, it is not a unique one. On the contrary, it is quite common. Young country miss meets dashing officer smacking of the world and excitement, and there is no stopping the mischief that results. You realize” — he looked at Darcy earnestly — “that she may not yet wish to leave her officer. Depending on how flush he is, it may be quite some time before disillusionment sets in or until he tires of her.”

  “Yes, My Lord, I realize that.”

  “I fear that if the young lady is as heedless as you indicate, Darcy, there are only two realities that may move her. The better is that the officer has or will shortly run out of money. The other, far less desirable” — he dropped his eyes momentarily before fixing them upon Darcy again — “is that he has been cruel to her.”

  Darcy nodded grimly. “I am prepared for both eventualities, but thank you for your warning.”

  “Then I shall advance this information to our people.” His Lordship rose and extended his hand. “You will hear from me directly any news arrives. They needs be buried very deep in London to escape the Society’s notice, sir, very deep. They shall be found.”

  Pushing away the remainder of a light repast, Darcy rose from his desk, scattering the scraps of notes from Tanner that lay among the dishes and the first draft of a note he’d sent off to his cousin Richard. Wearily, he pulled his pocket watch from its resting place and held it up to the study’s clock. Three-twenty. His morning interview with the head of the Society seemed an age ago, but the times of clock and pocket watch marched together perfectly, each click of the hands marking off another moment of his lack of progress in relieving the disgrace Elizabeth endured. The scene at the inn at Lambton, her shame and desperation, and the tears that had traced down her cheeks were ever before him, spurring him on. Yet time perversely dragged its feet even as his feelings of urgency mounted.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Enter!” Darcy called out. Another note from Tanner lay on the servier Witcher placed upon his desk.

  “From Harry the Groomsman, sir.” The butler sighed. “Yet again. What could be so important that he must be sending notes all morning…” His query faded away at his master’s expectant face.

  “Thank you.” Darcy snatched up the scrap of foolscap. What he read caused him to call after his retreating butler. “Witcher, hold there.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I will be going out and have no notion of when I may return. Please tell your good wife to lay by something in the larder for later tonight. I shall find it when I return.”

  “I shall tell her, sir.” Witcher’s bushy white eyebrows twitched ominously. “But she will not like it, sir, especially with the way you have been keeping to yourself and holding odd hours.”

  Darcy laughed for the first time in days. “Tell her she may spoil me with her cooking soon!” He waved the note at his butler. “This may lead to what I have come to London to discover.” He tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “Send a boy for a hack, Witcher. I must leave at once.”

  A half hour later, the hackney driver opened the door of his cab with a flourish at the sight of Darcy’s somber elegance. “Where will it be, sir?”

  “Edward Street,” he called over his shoulder as he mounted the carriage’s step. “Yes,” he affirmed when the driver’s widened eyes darted up at him, “Edward Street and as quickly as can be.”

  Tyke Tanner’s note had been brevity itself. “Mrs. Younge. 815 Edward Street.” Darcy stretched out his legs as much as the hackney carriage would allow. He had supplied Tanner with the name of Georgiana’s former companion even though he could not guess whether the lady and Wickham had remained on good terms since their connivance against him at Ramsgate. For her complicity, she had been turned off without a character reference. She might well hold a grudge against him for the loss of a highly remunerative situation. But if thieves were thick, as the saying went, perhaps she would have rumor of Wickham or even have seen him.

  Darcy settled back into the cushions of the hired carriage and noted their progress through Mayfair, then the government districts, and into the east side of London. He gripped his brass-knobbed walking stick. Edward Street was unknown to him, but he guessed it would not be in the best part of Town. Therefore, when the hack came to a stop in an upper-working-class neighborhood, he was somewhat relieved that the walking stick he carried would find no more employment than as the article of distinction for which it was intended.

  “Edward Street, sir,” the cabbie called down. “Any particular address?”

