Chapter Twenty-Two

Darcy

G eorgie stood before the imposing fa?ade of what he had thought was a mere tavern the previous day, when he’d been all but run over by a man who appeared to know him. Now, in the early afternoon’s bright sunlight, the building was grander than he remembered, with polished brass fixtures gleaming and elegant, frosted glass windows hinting at an interior of luxury. The words ‘The Westchester Club’ were displayed in brass letters above the door. No, this was no mere tavern. This was a gentleman’s club. Was he a member here?

His initial sense of unease grew as he stepped through the ornately carved wooden doors and into the opulent lobby. Inside, the club was richly decorated with deep mahogany woodwork, plush burgundy velvet furnishings, and intricate gold trim. The scent of leather, tobacco, and expensive cologne filled the air, mingling with the faint sound of a pianoforte playing softly in the background.

Georgie approached the front desk, where a man with neatly combed hair and a well-tailored coat greeted him. The man’s demeanour was initially polite, but there was a certain coldness in his eyes.

“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Mr Henry Smith and I am the concierge here, may I assist you?”

Georgie hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes, I’m looking for someone. Actually, I am looking for someone who might know me, strange as that may sound.”

The man’s right eye twitched, and he took a step back, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Someone who knows you?”

“Yes, you see, yesterday a man came running out of this establishment and ran into me—”

“We are not responsible for what our members do, sir,” the man said quickly, raising a hand.

“I do not hold you responsible for anything, good sir. It is just that I do not recall the gentleman’s name, but he appeared to know me, and I was wondering if perhaps you might be able to help me figure out who he was.” Or who I am, he added to himself. He wasn’t quite sure what he was hoping to accomplish here, but he had no other leads.

“What is your name? And are you a member here?” the man asked.

Georgie wetted his lips. Was he a member here? Good question. Should he tell him yes and hope it was true? Or simply not answer? He went with that, put on his brightest smile, and stated the name he hoped was not his own.

“My name is George Wickham.”

The man looked down at a leather-bound book, flicking the pages when his expression changed instantly. The politeness vanished, replaced by a look of disdain. “George Wickham, you say?” He glanced down at a list on the desk, his lips pressing into a thin line. “One moment, please.”

The man stepped away to confer with another gentleman standing nearby. This second man, shorter and with a rounded stomach and robust frame, glanced at Georgie in such a manner that he sweated under his collar.

After a moment, the second man and Henry spoke in hushed tones, casting occasional glances back at Georgie. Then, Henry returned, his face now set in a grim expression.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to leave our establishment, Mr Wickham.”

Georgie blinked in surprise. This wasn’t what he’d expected at all. “What? Why? I demand to know the reason.”

The other man stepped forward, his voice smooth yet authoritative. “I am Mr Martin, the owner of this establishment, Mr Wickham, you must know that your reputation precedes you. We have been warned that you’d make your way to our establishment sooner or later, as you have been barred from almost every gentlemen’s club in London. Please be aware that your presence here is not welcome.”

Georgie’s heart pounded in his chest. What in the world had he done now? “But… I don’t understand. I can’t remember anything. Please, you must tell me what I have done.”

Henry and Mr Martin exchanged a look. Mr Martin’s eyes narrowed as he studied Georgie. “You don’t remember? That’s a scheme I haven’t heard before. I did not wish to get involved in your earlier troubles and had planned to merely send you on your way, should you show up, but since you insist on trying to pull the wool over our eyes, I shall have to do something about it,” he turned to Henry, “Watch him while I call for the constable.”

Georgie’s mind raced. He was both horrified and excited. These men did not seem to recognise his face, but apparently, his name rang many bells. They certainly could help him find out who he was if he could only convince them of his predicament.

“Please,” he pleaded, “Mr Martin, listen. If you could just tell me what happened. There was a man who rushed out of here yesterday, chased by another, can you tell me who he was? Or at least who told you of my so-called reputation? I truly do not remember who I am.”

Mr Martin smirked. “Do you take me for a fool, Mr Wickham? I have heard you are quite the trickster. But your tricks won’t work here.” He walked away, leaving Henry to guard Georgie.

Henry grabbed Georgie by the arm, his grip firm and unyielding. “Come with me. We’ll wait in the back.”

Panic surged through Georgie as he was escorted towards a dimly lit hallway. His mind spun with confusion and fear. What had he done to warrant such treatment? The more he tried to remember, the more elusive his memories became. The plush rugs muffled their footsteps, but the distant murmur of conversation and clinking glasses reminded him of the genteel surroundings from which he was being forcibly removed. It occurred to him that the man Lady Catherine had described in her letter would be just the sort to receive such treatment in a fine establishment.

It also occurred to him that if he was indeed so terrible a man, he might have done something that would warrant punishment. If he was taken in by the law, he might find out who he was. However, if he had committed some sort of crime, he might see himself carted away and incarcerated, or worse. He’d never find out who he truly was then.

