by Violet King
A housemaid entered, carrying a tray with bread, sliced meat, and tea.
Elizabeth stomach growled.
Mr. Darcy said, “Eat. Mr. Wickham can wait a few minutes longer.”
Lydia looked prepared to argue the point, but then her stomach rumbled too, and she took some food. After eating, they followed Mr. Darcy to his library.
The curtains were shut. Wax candles gave the room a warm air. Elizabeth was struck by Mr. Darcy’s wealth to use so many candles and not one paraffin lantern.
“Where is Mr. Wickham?” Lydia asked, looking around the room.
“Mr. Pritchard will bring him down.”
The solicitor handed Mr. Darcy a thick packet of papers.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said, beckoning Elizabeth over. “Is this your father’s handwriting?”
Elizabeth flipped through the first few sheets. Many were in her own handwriting, and Elizabeth said, “These were from my father’s study.”
“Let me see them,” Lydia asked. Elizabeth handed over a pair of the more innocuous pages. Lydia looked over them, and her lips tightened.
“They also found this with Mr. Wickham,” Mr. Hart said, and Elizabeth recognized Miss Darcy’s letter. “He carried it in his breast pocket.”
Mr. Darcy’s face flushed a vivid red, the same color as when he had spotted Mr. Wickham at the Meryton assembly. He put the letter in his pocket.
Mr. Wickham was brought in. He wore a simple gray jacket and rumpled cravat. Though he flashed Lydia a dazzling smile, Elizabeth recognized a deep tension within the man. He glanced first at Mr. Darcy and then Elizabeth, who was holding the stolen papers from her father’s study.
Lydia said, “Mr. Wickham, please tell us you had nothing to do with our father’s injury. I cannot believe you would be so cruel, and to lie to me about it.
“I never meant to hurt you in any way, Miss Lydia,” Mr. Wickham said.
“Well, you did hurt her,” Elizabeth cut in. “You hurt her and us when you took these papers from my father’s study.”
“Your father should not have been there. You cannot understand the danger I am in. We are in. I meant no harm.”
“And you clubbed my father upon the side of the head with, what was it, the paperweight our uncle sent us from Germany when we were children?”
“Miss Lydia,” Mr. Wickham said, ignoring Elizabeth. “I asked you here because you are the only one who would believe me. I know I have wronged you, and for that I can only beg your forgiveness. But there are larger forces at play. Forces I’ve only begun to recognize and understand. We are in great danger.”
“Tell us what you know,” Mr. Darcy ordered.
“I am here for Miss Lydia’s ease. I have wronged her, and her family, and it is with Miss Lydia I must make amends.”
“Oh, Mr. Wickham!”
Lydia could not be such a fool as to fall for these inane protestations! Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. Of course she would. Lydia had always been shallow, and Mr. Wickham appealed to her vanity. They were of a kind.
“Then tell Miss Lydia what you know,” Mr. Darcy said, tapping his two index fingers together. “If you must play this game.”
“It is no game. I made a mistake and found myself involved with a treacherous fellow.”
“You made a pretense of gambling Pemberley, our childhood home and my inherited estate, and now you suffer the consequences.”
“I was manipulated by a master. A murderer, and I believe an agent of the French.”
“Is he the one who paid your debts and assured your posting in Hertfordshire?” Mr. Darcy asked.
Which meant Mr. Wickham had intended, all along, to what—insinuate himself somehow in their independent household and steal her and her father’s work? He had made good headway with Lydia, so why had he acted so rashly in breaking into their home and assaulting their father?
“You meant to seduce me. Or Lydia. Why?”
“I had no intention of hurting you. I simply wanted a chance at a life. Mr. Darcy is unforgiving, and I am subject, I admit, to certain weaknesses. But when I realized what I had been asked to take and what it meant, I knew I had to stop him.”
How dare Mr. Wickham try to put himself forward as the hero! Elizabeth said, “After robbing our home, attacking our father, and getting chased off by Mr. Darcy.”
“I went to confront Mr. Smith, and I followed him, hoping to get some idea of his associates. I thought if I could prove myself in this one instance as the brave man I have always wished to be, then I would make myself worthy of love.” His eyes were shining as he sat, back erect, his gaze only for Lydia, the gullible fool. “But Mr. Smith instead attempted to take my life. He is a dangerous man. One who you all must take care to protect yourselves from.”