  “No, let me out here,” he directed. “I wish to walk.” The cabbie clambered down and opened his door. Darcy gave him the fare and two shillings more. “Walk your horses around the block until I am ready, and your time will not be wasted.”

  “Your obedient.” The cabbie tugged at his forelock. “Me and my lady ’ere will jus’ take the air, so to speak, sir.”

  Darcy nodded and, tucking his walking stick under his arm, began a saunter up the street. It looked a respectable neighborhood. If Wickham and Lydia Bennet had taken refuge here, he would at least give Wickham credit for seeing her protected from the rougher elements of Town. Not every building retained its number, but 815 Edward Street was easily discerned, its number artfully painted on the door below the sunset window at the top. Steeling himself for the confrontation, Darcy mounted the stairs of what appeared to be a rooming house and rapped his stick upon the door. It opened at the hand of a young maidservant.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but there ain’t any rooms. Try the inn down the street an’ over one.” She motioned after his retreating cab. “Jus’ follow the cab there, sir, an’ you’ll see it.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy responded to her bid at helpfulness, “but I have come to see Mrs. Younge. I was given to understand that she lives here.”

  “The mistress?” She looked at him, taking in the quality of his coat and his complacent air. “No one told me that the mistress was expectin’ a gentleman.” She warily looked down at the calling card he extended. He gently placed a shilling atop it. Quicker than a Covent Garden pickpocket, she snatched the shilling, secreting it down the neckline of her dress, and took his card. “If you would follow me, sir?” She turned from her guard of the door and let him in.

  Instead of asking him to wait while she went up to inform Mrs. Younge of her guest, the girl continued down the hall to a room at the back and knocked on the door. “Mr. Darcy to see you, ma’am.” She ducked her head to the room’s occupant and quickly stepped back to admit him just as a faint, strangled cry issued from the interior.

  “No — Oh! You stupid girl! Close the door!” Darcy stepped into the open doorway as his former employee rose from her desk in agitation. With a countenance the color of blancmange, she stared at him as if at a ghost. “M-Mr. Darcy!”

  “Mrs. Younge.” He offered her a small, ironic bow as she sank into a curtsy.

  “I hope…you are well, sir.” She examined him covertly, visibly struggling to regain some composure.

  “I am well, Mrs. Younge, as is my sister. Miss Darcy is very well, indeed.” He looke
d at her steadily, willing her to meet his eyes. “But I did not interrupt your afternoon to exchange civilities.”

  “I cannot imagine…”

  “Can you not, ma’am? Think on it, I beg you.” She turned quickly from him, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze. “What possible connection might still exist between us that would bring me to your establishment today?”

  Slowly, she turned back to him, a look of caution mixed with cunning on her face. “Wickham.” She almost smiled but caught herself. “Miss Darcy —?”

  “Is very well, as I said, and in nowise connected to my business here with you.”

  “I see.” The lady sank into her chair behind the desk. “And just what is your business with Wickham, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Then you have seen him?” Darcy jumped upon her words.

  A tick at the corner of Mrs. Younge’s eye revealed her annoyance at her misstep. “Perhaps.” She rearranged the papers lying on the desk before her, then looked up at him. “What do you want with him, sir? Do you seek him as friend or foe?”

  “That will depend entirely on Wickham, ma’am. If he can quickly be made to see where his best interest lies, he may in the end be glad to have been found.”

  “Indeed?” Speculation had now clearly joined with cunning. “How glad?”

  “That is a matter between Wickham and me.” He leaned over her, fixing her with inflexible purpose. “Tell me, madam,” he demanded, “do you know where Wickham is? Is he here?”

  Her lips pursed as she boldly returned his stare. “I cannot help you.”

  “Cannot or will not?” he replied quietly, then looked about her small office. “I imagine that, as a woman of business, you expend yourself in only those endeavors that will result in some form of profit.”