He’d find out what sort of misdeeds he’d committed, to be sure, but nothing beyond that. He wouldn’t find out how he came to be here, and why. And if he was this bad a man, there had to be a reason. And what if he wasn’t George Wickham and was mistakenly arrested? He could not prove he wasn’t this man. And if he was taken in and put on trial only for it to come out he wasn’t who they thought he was? It would be too late. Elizabeth would have given up on him.

Yet, another thought was clearer than any of these—he was terrified of being taken in. If he was George Wickham, a trickster and a fraud, then he deserved to be jailed. He deserved to lose everything. But he, the person he was and had been for the past few weeks, had done nothing wrong. What if he had changed his ways? What if this amnesia had given him a chance, a new life? No, he could not let himself be arrested.

The idea of him rotting away in a jail cell threatened to cut off his air supply. He had to get out of here. He had to. As they reached a door at the end of the narrow hallway, it suddenly swung open, and a patron appeared, blocking their path. The thick smell of pipe smoke drifted out, and he realised this was the smoking room.

In the moment of distraction, Georgie saw his chance. He pulled his arm free from Henry’s grasp and bolted, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He sprinted down the hallway from where they’d come and burst through the front door and into the bustling street, the cold air hitting his face like a slap. He didn’t stop but ran and ran, the sounds of carriages, street vendors, and passers-by creating a chaotic symphony around him. He ran until his lungs burned, finally ducking into an alleyway to catch his breath. He leaned against the brick wall, his mind a whirlwind of terror and bewilderment.

“What have I done?” he whispered to himself. The thrill of recognition mingled with the dread of his past. Georgie wondered what heinous crimes he had committed to warrant such a reputation, if he was indeed responsible. Had he skipped out on expensive meals, leaving his friends to foot the bill? Gambled and left without paying? Worse? And who were the people who’d alerted the owners of the Westchester Club? And the man from yesterday?

His memory was a blank slate, save for the recent weeks spent with the Bennets, where he had felt kindness and love, especially from Elizabeth.

Georgie closed his eyes, willing himself to remember. But the past remained shrouded in darkness, with only fleeting, disjointed images surfacing—flashes of faces, a hand reaching out, laughter mixed with anger. He felt as though he were on the brink of a revelation, yet it slipped through his fingers every time he tried to grasp it.

A wave of despair washed over him. The weight of uncertainty pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe. If he was indeed George Wickham, then what did that mean for his future with Elizabeth? How could he ever hope to marry her with such a tainted past?

But amidst the fear and confusion, a spark of determination ignited within him. He needed to find out the truth, no matter how painful it might be. He owed it to Elizabeth, to the Bennets, and to himself. He could not live in this limbo any longer.

Gathering his resolve, Georgie decided he would seek out more answers. He would find the men from the club, confront them, and piece together his past. Only then could he face Elizabeth with the truth, whatever it might be.

***

Georgie wandered through the streets, aimless and disoriented, until he found himself back in Grosvenor Square. The park, with its lush greenery and serene atmosphere, was a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him. He dropped onto a bench, burying his face in his hands.

Thoughts of Elizabeth flooded his mind. Her gentle smile, the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, her presence—these memories were a balm to his troubled soul. Yet, they also deepened his anguish. How could he return when he didn’t have answers? Or if the answers were not those they both longed to find?

As he sat there, lost in his misery, snippets of a conversation drifted over from nearby. Two women, elegantly dressed, were walking along the path, their voices carrying over to him.

“Louisa, my dear, I simply cannot believe the audacity of that man,” her companion was saying, her tone sharp with disdain. “Spending money like water, it’s a wonder he hasn’t been thrown into debtor’s prison,” said the taller woman. She had dark hair, pinned back in a bun of sorts with an assortment of gems affixed to it. The shorter woman beside her, with ashen hair that was styled similarly with a bandeau instead of gems, nodded vigorously, her face pinched with disapproval.

“Indeed, Caroline. It’s absolutely disgraceful. I heard he is on the run anyhow from some men he owes a tidy sum to. And yet, he takes little care to disguise himself if all these stories we are hearing are true.”

The dark-haired woman’s voice grew even more indignant. “And to think, he had all the possibilities before him. A living was offered to him, did you know? Mr Darcy told me so himself.”

“I know. And Mr Wickham turned it down. The nerve of him! I’ve heard on dit that he preyed on young Miss Darcy, such an innocent girl, and then to carry on as he has been. It’s beyond reprehensible.”

Georgie looked up in surprise. Wickham? Were they talking about him? And Darcy? Was this the same Darcy of whom Elizabeth spoke so often? The woman had come to a stop after they’d passed him and he sat upright to look after them. There were elegantly dressed and had now paused before the pond nearby. He could still hear them but they could not see him. Should he alert them to his presence? They might be able to help him.

But no, they had just spoken of him in quite the negative fashion.