Lydia clapped her hands together. “Mr. Wickham, you are worthy of love. You were brave to confront him, and risk your own life, for the sake of us!”
Elizabeth doubted Mr. Wickham had done any such thing for anyone other than himself. But he did seem afraid.
“This Mr. Smith, what did he reveal to you of his plans?”
“He addressed none of it directly,” Mr. Wickham said. “I had only wished to warn you, to warn Miss Lydia.”
“If he said nothing, then you are of no use to us,” Mr. Darcy said. He waved to his butler. “Have a constable called.”
“No!” Mr. Wickham jumped to his feet, his gaze darting to the door. “They will kill me. He will send someone to kill me.”
“If you know nothing,” Elizabeth said, “then why would this Mr. Smith, or anyone, wish to kill you?”
Mr. Wickham threaded his fingers through his hair at the base of his temple. “I know because he has tried. He used a ring, a silver ring, heavy and old. When he grabbed for me, a needle sprang from the bottom. He leapt at me with a murderous guise, his teeth bared and eyes of a monster. The needle, it must have been poisoned.”
“A needle?” Elizabeth’s breath caught. “Are you certain?”
“As sure as my life. It was by God’s grace I escaped that alley and found my way to your man, Darcy.”
“Where is Mr. Smith now?” Elizabeth asked.
Mr. Wickham gave the address of the boarding house. “The landlady was Mrs. Finch.”
Mr. Hart went pale. “Are you certain that is her name?”
“Yes. He will have fled from there, knowing I knew where he was staying.”
“Mrs. Finch passed on. It was in this morning’s paper.”
A sick certainty settled in Elizabeth’s stomach. “Was it apoplexy?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Elizabeth had no doubt should they go to the place, whatever records the landlady had kept of Mr. Smith’s references and payments would be missing.
Mr. Wickham, at the least, had the grace to look ill. “Why would he kill her? She had done nothing to him.” He lowered his head, covering his mouth and nose with his hands. His shoulders shook as he took two deep breaths.
“He plans to hurt the Regent. Is that what he told you?”
Mr. Wickham gave a start. He looked up, eyes wide, and lowered his hands. “Mr. Smith said nothing of his plans but...” Wickham breathed in through his teeth and shook his head. “Smith had an invitation for the Regent’s ball. Oh Lord, that’s why he killed her!”
“The autumn masque!” Lydia exclaimed. “It has been all over the London papers for weeks. Only the most esteemed and beautiful and wealthy will attend. How could someone as despicable as this man you speak of get a ticket?”
“Money,” Mr. Hart said. “It is open to all who can pay.”
“Can you identify this Mr. Smith?” Elizabeth asked.
“No. He wears disguises. And if he sees me, he will kill me for certain. You have what I know. Take it to the constables, or Miss Bennet can write to her father’s friends at the minister’s office.”
“The ball is in two days,” Lydia said. “Do you think they can cancel it in time, Lizzie?”
Elizabeth sho
ok her head. “Even if my father were here, all we have as proof is Mr. Darcy’s letter and the word of a liar. Perhaps if we had more time, but...”
“The Regent has guards,” Mr. Wickham said. “We must put our trust in the Almighty that no harm will come to him. God Save the King.”
“Mr. Wickham,” Lydia pleaded. “Surely you can do something. You have seen the ring. You can identify it. And if this Mr. Smith plans to kill Prince George, then he would have to get close to him. You have said you wish to become a better man. I am begging you to try.”
Lydia might be a fool and a ninny, but her words were true, and for a painful moment, Elizabeth allowed herself to hope her sister’s tearful blue eyes and trembling lips might sway the blackguard. Lydia took three steps to Wickham and looked up at him. “I know you wish to reform yourself and become the man you were meant to be. Please, Mr. Wickham, help us. Do it for our love!”
Mr. Wickham was silent. Elizabeth’s hand clenched, and though she was smaller and weaker, and had never, despite many temptations, hit a man, her fury was such she did not care about pain or propriety. Mr. Wickham, in his cowardice, betrayed their country and her sister. But Elizabeth had no means to force him to develop courage or a conscience.
