Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “I did no such thing. I suspected you might wish to run off with her, which is why I spoke with her in private at the Fitzwilliam ball and convinced her to put her own selfishness aside in order to stop you from ruining your life. And for that I offer no apologies.” He turned, his face set, towards the door. “Get dressed. I am taking you back to Pemberley.”

  “No,” I erupted. “I cannot go back there. I will not!”

  “I am not asking, George. We are leaving straightaway. Gather your belongings so we may put this unfortunate episode behind us and return home.”

  “Home? Pemberley is not my home.” I flung the letter aside. “This changes nothing. I am going to Paris, where I can be with Clémence and live out my life, and you and Pemberley be damned.” I reached for my shirt and yanked it on.

  “And how do you propose to fund your travel?” Darcy regarded me coldly. “You have no money, nor any concept of the cost of your freedom. You think yourself a man now, because of… this.” He swept his hand out to encompass the rumpled bed in a gesture of contempt. “You delude yourself. You are but a reckless, selfish boy who allowed a scheming French baggage to seduce him—”

  Rage overcame me, and I hurled myself at Darcy and drew back my fist to strike him. Whether due to the after-effects of the questionable wine or my lack of sleep, I managed only a glancing blow to his jaw before he drove his fist into my face, and I staggered back as blood spurted from my nose.

  Stunned, I sank onto the room’s only chair and groped in my pockets for a handkerchief, the same handkerchief Clémence had given me, and pressed it to my injury. Blood soon soaked the white folds.

  He moved to brush past me to the door. “Get your things. We are leaving.”

  “Why would she do this? Why did she betray me and throw our plans away?” I dropped the handkerchief and plowed my hands through my hair in bewildered agitation. “And why did she not at least wake me to say goodbye?”

  Darcy made no reply but regarded the bottle and glasses on the bedside table without expression.

  I went to the table and picked up the bottle, and as I studied it, I remembered the bitter taste on my tongue. “The wine. Of course. She dosed me with something, a tincture of laudanum, perhaps.” I shook my head in disbelief. “She never meant for me to go to Paris with her.”

  “No. She lied to you from beginning to end. I know you cannot see it now, but she has done you a great favor by leaving you behind.”

  “And how much did this favor cost you?”

  He paused. “Five hundred pounds.”

  I remembered her remark the night of the ball when Darcy came to fetch me away from her. He has high expectations because he cares for you. She knew even then that he would go to any lengths to spare my name and, more importantly, the Darcy name, from scandal.

  I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. Was that all I was to her… a means to an end, a way to extract payment from Darcy? I could not bear the thought. Worse still, I could not bear the pity I saw in his eyes.

  “I will pay you back,” I said dully as I lifted my head. “Every penny.”

  “You owe me nothing. You may pay me back by returning home with me.”

  I offered no further argument but stood to gather my things—my boots, jacket, and cravat—and reached for my case. “Tell me one thing before we go. Why did Lady Harlow leave Pemberley so abruptly? Did you send her away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It does not matter. My reasons were sound, and that is all you need to know.”

  “I know you, Darcy, better than anyone. You would never send her away unless she did something grievous, something so beyond the pale…” All at once I remembered waking in the middle of the night to the sound of angry, hushed voices down the hall. I stared at him. “She went to your room?”

  He did not answer. He did not need to.

  “She promised to come to me that night.” I began to pace the room like a caged animal. “But she claimed the brandy made her tired and said she fell asleep instead. And all the while she was with you.”

  “No.” He spoke with unaccustomed anger. “I sent her away from my door and told her to be gone by the time I returned later the next morning.”

  “And you expect me to believe you?” But I did believe him. Darcy, with his unassailable morals and high regard for propriety, would never have taken Clémence to his bed as I had done.

  “Believe me or not, as you wish. It is the truth.” He reached out and caught me by the arm. “Listen to me, George. She meant to seduce me, and when that failed, she hoped to compromise me into marriage. And had anyone seen her outside my room, her plan might have succeeded.”

  “I woke in the middle of the night and heard voices, and I thought I was dreaming. I never imagined…”

  All along, her object had been Darcy.

  “She is in urgent need of funds.” He regarded me with a frown. “Lord Harlow left Clémence a jointure upon his death. Evidently, it was not generous enough to keep her in the style she felt she deserved.”

  “So, she sought to snare you.” I sank down upon the bed. “And when that failed, she turned her wiles on me. But why? She knew I could offer her little. No money, no title. Was I only an amusement to her? A passing entertainment?” I cradled my head in my hands. “My god! I cannot believe how stupid I have been.” My throat thickened and closed but I would not show my vulnerability to Darcy.

  He reached out to lay his hand on my shoulder. Angrily, I shook it off.

  “I take no pleasure in any of this, George. I regret you had to learn such a lesson and in such a fashion. I assure you, in time your pain will ease, and you will forget her.”

  “Let us quit this place,” I said shortly as I pushed myself to my feet. “I have no wish to speak of this—or of her—ever again.”

  Darcy nodded his understanding and opened the door, and I preceded him out of the room without once looking back. I was done with this room. I was done with Lady Harlow.

