Mr. Darcy’s Cipher

by Violet King

Elizabeth’s stomach roiled as she approached the desk. The drawers were open.

  “Perhaps we should straighten up before Papa returns,” Mary suggested. She began stacking some books which had been thrown to the floor on her father’s desk as Elizabeth walked around to the front.

  Mr. Bennet had sent her notes about the letter to his contact to the prime minister’s office but kept the original in case Mr. Darcy asked for its return. An ordinary thief would have had no interest in such a letter, but as Elizabeth looked over what had been stolen—notes and what looked like several of her father’s journals—Elizabeth now knew this was, as she has only suspected before, no ordinary thief.

  Mr. Darcy’s letter was also gone.

  “Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth began. She took a breath. She recognized no point in prolonging the inevitable. “Your sister’s letter. They stole it.”

  Elizabeth could only be glad that the translation, which she had written on a separate sheet of paper, was now safely in the care of the prime minister.

  “Are you certain?” Mr. Darcy came around the desk. Elizabeth was struck by his scent. Sandalwood and something else that made her want to breathe him in again.

  Elizabeth pushed such inappropriate thoughts on her mind and explained, “I put your sister’s letter in this drawer. The lock has been broken, and everything was stolen.”

  Mr. Darcy stared down at the empty drawer. Elizabeth expected him to shout, blaming Elizabeth for the letter’s disappearance, but he only clenched his fist. He shoved the drawer closed.

  “I am so sorry,” Elizabeth said.

  “You did not steal it. I must go.”

  Just like that? Elizabeth said, “I can write out his note from memory.” She looked at it often enough. “It may not be perfect, but it will be something to offer your sister.”

  “No. I will make amends to Georgiana.”

  Make amends? Mr. Darcy did not act as though he thought the letter was missing. Elizabeth remembered Mr. Darcy, rifle in hand, firing at Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy wore the same expression of cold focus now.

  “Mr.—?” Glancing at Mary, on the opposite side of the room stacking books into a pile, Elizabeth whispered, “Our late-night visitor?”

  Elizabeth should have suspected Mr. Wickham. She had been so surprised to see him with Lydia, and so certain that no matter Lydia’s faults, she would not put their father in danger. But Lydia could be manipulated.

  Mr. Darcy said. “I will return your father’s items to you, if I can.”

  But if it was Wickham, then he had to be involved in the plot to assassinate the Regent. The only ones besides Mr. Bennet and Jane who knew about it were the ones involved. And Mr. Wickham had not acted like an assassin last night. A scared rake, but not an assassin.

  Elizabeth said, “I will come with you.”

  Mary looked up. “Where, Lizzie?”

  “I will go,” Mr. Darcy said. “This is not a situation for a young lady.”

  “What situation? Lydia believes she is in love with Mr. Wickham. I have told her to be cautious. She has done nothing... unseemly, has she?”

  “Mary, this is not your business,” Elizabeth said.

  “Good day, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary. Please pass my regards to your father,” Mr. Darcy said. “I will need our carriage. You will soon have company, and it is best if I take my leave.”

  Elizabeth glared at Mr. Darcy, but she would not continue the conversation in Mary’s presence. Mr. Darcy and Lydia might be capable of keeping a secret, but their Mary was not. And if Mary got involved, it would only put her life, and the lives of Elizabeth’s entire family, in danger. Not to mention the increasing threat to Lydia’s virtue. Mr. Darcy had said Mr. Wickham seduced with an ulterior motive. Had his ulterior motive been to find an entry into their home?

  Elizabeth said, “Please, be careful. If something were to happen to you, it would upset me.” Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. “It would upset us all.”

  Mr. Darcy bowed again. “I understand.”

  After Mr. Darcy had taken his leave, Mary walked to Elizabeth’s side and in a low whisper, asked, “Are you and Mr. Darcy engaging in a secret courtship?”

  “No!” Elizabeth grabbed a book Mary had piled up on her father’s desk. “Help me with this, Mary. We should tidy Father’s study before Mr. Collins arrives. We ought to put our best foot forward, yes?”

  25

  When Mr. Wickham was honest with himself, which was rarely, he admitted himself to be a rake with an unhealthy enjoyment of cards. But whatever his faults, none included a death wish, or worse, the desire to marry a young twit with no fortune of her own.