“By Jove,” he muttered. They’d just said Wickham was spending money and acting a fool. As in right now. How could they know this? He’d been with the Bennets for weeks now. Or had they been speaking about the not distant past? He had to learn more. He rose and pulled his collar up to conceal his face, before stepping a little closer to them. He dug his hand into his pocket and pretended to pull out crumbs for the birds, tossing them at the confused animals who were eagerly awaiting dried bread but received nothing but air. From his new position, he could hear the women quite well.

Louisa sighed, “I heard he is in Scotland now. Word has come down from Sheffield that he was thrown out of a tavern there for getting into a fight. It’s a wonder any respectable establishment would let him through their doors.”

He hesitated, torn between his desperate need for information and the fear of further rejection.

“Did you hear about his latest escapade?” Louisa continued. “I heard he swindled a gentleman in Edinburgh out of a considerable sum and then disappeared before the man could call for the constabulary.”

Caroline snorted. “Typical of the man. Always on the move, always looking for his next victim. I don’t know how anyone can stand to be in the same room with him. I wish Mr Darcy would come out of his seclusion so we could tell him all of this. It would amuse him greatly.”

“Alarm him, more like,” her sister replied. “He has been very peculiar of late, our Mr Darcy. It is not like him to stay out of touch for so long. Poor Charles is lost without him. I hope Mr Wickham does not call on Pemberley on his way back from Scotland.”

Georgie’s heart leapt. Wickham was in Scotland, according to this. So he could not be this man. Even better, these women seemed to know him. Could they have answers to his questions? Yet, a wave of anxiety washed over him. What if they recoiled in horror, just as the men at the club had? Even if he wasn’t Wickham, he was somehow connected to him. He had his coat, after all. No, he could not procrastinate any further. He had to approach the woman.

Steeling himself, Georgie rose from the bench and move towards the pair. As he drew nearer, he could see their expressions shift from casual disdain to outright shock. The one named Caroline’s eyes widened, and the other, Louisa, took a step back, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Georgie began. “Might I have a word?”

“Mr Darcy?” Caroline exclaimed and stepped forward. “You are here in Town?”

“When did you arrive? No one has heard from you in weeks.” Louisa said but then she looked him up and down, an example her sister swiftly followed. “What on earth has happened to you?”

“Have you traded places with your stable hand?” Caroline asked and chuckled, but Georgie could not move. Darcy? Had they just called him Darcy?

“You- you think I’m Mr Darcy?” Georgie stammered.

The women looked at one another, confused.

“Are you unwell? Have you had a drink already?” Louisa asked and came closer. She wasn’t afraid of him, that much was sure.

“Mr Darcy, you do not seem yourself,” Caroline added.

“Darcy?” he muttered as he rubbed the side of his head. Why were they calling him Darcy.

Louisa exchanged another glance with the other woman, her expression softened slightly with concern. “Perhaps we should take him to Charles. He might know what to do.”

“Charles?” Georgie echoed, his head spinning. “Who is Charles? And why are you calling me Mr Darcy?”

Caroline took a hesitant step closer. “Mr Darcy, that is your name. Did you bump your head? Were you mugged? Is that why you look so… curious?”

Georgie shook his head in disbelief, unable to reconcile the image of himself as this Mr Darcy. “But I… I was told I am Wickham. That I was involved in a scandal involving Miss Darcy.”

Caroline nodded solemnly. “He has been involved in scandals, to say the least. But you, sir… you are not Wickham, you are Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, of the Pemberley Darcys. A fine, esteemed gentleman.”

He wanted to protest, to argue that he couldn’t be this wealthy, esteemed man they described. The same man his beloved Elizabeth hated so much. There had to be a misunderstanding. But deep down, a part of him feared the truth.

“Please,” Georgie implored. “Take me to this Charles. Maybe he can help me understand. But first, who are you? Do I know you?” He looked from one to the other.

Caroline and Louisa exchanged another uncertain glance before nodding in unison. “I am Mrs Louisa Hurst, this is my sister, Miss Caroline Bingley. Charles is our brother and your dearest friend,” she said, speaking slowly as if he were a wee boy, not yet old enough to understand the world. But he understood. He understood just fine. Bingley. Charles Bingley. The man who had broken Jane Bennet’s heart—aided by none other than this horrid Mr Darcy.

“Charles Bingley…” he whispered, shaking his head.

“Indeed. Very well,” Caroline said finally. “Come with us.”

Georgie followed the sisters through the bustling streets of London, his mind a whirlwind of doubt and confusion. Mr Darcy, a man so different from George Wickham, yet seemingly equally burdened with disgrace and disapproval. He struggled to grasp the reality of his situation, each step towards meeting this Charles Bingley filling him with apprehension. He’d heard about this man but he did not know what to expect. Elizabeth had painted a picture of a rather feeble minded, gullible man incapable of making his own decisions and easily led by others.

And this was meant to be his dearest friend?