  And I left her bloodied handkerchief lying on the floor.

  SALAMANCA, SPAIN, 22 JULY 1812

  “Over here!”

  The shout rings out over the battlefield. Bodies lie strewn all around me, and musket smoke lingers in the air, along with the stench of death. I am barely conscious as someone kneels beside me. The sun is behind him and so his face is in shadow, but something about his voice is familiar. I struggle to sit up.

  “Rest easy.” The man stays me with a gentle hand. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  I make no reply. I cannot. My mouth is dry, my lips cracked. But I know, from the sight of the dead and dying men littering the field around me, that he speaks the truth. I am lucky to be among the living. Even now I hear the cries for water, the calls to God, the moans of the dying.

  Two men lift me onto a stretcher, and I break into a sweat. The pain is excruciating.

  “Take him to the nearest hospital wagon,” the man who found me tells them. “He needs a surgeon.”

  “We thought ’e was dead,” one of the soldiers holding my litter says and shrugs. “Hard to tell, sometimes.”

  “Never mind your excuses,” the first man says sharply. “Move.”

  “Wait,” I croak. I reach out to grasp his sleeve before I am carried away. “Who… who are you?”

  “Sergeant Major James Beresford.” He pauses. “Do you not remember? You saved my life when you ran that pair of Frenchmen through with your saber. Your act of bravery has not gone unnoticed. Wellington himself is impressed with your courage and fearlessness on the battlefield. Now I mean to return the favor.”

  Before I can find words to thank him, the soldiers carry me forward, and Beresford turns away.

  * * *

  And so, I find myself now, recovering comfortably in a hospital bed. My shoulder is bandaged and my chest wound is healing, and while I will never have full use of my arm, it does not matter. I am alive, and that is enough. By the grace of Providence, I have been given
a second chance.

  I reach for my writing desk and set it upon my lap as I recall the events of my night with Lady Harlow. The pain of her memory has lessened, but despite Darcy’s assurances that I would forget her in time, I have not.

  Still, he was right in one thing. She did me a great favor by leaving me behind.

  Sharing a bed with Lady Clémence Harlow did not make a man of me. It served only to underscore the depth of my stupidity and inexperience and displayed my vanity in believing the lies Clémence showered upon me. It took the horrors of the battlefield, the prospect of dying, and news of the birth of our child to make me realize the tenuousness of life, and the waste I have made of my own.

  With little to do while in hospital but reflect on my past, I feel a renewed sense of shame. I have not acquitted myself well in any measure.

  After Lady Harlow’s betrayal, Darcy and I returned to Pemberley and maintained a wary truce for the remainder of the summer. In the autumn, I began my studies at Cambridge, and it was there my bitterness and anger—with Lady Harlow, with Darcy, and most of all, with myself—turned me into a charming rogue, a scoundrel with no more concern for the young women I seduced and bedded than that which Clémence had shown for me.

  But I kept my promise, and while I did not excel in my studies, I finished at King’s College as I had told Darcy I would. My godfather died that same year, and I requested my inheritance of three thousand pounds the moment I returned, ostensibly to study law, and he gave it over to me without argument. I am sure he knew I was lying; I suspect also that he was as anxious to see me leave as I was to be gone.

  All too soon the money was spent—squandered on women, drink, and cards. I then attempted and failed to lure young Georgiana Darcy into eloping as I had need of her dowry of thirty thousand pounds. After joining the militia as an officer with Colonel Forster’s regiment, I set my sights on Lydia Bennet. I seduced her easily enough, and when Darcy found us, I agreed to wed her in exchange for his promise to settle my bills and purchase me a commission in the Regulars.

  As I prepare to write the first of several letters, I sigh. I have numerous wrongs to redress. Some will forgive me; some will not. I can expect nothing more. Nevertheless, I will express my most sincere and heartfelt apologies to everyone I have wronged… Darcy, most of all.

  But a mere letter will not serve to say the things I need to tell him. My apology to Darcy must be done in person. After I am discharged, I will go at once to Pemberley and make my peace with him, and only then I will return home to Lydia and our child.

  Soon, I will hold my daughter. I am a father. My throat thickens and emotion overcomes me, and as I withdraw a sheet of paper, I remember the epitaph I imagined while I lay delirious on the battlefield.

  Here lies George Wickham, liar, cheat, and profligate womanizer,

  a reprobate who failed to distinguish himself on the battlefield or in life...

  but who wore his uniform exceedingly well.

  That George Wickham is well and truly dead. And no one, myself least of all, will lament his passing.

  It remains only to prove myself a better man to the friends and family I have left behind, and I know it will not be an easy task. But I am bound to try.

  I dip my pen into the inkwell and hold it poised over the page.

  “My dearest Lydia,” I begin, “I hope this letter finds you and the baby well. I am the happiest of men to learn that I am now become a father and wait with the utmost impatience until I may return home once again to you both…”

  KATIE OLIVER is the author of nine novels, including the Amazon bestseller Prada and Prejudice, as well as the Dating Mr. Darcy, Marrying Mr. Darcy, and Jane Austen Factor series. She resides in South Florida with her husband (where she goes to the beach far less often than she’d like) and is working on a new series. Katie began writing as a child and has a box crammed with half-finished stories to prove it. After raising two sons, she decided to get serious and get published.