  A half smile appeared as she inclined her head in admission. “When I was dismissed from your employ, I lost a very good situation. I was fortunate to keep body and soul together. I learned an age ago that I must look after my own interests in whatever form they may come to me.”

  His mind leapt to her dealings with Georgiana. The carelessness of her words awakened a surge of anger, but now was not the time. They must both measure every word. “That was made quite clear last summer in Ramsgate, madam!” he returned in the same quiet tone. “No one’s future may be permitted to stand in the way of your interests.”

  Mrs. Younge dared to shrug her shoulders at him. “It is the way of the world, Mr. Darcy, certainly of your world no less than mine.”

  “No, not all the world, Mrs. Younge.” He straightened and stepped back. “I will make it worth the while of anyone who can give me Wickham’s direction.” He made to leave but turned back at the door. “You must know, madam, you are not my only resource. Others, who have no personal interest save in the doing of good, are also looking for him. I would not wait long, were I you, to decide to place your trust with me. They may find him first, and that, I believe, would not be in your interest. You know where to send word.” He bowed. “Good day, madam.”

  Walking briskly down the hall, he nodded to the maidservant and let himself out. The hackney was just making the turn to come up the street again when he stepped to the curb and lifted his walking stick in salute. The driver pulled his horse to a halt before him. With one foot on the step, Darcy noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye, and looking over his shoulder, he spied a boy of no more than eight fade slowly into the alley between 815 Edward Street and its neighbor.

  “Wait a moment,” he commanded the cabbie and strode over to the dark passageway.

  “Don’t ya be worryin’, govn’r,” a young voice greeted him from the depths of the alley. Darcy stopped and squinted into the duskiness, barely able to see the face of his quarry as the boy peeped at him from around some barrels and boxes. “Jus’ you go home,” the voice continued. “I’ll be awatchin’ the old mort ’n’ send word ta yer groom if she bolts.” The boy’s head bobbed. “Mr. Tanner’s compliments, sir.”

  “And mine to him,” Darcy replied and turned back to the waiting hack.

  “Fitz! What the Devil is this about?” Richard strode into Darcy’s study before Witcher had a chance to announce him. “No knocker on the door, warnings to keep mum that you are in Town, and a dashed imperious command to make my appearance!”

  “Was it imperious? I beg your pardon, Cousin.” Richard’s brow hitched up in wonder at Darcy’s apology, but he said nothing. “Lay it down to the urgency of the matter in which I need your help,” Darcy went on.

  “My help?” Wonder changed to astonishment as Richard fell into a chair. “Say on!”

  “I need your help, or rather the help of your connections, in finding Wickham.”

  “Wickham! By God, it’s not Georgiana…!” He started back up out of the chair.

  “No…no, something else entirely but about which I may not speak. He is absent without leave from his regiment, and I have every reason to believe him to be here in London. Where might such a man go to hide from the military authorities? Are there places, people, to whom he might go?”

  “Possibly…probably! I know where to begin inquiries at any rate.” The Colonel looked at his cousin in curious concern. “You cannot tell me anything? Since it is Wickham, I have no doubt as to its perfidy, the poxy little weasel. You could hardly shock me.”

  Darcy grimaced in agreement but shook his head. “No, I am sorry, but I can say no more. It involves others who may not be named.” He sat down in the chair opposite his cousin. “I do not want you to do more than find out where he is; I shall do the rest. Do you understand?”

  “Yes…and no.” Richard drew out the words slowly. “But I shall do as you ask.” He paused, looking at his cousin from under peaked brows. “Do you realize how fagged you look? When did you arrive in Town?”

  “Yesterday evening.”

  “Late?”

  “Late…and before you ask, I left Pemberley that morning.”

  “Good God, Fitz! This must be of the utmost importance then.”

  “It is.” Darcy sighed, absently rubbing his fingers back and forth over the arms of his chair. “I must find him as soon as is possible.” He looked into Richard’s frowning countenance. He wished nothing less than his cousin’s immediate attention to his task, but common civility and the lateness of the hour demanded a nod to the requirements of hospitality. “But I find that I am quite at leisure for the rest of the evening. Have you eaten?”