  So getting caught in a compromising position with Miss Lydia and nearly shot down by Mr. Darcy, Wickham recognized the need for a swift departure from Netherfield.

  Had his cover been blown, Mr. Smith gave Mr. Wickham instructions on how to give his leave and go to an arranged meeting point in London. Wickham followed these instructions. Only when he was outbound on a stagecoach, teeth clacking, and clutching a single bag with the incomplete notes he had stolen from Mr. Bennet’s study, and the town of Meryton was far behind him did he allow himself a moment to relax.

  Mr. Smith would not be pleased with Mr. Wickham’s performance. Wickham had intended to take his time with his assignment, seducing one or perhaps more of the Bennet girls and having them pilfer the documents, but Mr. Smith had written a week ago with an increased sense of urgency, and Wickham had been forced to take a more direct approach.

  Still, it would have been fine if the old man had stayed asleep. Luck cut Mr. Wickham at every opportunity. It was only his quick feet and skills at seduction that had saved his life when Mr. Darcy had started shooting. Wickham rode, drinking liberally from a flask of cognac he kept in the inner pocket of his coat for thinking. He would need some form of insurance on Mr. Smith to protect himself when Mr. Bennet’s papers proved not to Mr. Smith’s satisfaction.

  The address Wickham had been directed to send his stolen letters differed from the arranged meeting point that Mr. Smith and Mr. Wickham had agreed. Perhaps he might learn more of his “benefactor” there and that information could provide him with the insurance he sought.

  Wickham would start there.

  When Wickham reached London, the sun had set, and it was well past time to find a room in a respectable inn. Fortunately, Wickham did not require a respectable inn. The address listed on the post was in a shabby area, a three-story boardinghouse with wafer squares of glass covered by dark curtains. Mr. Wickham approached the door and rang for entry. A servant in threadbare clothing opened the door and beckoned Mr. Wickham inside.

  “We’ve only got one room for let and it’s in the back,” he said.

  “I was given an excellent reference about this place by Mr. Smith,” Mr. Wickham said.

  “Aldous Smith! Friendly man, Mr. Smith. Always getting letters and packages.”

  The servant led Mr. Wickham to a sitting room, and a few minutes later, the landlady came down to meet him. She was attractive, if long in the tooth, with the faintest hints of crow’s feet blossoming from the corners of her eyes. “Mrs. Finch,” the servant said, “this here is Mr. Wickham. He wants to let the second floor back.”

  “We were given no notice of your arrival,” Mrs. Finch said. “It is good fortune we have a room. Your references?”

  “Mr. Aldous Smith recommended this establishment,” Mr. Wickham said. He was still in his regimentals, and Mrs. Finch gave him a long look up and down, her tongue darting between her lips as she nodded. “Mr. Smith. A fine man. Will you be going with him to the Regent’s ball?”

  Regent’s ball! That must have cost Mr. Smith a pretty penny. Mr. Wickham wondered what business Mr. Smith had with the Ton. Their previous conversation made it clear Mr. Smith despised all nobility. He had felt Mr. Wickham of the court, and to some degree Mr. Wickham was, though his problem was more that they denied him the privilege of noble status rather than animosity towards the concept of nobility i
tself.

  Though Mrs. Finch was dressed respectably, with a shawl covering the front of her dress and ample décolletage, it took no real effort for Mr. Wickham to begin a flirtation. “I am very fortunate then. When far from home, it is heartening to receive a kind welcome. Your smile, my lady, warms my heart.”

  Mrs. Finch laughed, bringing her hand briefly over her mouth. “I am no lady,” Mrs. Finch said. “And my husband, God rest his soul, is long passed, leaving me alone to run this establishment as best I can.”

  Mr. Wickham gave the widow credit. She had managed in two sentences to reveal her unattached status and her interest. While Wickham had no desire to settle down and run a semi-respectable boardinghouse, a night with an experienced widow would not be unwelcome.

  “Is Mr. Smith in?”

  “No. He said he would be out until late this evening. We lock our doors at nine, but Mr. Smith is always so kind and so punctual with his weekly rents I said I would wait up for him. He often spends the evening at Dobson’s alehouse.”

