Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

R ichard watched Miss Elizabeth disappear around the corner of the house. “She is handsome.” Darcy bristled, and he knew Richard noticed. Wiggling his eyebrows, the colonel slapped him on the back. “She has caught your eye, has she?” He squinted at the dewy dawn after her. “Hm…a subject I shall revisit once you have shown me to a fire and fed me. I have not eaten since yesterday, and my bones ache from riding through the cold.”

Darcy prayed his cousin would not bring up Miss Elizabeth again. In the meantime, he would gladly ply him with food. “My apologies, Richard. I was not expecting you.”

“No. No, I daresay neither of us could have expected this news. But let me warm myself first. I really am quite miserable.”

When they entered the house, Bingley’s butler led them to the front parlor, where a fire had already been ignited. “I sent to the kitchen for a repast, sir. It will be brought in shortly.” Richard approached the blazing fireplace with his palms out.

“Inform my groom that our departure will be delayed,” Darcy instructed the servant. While he recognized that Richard’s arrival would postpone his trip to London once again, he clung to the possibility of continuing with his plan with stubborn hopefulness.

“Very good, sir.”

With a nod of thanks, Darcy turned to the colonel, noting appreciatively that the butler had closed the door behind him. “What has happened?”

“Patience, Darcy, patience. I am only now able to feel my fingers once again.”

Clenching his jaw, Darcy sat. “Take your time, Rich.” He would, whether I tell him to or not.

Slowly, agonizingly, his cousin rotated before the fire, only sitting when a generously laden tray of food was placed on the table. Darcy waited as Richard slathered butter on his bread, he waited while Richard poured himself a second cup of tea, and he continued to wait when Richard, satiated from the pile of food he consumed, rose to warm his hands again at the fire.

He was tired of waiting. If he did not leave soon for London, he would not be able to go at all. Pretending a calm ease, he asked, “What brings you here so urgently?”

With a nod of his head, Richard sat in the chair opposite him. “Yesterday, a sailor called at Darcy House with news of Wickham.” Darcy stiffened. He had received no word of this. “Your butler did as you had instructed: he sent for me immediately, knowing that I was in town. Once it was ascertained that the sailor was on the same ship which conveyed Wickham to Charleston, your man plied the informant with food and drink and kept him there until I could attend him, which I will assure you, I did not delay in doing.”

That was precisely how Darcy would have hoped the situation would be handled. He nodded his approval and waited for him to continue.

Richard exhaled deeply and rubbed his hand over his face. “For months, I have wished a pox on that poor devil. If he were here, I would curse him to his face. Wickham knew what would happen if he attempted to approach either of us again after what he did to Georgie. He was a rogue and a villain.”

“Was? You speak of him as if he is dead!” There was no immediate reply, and Darcy’s concern grew. He had long ago ceased to be Wickham’s friend, and after his attempt to elope with Georgiana, Darcy had considered him an enemy.

Finally, Richard continued, “He did not survive one week in Charleston.”

With the scoundrel’s gift for dodging consequences, Darcy was unconvinced that any ill could befall the man. “He is gone? Dead?” Richard nodded. Unbelievable! “How? What happened?”

“There was a woman on the ship, Mrs. Crawford—a wealthy widow traveling to her relatives. She fell for his charm. Wickham convinced her to marry him, even arranging for the captain to perform the service.”

“Typical Wickham,” acknowledged Darcy.

Richard raised his finger. “The lady, however, wished for her family to be present and to have a suitable gown made for the occasion.”

“Not an unreasonable request.”

“A clever excuse, as it turned out.”

Darcy leaned forward, paying rapt attention.

“On the day of their arrival at port, the sailor noticed that the widow disembarked from the ship alone. No one saw Wickham, but they all had jobs to perform, so they thought nothing of it until hours later.” Richard poured two drinks from the decanter beside the tray. “Sailors are a suspicious lot, and I have yet to meet one who is not convinced that a female aboard ship is a curse. Remembering how strange it had been to see the lady disembark without Wickham, the sailor went to Wickham’s cabin. He found him drugged and tied to his bed. Once they made him alert enough to realize what had happened, Wickham searched for his stash of money?—”

Darcy surmised what had happened next. “It was gone.”

“The lot of it.” Richard’s chuckle had a sharp edge. “Ironic, is it not? For a deceiver to be so fully deceived!

“But that is not the worst of it,” he continued. “The hiding place for his money was inside a narrow opening through which he had to slide his arm. Drugged and desperate, Wickham did not check for vermin before reaching inside. A rat bit him, he took with fever, and he died five days later.”

Death by a rat bite! Darcy was stunned. This was bigger than irony―this was poetic justice! However, while Darcy could not help but feel some relief in the knowledge that Wickham could harm no more, he could not rejoice in his death.

“Had the painting been with him or had the widow woman stolen it, he would have said something, as addled as he was. His only concern was for his money pouch.”

Darcy had been right to believe the old woman! The painting was still in England, sold for fifty pounds at the market in Seven Dials. It could not be far.