Rings were common, especially at a costumed ball where everyone would glitter with real and imagined finery. Even with Mr. Wickham there to help identify Mr. Smith, more likely than not they would fail. Without Mr. Wickham, what did they have? Just a ring among hundreds of rings.
“Do what you want with him,” Elizabeth said. Maybe she could find one of her father’s contacts and convince him, somehow, of the threat they faced.
Lydia sobbed.
Mr. Darcy said, “If that is your answer, Mr. Wickham, we will call for a constable and have you sent for trial. A public announcement will be made, and we shall see what happens from that point.”
Mr. Darcy was brilliant! A public announcement would put Mr. Wickham in the spotlight. If Mr. Smith wanted him dead, he would make an attempt at the jail. The color drained from Mr. Wickham’s face as he recognized the true threat in Mr. Darcy’s words.
Mr. Darcy added, “We shall also make certain to publish your confession. It may be seen as the ravings of a desperate man flailing to escape justice, but if there is truth in your words, there will, at the least, be a record of what you witnessed.”
Lydia, bereft, had begun crying in earnest, her nose an unattractive red and her eyes puffing up. Mr. Wickham reached for her.
“Miss Lydia. Dear Miss Lydia, do not cry. Fear freezes a man’s soul, but love revitalizes it. Your words, your sincere faith in me, give me strength. I will help you. Help us.”
Lydia lifted her chin, and she wiped her nose with her sleeve as she smiled. “Mr. Wickham! I knew it! I told Lizzie you love me and love is the strongest of all forces. We shall go together, and I will stand at your side, and you will have nothing to fear.”
“Then it is agreed,” Mr. Darcy said in a far more measured tone. “We shall all attend.”
The momentary relief Elizabeth had felt at Mr. Wickham’s agreement was overwhelmed by the realization that neither she nor Lydia had money to spare for a ticket to the ball nor any costume. Elizabeth said, “Lydia, we must leave this to Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham. We cannot impose upon Mr. Darcy to fund us. While our uncle will wish to help, making the attempt will unduly strain him. We shall have to trust our presence, in spirit, is enough to bolster these men in their endeavors.”
“Lizzie—!” Lydia started.
Mr. Wickham, his expression grave, said, “Without Miss Lydia at my side, I do not know if I will be strong enough to do what must be done.”
Mr. Wickham, the cad, would do anything to avoid his own duties.
Mr. Darcy said, “I will see to your tickets and dress, Miss Bennet. Miss Lydia.”
“You will!” Lydia jumped to her feet and hopped once on her toes. “You are the most wonderful man! Lizzie may not find you in any way worthy of approbation, but you have made me the happiest woman in all of London!”
“Lydia!”
But Lydia was too occupied with chattering at Mr. Wickham, who occasionally responded with a nod or a meaningless syllable. Elizabeth had never been more embarrassed in her entire life. “Mr. Darcy—”
Mr. Darcy bowed. “Miss Bennet, I must see to our preparations. The carriage will take you and your sister to your uncle’s, and I will send word for when your fitting is scheduled.”
28
Mr. Darcy could not keep his eyes from Miss Elizabeth. Her dress and sheer presence stood in contrast to Mr. Darcy’s dark suit and white half-mask that only covered his eyes. She wore her glorious dark hair up in an intricate weave of braids and curls. Laurel leaves nestled in her hair and she wore pearls from her ears and her neck.
The cut was not improper though it revealed the twin rise of her décolletage. Draped in the Grecian style, the dress highlighted the slimness of Miss Elizabeth’s waist and curve of her hips. Her mask’s expression, white and framed at the edges with filigree gold and black felt, was severe, a contrast to Miss Elizabeth’s expressive countenance.
Miss Elizabeth held the mask in her right hand and took Mr. Darcy’s arm with her left to alight from the carriage.
Lydia’s words, “Lizzie may not find you in any way worthy of approbation,” rang in Mr. Darcy’s mind. To think, just a fortnight past, Mr. Darcy had been fearful of attracting her romantic attention. Now, he regretted his cold behavior.