  After a brief inquiry, Mrs. Finch gave Mr. Wickham directions to the establishment. “Or perhaps we can have tea and wait up together,” she added, but Mr. Wickham, more interested in insurance than a pleasant evening, demurred. “Perhaps another night. I had hoped to meet with Mr. Smith. It is one of my primary reasons for visiting London.”

  Mr. Wickham paid Mrs. Dobson for a week of lodgings, and after taking his bag up to the room, which was small and smelled of tobacco smoke, he placed his bag next to the bed. He changed from his regimentals into a plain jacket and waistcoat, shoved the papers for Mr. Smith into his coat, and left.

  It was only a few blocks to Dobson’s. Though the neighborhood of Mrs. Finch’s boardinghouse was at the very edge of respectable, Wickham still got the distinct impression he was being watched and assessed by the cut of his coat and shine on his Hessians that even the manure-stained streets had not, as yet, marred.

  Wickham reached the alehouse and walked past it, glancing in the open doorway to catch a glimpse of Mr. Smith. But it was too crowded. He would need to go inside, preferably with a group. It took ten minutes for a group of young men, students by their dress and manners, to approach. Wickham made introductions. His brief stint at education in the law was enough to allow him to present himself as a student from a different university, and as they entered, he made certain to put himself as close to the center of the group as possible.

  Dobson’s was crowded with a mix of poor students and laborers, many in shirtsleeves as the press of bodies and corner fire, along with liquor and a haze of tobacco, made the bar overly warm despite the cooler temperatures outside. Most of the students’ talk centered on classes and excitement at having finished the first round of exams. Wickham seated himself against the wall, using the group as cover to look over the bar.

  “What are you reading, Brierley?” one student asked Mr. Wickham, using the false name Wickham had given them.

  “Law,” Wickham said.

  “I have heard Professor Gouldsmith is a bear.”

  Mr. Wickham nodded and said, “I will buy the next round!” in hope the offer of free ale distracted all from asking more questions about his bona fides.

  From his corner, Mr. Wickham looked over the rest of the tavern. Finally, fortune smiled on him. An older gentleman with a tuft of grayish-brown hair atop his head, reminiscent of a squirrel’s tail, stepped inside. He jerked his head this way and that and then started towards the table at the opposite end of the room. The bar itself partially obstructed Mr. Wickham’s view, but Wickham noted a packet under the older man’s arm.

  Wickham stood, and begging a moment to relieve himself, crossed the room towards the facilities to get a better glimpse of where the man was walking. It was Mr. Smith. He had altered his hair and mustache, but his frame and manner were the same. Mr. Smith smiled at the squirrel-haired man who sat across the small table from him.

  Wickham, nervous that Mr. Smith might spot him, sat down beside a passed-out drunk as Mr. Smith and his companion talked. After finishing an ale, Mr. Smith’s companion handed the package over and left.

  Mr. Smith stayed a few more minutes, gathered his things, and pushed through the crowd to the door. Wickham followed. His palms sweated as he clutched the packet beneath his coat. Instead of returning to the boardinghouse as Mr. Wickham had expected, Smith appeared to be going elsewhere.

  The neighborhood worsened as they walked, and while Wickham had confidence in his ability to win a fistfight should things come to that, he recognized the cut of his clothing and fabric made him stand out. Mr. Smith, who was more plainly dressed, appeared to take no notice of his surroundings. He fiddled with the packet.

  Wickham shivered and glanced behind him. A knife from a stranger could kill him as quickly as a shot from Darcy, and Wickham knew better than to let down his guard. Not in a place such as this.

  The air took on a distinct smell of refuse and rotting fish. A woman with the front of her dress cut low enough to show the upper crust of her nipples called out, “Sir!” Her lips and cheeks were rouged, and, seeing she had Wickham’s attention, she shifted her skirt up to reveal the arc of her calf.

  A small child squatted at the woman’s feet. The little girl sucked her thumb and scratched at the dirty ground with her other hand. Dark hair, like her mother’s, hung around her face in stringy waves.

  Mr. Wickham averted his gaze. He was not desperate enough to risk the pox in pursuit of his pleasures even if he’d had the slightest interest of copulating within the watchful gaze of a hungry child.