  “Not if Mrs. Witcher’s is the hand!” Richard grinned.

  “Billiards after?”

  “A rack. I must oversee a new set of blockheaded young officers tonight. Officers? Children!” He snorted. “But I shall begin my inquiries immediately tomorrow and send round should I discover anything.”

  “Thank you, Richard.” Darcy rose and took his cousin’s hand in a tight grip.

  “You are welcome, I am sure.” Richard grinned at him. “But I would rather Mrs. Witcher’s plum duff than your thanks. Will supper be ready soon?”

  With a certain grim sense of satisfaction, Darcy looked down at the card which had arrived that morning in the middle of his breakfast. It was from Mrs. Younge, of course. The name of her boardinghouse imprinted on the front, it was graced with a simple, straightforward note upon the back: “11 o’clock. £300.” Yes, he frowned as he tucked the card into his waistcoat pocket, the woman knew her own interests, and they had not included being unduly coy about the betrayal of a former conspirator. It had taken three days to arrive at the extravagant figure of three hundred pounds, but one had to begin somewhere, and time was precious to both of them. The longer Elizabeth’s sister was without the countenance of a relative during her sojourn in London, the harder it would be to retrieve her character, if indeed, that could still be done.

  It took only minutes to conclude the business before Darcy was once again in a hired hack, a second card in his hand with the direction of an entirely different part of Town written on its back. As Darcy read it to him, the driver’s face exp
ressed more than a little surprise, but with a shrug, the jarvey shut the carriage door, climbed up into his perch, and slapped the reins. Settling back into the greasy cushions as the hack jerked into motion, Darcy contemplated the task before him. As he had planned during the hours between Pemberley and London, he would apply to Elizabeth’s sister at the outset. Her response would decide his course. If Lydia Bennet proved to be intractable, as Lord ——— of the Society had suggested, then the success of his mission would rest entirely upon his dealings with Wickham. Darcy knew that the latter was the more likely scenario. Wickham would have to be bought, and bought well, in order to agree to the sorts of conditions that would serve to retrieve the characters of the many he had brought into disrepute. But it was not the amount of coin which would be required that was Darcy’s concern. No — his jaw clenched tightly — it was that it was Wickham.

  The hack slowly wound its way through meaner and meaner streets until the driver stopped and, knocking on the door, announced that he could take him no farther. Gripping his brass-knobbed walking stick with a firm hand, Darcy descended from the conveyance, purchased the driver’s time and promise to await his return, and set off in the man’s vaguely offered direction to his destination. Within moments of entering a veritable warren of streets lined with dank, wretched buildings, he was thoroughly confounded and forced to ask for directions. Yes, the fine gentleman was in the right neighborhood, just one street over from his desired address, as it were, and yes — a hand reached out — a few shillings would be appreciated. Darcy dug into his pocket and dropped the coins into the girl’s dirty palm. Good God, he thought, as he continued on, in what sort of place has Wickham taken refuge? The prospect of Elizabeth’s sister in such surroundings made his skin crawl. Elizabeth would be horrified! He could only hope that Lydia Bennet shared at least that much of her sister’s good sense. She might then be quite eager for rescue.

  The rooming inn that answered to the address on his card stood a cut above its neighbors, but that was not saying a great deal. Darcy’s gaze encompassed the unsuccessful attempt at the whitewashing of the walls and the yard within. Both spoke of better days gone long before the hostelry had fallen into the bad company of the encroaching neighborhood. He looked down at the card again. This was surely the place. Darcy breathed deeply, his chest filling with the rancid air of this sad place. The time had inevitably come. His chest grew tight. No, no…he must rule those old emotions! He forced himself to let the pent-up tension release. The degree of happiness to which Elizabeth was entitled, that which he passionately wished for her, depended upon how he conducted this interview.