  * * *

  She is convinced that there is no greater pleasure than reading a Jane Austen novel. Click to connect with: Katie Oliver

  Novella III

  Fitzwilliam’s Folly (mild) Beau North

  COLONEL FITZWILLIAM

  Little was sketched about Mr. Darcy’s gallant and blithe cousin in Pride and Prejudice (not even his forename) excepting that he was the younger son of an earl and he shared the guardianship of his cousin, Georgiana, with her brother, Darcy. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to fancy Miss Elizabeth Bennet but as a younger son, he reminded her he must marry for money. “Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not so many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.” —Pride and Prejudice, Chapter XXXIII.

  “...I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.” —Colonel Fitzwilliam to Elizabeth Bennet, Pride & Prejudice, Chapter XXXIII.

  FITZWILLIAM’S FOLLY

  Beau North

  Fitzwilliam leaned into the saddle, urging his mount on faster, faster. Dust and dirt kicked up in clouds under the horse's hooves as they thundered recklessly across the field. The cold air whipped at his face and ungloved hands, but he barely felt them. The carriage was in sight. He could not afford to be careful; propriety be damned. There was no time.

  “Hold on,” he said through gritted teeth, the words lost in the sound of his pursuit. “I’m coming for you, you right bastard.”

  SIX MONTHS EARLIER

  The carriage jostled and bumped along the road that would finally take them back to London. Colonel Fitzwilliam could not recall a visit to Hunsford that had gone on so interminably long nor one that had given him so much fodder for thought. He stole a glance at his traveling companion who sat in silent misery across from him. The colonel had his suspicions as to the cause of his cousin Darcy’s distress, but as they had only set out and were facing a long ride together, thought it best not to press the matter just yet. As the carriage drove past the Hunsford parsonage, Fitzwilliam observed Darcy’s sudden attention, his eyes narrowed in concentration. They passed the trim, little house, with its path and well-tended gardens, a place where they had passed a handful of cheerful afternoons in the company of fine, good-natured ladies and Mr. Collins, the curate. Only when the house was out of sight did Darcy slump back against the squabs, closing his eyes, and shutting out the bucolic scene.

  “I must say, it was fortuitous to have such lively company visiting the parsonage for this year’s visit to Rosings.”

  Stony silence was Darcy’s reply. Fitzwilliam forged ahead.

  “One might call it almost providential.” In response, Darcy’s color rose in an angry flush, but still he did not speak.

  “Darcy, are you unwell?” Fitzwilliam asked again, concerned. He had asked the question only that morning when he had seen his cousin come in from a rather early walk, his face haggard and expression pained. He had, of course, noticed his cousin’s preference for Miss Elizabeth Bennet and thought the two a good match, if only Darcy could muster the courage to actually speak to the lady. He had felt a great surge of hope that Darcy might not be quite so far gone into haute ton snobbery as to see what a superior woman Miss Elizabeth Bennet was. Now all he felt was astonishment, for surely the lady had rejected Darcy’s suit. He could not think of one woman in a hundred who would turn away such an eligible match as his cousin.

  “I am well enough, Fitzwilliam, if only you would cease your attempts at mothering me.”

  Despite his surprise at such rough speech, Fitzwilliam felt a smile tug his lips. He had seen the look of love enough times to know and, not for the first time, said a silent prayer that he had never been felled by it himself.

  “I apologize,” Darcy grumbled a moment later, sitting up to look at his cousin. “I did not sleep last night, not even a quarter hour. My exhaustion has made me abrupt.”

  Fitzwilliam dismissed his apology with a careless wave. “Do not trouble yourself, Darcy. I am used to far m
ore changeable moods than yours.” He paused, searching his mind for a diplomatic phrasing. “Should you wish to talk of it—”

  “I do not,” Darcy said, his tone blunt.

  “You need not feel embarrassed,” Fitzwilliam assured him with a smile. “You are not the first man I have seen laid low by love.”

  “Fitzwilliam, I pray that one day you have the misfortune to know love so that I might have my turn in laughing.”

  The colonel did laugh at that. “Save your prayers for more likely outcomes, Darcy. I shall continue to adore many but love none.”

  Darcy made a sound of discontentment, closing his eyes once more. He muttered, “We shall see,” before falling into an uneasy slumber.

  * * *

  Fitzwilliam stepped out onto the balcony, savoring the cool air after the close ballroom. Lady Snowley’s ball had never been so well-attended as it was this season. He had come in the hope that he might see Darcy there, resembling something of his old self again. The last time Fitzwilliam had been in his cousin’s presence, the poor man had looked a wretch, red-eyed and unshaven, with the ghost of the previous night’s brandy still clinging to him. Poor, foolish Darcy. What he needed was a discreet visit to the right sort of lady. Come to think of it, I could do with a visit myself.

  * * *

  Indeed, there were such a number of fair creatures inside he felt nearly giddy from having his head turned all evening and was convinced he was half in love with most of them already. The thought made him cheerful, and he began to whistle a happy tune as he gazed up at the twinkling stars.