  When he looked back towards Mr. Smith, the man had turned between two buildings. Wickham took a moment to gather his courage and followed again.

  The alley was dark and smelled of garbage. A persistent drip from the above rooftops hit the ground with a steady tap-tap-tap.

  Crates were stacked farther down the alley, and to Mr. Wickham’s left, an open, rotting barrel overflowed with filmy rainwater.

  “Smith?” Wickham called out. What business did Mr. Smith have here?

  No response. It was near pitch with only a dim light falling from the window above, where someone had set a lantern.

  “Why are you following me, Mr. Wickham?” Mr. Smith’s came voice came from farther down the alley.

  Though Wickham had followed Smith hoping to secure some form of insurance, now, so far out of his own element, it relieved Wickham to have an ally of sorts, and he strode towards Mr. Smith. “It was bad luck,” Wickham said. “I broke in and took what you asked, but—”

  “Do you have the papers?”

  “I had hoped to meet and discuss them.”

  “How did you find me here? You spoke with Mrs. Finch?”

  “She is fond of you,” Mr. Wickham said.

  “This was not our arrangement.”

  “I had thought it faster to go to the address on the package,” Mr. Wickham offered as an excuse.

  Mr. Smith stepped out from behind the crates. “If you had wished to meet with me, you would have begged my attention in the bar. You wished to spy on me.”

  Wickham glanced back to the mouth of the alley. “You cannot fault me for wanting insurance,” Mr. Wickham said with an overly bright smile that was likely wasted in the darkness.

  Mr. Smith sighed. “No, I suppose I cannot. You have a package beneath your coat. Is that the correspondence I requested?”

  As Wickham reached into his jacket, he heard something move. Perhaps it was fear of his surroundings, or perhaps luck had favored Mr. Wickham for once, but he saw the movement in time to leap back as Mr. Smith lunged at him. He wore an ornate, silver ring. A thin silver needle protruded from the center, glinting in the dim lantern light from above.

  Wickham bolted for the mouth of the alley. He clutched the package to his chest as he ran, his boots pounding and squishing on the refuse-stained stone. He turned at the alley’s mouth and kept running. His heart pounded in his ears. It hadn’t been a knife. Definitely a ring with a needle.
A poison? Wickham had no intention of finding out. He would do what he should have done in the first place: take what funds he had left and run north for Scotland.

  Wickham was winded and his chest hurting from exertion when a man stepped in front of him. “Mr. Wickham?” The man had the dress of a gentleman secretary.

  Wickham dared to look behind him. Mr. Smith leaned against a nearby building, his arms crossed, the ring glinting on his index finger.

  The other man said, “Mr. George Wickham is it? Your foster brother, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, has some questions for you.”

  A half hour ago, Mr. Wickham would have run from this man. But given a choice between Darcy, who at least would not attempt to murder Wickham in the presence of the law, and Mr. Smith, who would not relent until Wickham was dead, Darcy offered the preferable fate.

  “Yes,” Mr. Wickham said, towards Darcy’s hired copper. “We have much to discuss. Now. Away from here.”

  26

  Mr. Bennet improved over the first two days of Mr. Collins’s visit. Mr. Collins, to Elizabeth’s dismay, did not. It became apparent to Elizabeth that Mr. Collins had eyes for her, and worse, Mrs. Bennet heartily approved the match.

  Elizabeth was ready to rip both his and her hair out.

  “A walk is, of course, to the greatest degree, a most healthful exercise, Miss Elizabeth. But you cannot mean once again to take us from the delicate paths—” Mr. Collins paused to catch his breath. “Of this estate’s most—” Mr. Collins gasped again, and though Elizabeth would rather have left him, she was not quite so ill-mannered as to abandon a cousin who had so “kindly” insisted upon accompanying her, for her own safety, as though she needed his accompaniment in the early morning hours on the land she had explored since she was a child, and yet…

  “Mr. Collins, if you are tired and wish to return to the house…?”

  “No!” Mr. Collins took another breath. “No, Miss Elizabeth, I would not be so crass as to abandon you here—” He gasped. “On your own, without company or a chaperone.”