“Wickham was in a sorry state, desperate and without any connections. He had no money. He promised that if the sailor helped him to find and set up lodging, get him to a doctor… his family would compensate him handsomely. Wickham claimed to be a Darcy, a name which the sailor recognized enough to cast aside his doubts and what he knew about the man’s character. As the bite grew hot and infected, he knew that Wickham’s time on earth was short. He took the opportunity to appeal to the rich family for a reward after taking care of their lost son until the end. I, of course, requested proof from the sailor, some detail that would encourage me to believe him. Wickham gave him a name, one that would ensure that his family would comply: Georgiana.”

Ire burned in Darcy’s veins. To the very end, the blackguard would use Georgiana against him. That he dared to speak her name at all proved how selfish and callous he had become. “Why did you not summon me immediately?”

“There was no time. The sailor had signed on with another ship and was due to sail with the tide. I gave him a reward from your stash in your study and a bottle of your good brandy.”

“I should have been there.” Regret gnawed at Darcy’s stomach.

“You were exactly where you needed to be. You cannot attend to everything yourself, you know.”

“It is my responsibility.”

“I am Georgiana’s co-guardian, so anything pertaining to her welfare is also my responsibility.”

“Which is why I must recover the painting. Georgiana’s welfare depends on this terrible wrong being made right. You know she will notice its absence, she will ask where it is, and she will learn just how great Wickham’s treachery was toward her…toward all of us.” And now, Darcy would have to inform her that the man she had loved—perhaps still loved—was no longer. Dread churned within him.

“How is Georgie?”

“What?” Darcy’s mood was too dark to switch so quickly to the lighter question.

“How is Georgie? Has this excursion into the countryside improved her spirits?” If he admitted it had, Richard would feel justified for his interference. Darcy was still reeling from the news of Wickham’s death— news which his cousin’s ride to Hertfordshire had provided Richard with time to contemplate. The colonel would be aware of this advantage and use it.

Although he originally had hoped Richard would not bring up Miss Elizabeth again, Darcy could think of nothing else that might distract his cousin from the more painful topic. “The young lady you met?—”

“Miss Elizabeth?”

“Georgiana has become friends with her and has smiled more since their meeting than she has all the months since Ramsgate.”

“Are you going to tell Georgiana?”

“About the painting? Absolutely not!”

“About Wickham. Should we tell her?”

Darcy’s stomach plummeted to the floor. So much for distraction. His inclination was to say no, but that did not seem right. “How?”

Richard rubbed his hand over his face again. “Damned if I know. I would hate to spoil her recently found cheerfulness.”

They would have to tell her. Somehow. Unfortunately, that meant Darcy would not be able to leave her for any length of time until he found the right moment to reveal this shocking news and comfort her.

“I have two weeks leave, and I will stay here. Between the two of us, we will support our Georgie.”

With that, Darcy’s dream of escaping to London was fully crushed, trampled to dust. He could not leave while Richard stayed. Georgiana would not understand. He stood and began pacing, the clock chiming every quarter of an hour. Only three weeks remained until he had promised his sister that they would return to Pemberley, and now he could not move for two of them. How on earth would he find the painting in time? How could he heap disappointment on her when he must also break her heart with this terrible news? How could he ever face Georgiana again? He had to find the painting!

The door rattled and swung open. Archie walked into the room and then turned back to the doorway with a whimper. Bingley followed closely behind him, wiping sleepily at his eyes. “I do not know what he wants. He is driving me mad, whimpering and moaning.” Bingley yawned. “He brought me his ball and his lead and would not leave me alone until I left my comfortable bed, but it is pouring rain. Caroline would have my head on a silver platter if I played ball with him inside the house.” He saw the tray and went straight for the urn. “Is there any coffee in here? How you keep these early hours is beyond me.” He poured himself a cup.

Darcy looked through the glass. Rain poured down in sheets. “Where is Miss Elizabeth? And Remy?”

Bingley drank from his cup and grimaced. “I assumed they were sleeping like the rest of the decent people.”

Dread crept up Darcy’s spine. “Archie misses his friend. Miss Elizabeth took Remy out of doors.” Charging out of the room to the entrance hall, he asked the doorman if she had returned. Mrs. Nichols had not seen her, nor had any of the maids or the cook. Miss Elizabeth had not returned.

He clenched his teeth and cursed himself for his oversight. He had seen her leave but had been too caught up in his own worries to check on her welfare. Even when he had mentioned her to Richard, it had not occurred to him that she might not be safe.

“She might be out in the stables. Nobody in their right mind would attempt to brave this weather,” Bingley suggested.

Or some accident might have befallen her. Why had Darcy allowed her to leave with only that foolishly friendly dog for company? Angry at himself for his negligence, he spoke forcefully to Bingley. “Stay here in case she returns. Do not alert the household.” To the colonel, he said, “My horse is still ready in the stables. We ride.”

Despite his complaints about the aches in his bones, Richard stood, always ready to assist when needed. “I will search in the direction of the village.”

“And I toward Longbourn. That is her family’s estate. Perhaps she took shelter there or somewhere along the way.” To Archie, Darcy whistled. “Come, Archie. Help us find our friend.”