Miss Elizabeth smiled up at Mr. Darcy through long lashes and his chest clenched as he struggled to maintain a neutral expression. She held him in no approbation, and he would not force himself upon her, neither in word nor deed. They were here for a purpose, and it was not each other.
Wickham followed next, draped in a black domino that covered his body and head. He held to his face a white mask that made him look very much like a ghost. If Mr. Wickham dressed to be ignored, Miss Lydia, who stepped out next, strove to be seen. She wore a wide hooped skirt supporting multiple layers of pink, blue, and green, all trimmed with gold lace. Lydia’s hair styling was elaborate, with pearls braided into her fair tresses. A locket rested above the curve of her breasts, which for modesty, were covered by a lace shawl.
“Am I not the picture of a Russian doll?” Lydia asked, resting her fingers on Mr. Wickham’s forearm.
Wickham stared down at her, his gaze settling too long on the locket or more the cream skin beneath. His voice was muffled as he said, “You are, my lady, the very bloom of youth and beauty.”
Lydia giggled and brought the mask over her face.
Mrs. Hill, dressed as a country matron with puffed sleeves and feathers in her hair, followed behind the ladies. Having a housekeeper chaperone Miss Elizabeth and Miss Lydia to this event was already straining all bounds of propriety. If the cause was anything less than the kingdom, Mr. Darcy would have refused. As it was, he wished he could knock some sense into Wickham. He hated how his once-foster brother pulled the strings of Miss Lydia’s heart as though she was the doll she pretended to be and not a sadly misled young girl.
After they finished this, Mr. Darcy resolved to pay Mr. Wickham whatever he required to go on his way and leave the Bennet family alone. No matter how Miss Lydia supported Wickham’s vanity, he would cast her aside for a large enough sum. Mr. Darcy hated paying it, but better to pay than to cause Miss Elizabeth and her family more pain.
The masquerade ball was held in the King’s Theater. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Wickham, Mrs. Hill and the Bennet sisters joined the line to be announced into the ball. The air outside was chilly and damp, and Miss Elizabeth clutched her red velvet shawl around her shoulders.
Mr. Darcy was grateful they were soon allowed entry.
Though the theater generally showed opera and other musical performances, tonight the benches had been pushed aside to make room for tables of food and drink and to leave space for the attendees to mingle with each other before dancing.
The decorations th
oroughly captivated Miss Lydia. She peered up at the private boxes and exclaimed, “They have gold frames! I had read so, but to see it in person... How grand!”
Though Miss Elizabeth was more reserved in her reactions, she too, holding her mask in her right hand, looked about, her lips slightly parted. “So many candles,” she breathed. “It is remarkable.”
Mr. Darcy took a step closer to her side. “Perhaps you should ask your sister where she expects the Regent might enter.”
“He is not here?”
“It is but half eleven,” Mr. Darcy said. Though Mr. Darcy did not keep up with the habits of royalty, his aunt did and Lady Catherine had sharp words for those who kept late hours. “Sadly,” she often remarked, “such things cannot be helped at court.”
“But there are already so many people,” Miss Elizabeth said.
Darcy looked back towards the end of the line, and then ahead of them again. Miss Elizabeth, for all of her brilliance, was still a young lady from the country. She would not realize how well attended a city ball might be, especially one hosted by the Regent.
Finally, they reached the head of the line and were announced as a party. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Mr. George Wickham, Miss Lydia Bennet, and Mrs. Mary Hill.
As Miss Elizabeth started down the stairs, she stumbled. She reached out, and Mr. Darcy steadied her. The firm grip of her hand on his arm sent shivers through him. Her mask was too severe, but the woman behind it captivated Darcy, an infatuation he now could not help but acknowledge.
“Excuse me, Mr. Darcy,” she said as they descended the stairs.
“No trouble.”
“Darcy!”
Mr. Darcy froze, looking towards the voice. A man in priestly vestments, his face chubby and his belly exaggerated by padding beneath his robes, waved to Mr. Darcy as he strode over.
“Mr. Bragg,” Darcy said, and his school chum grinned.
“Formal as always, Darcy.” Bragg grinned. “I heard them call out your name. This young lady, Miss Bennet, is not your sister.”
Still on Wickham’s arm, Lydia giggled. “No, Lizzie is my sister.”
