Chapter 4

On the London Road

Monday, 10th August, 1812

Puck's hooves clopped over the hard-packed dirt of the road, with only the tiniest puffs of dust rising up around his fetlocks. The early morning sun was thin, and Bingley was glad for the greatcoat keeping him warm. He had already put several miles between himself and Pemberley, and his saddlebags flopped heavily with such necessities as he would need that night. He intended to reach Netherfield well before evening the next day, if possible, and he had left some few changes of clothes there; enough, certainly, to see him through until his valet arrived from Pemberley with the rest of his wardrobe.

His shadow stretched long and wavering out over the grassy verge, and Bingley watched it a moment before looking upwards. There was not a single cloud to mar the azure of the sky, and there was the faintest hint of cool in the air that would doubtless burn off by eleven but promised no great heat later.

Bingley knew well that his sisters would be in a rare taking when Louisa discovered the letter he had left to her. Whether she and Caroline would guess the true nature of his departure – how strenuously he objected to the idea of courting Miss Darcy – he did not know. His note had been brief, saying only that he had been called away on urgent business and informing them that he was leaving the carriage at their disposal. He felt a frisson of guilt that he had not informed them that he was traveling to Netherfield, but he truly hated it when Caroline made a scene, and he had no doubt at all that she would have indulged in a full fit of histrionics upon learning that he was planning to see Miss Bennet again in the hopes of winning her hand. The thought of subjecting Georgiana Darcy to that was unconscionable.

Miss Darcy was so very young! She was scarcely more than a child, really. It was as well for her that Caroline and Louisa were determined to please and impress her, for they would be good guests without him there to disrupt. It rightly left him hot under the collar that his conniving sisters were pushing him to marry the girl – for she certainly was far too youthful for him. He would not be induced to marry her.

A hot flush of anger reddened his neck as he thought of the lies Caroline had told sweet, gentle Miss Bennet. He was still furious at his sisters and Darcy for orchestrating the hurt of such an angel. But the blame, Bingley knew, rested more on his shoulders than those of his friend and sisters. He had been weak and had allowed himself to be manipulated and persuaded. It had not been Darcy, not Caroline or Louisa, but Charles himself, who had jilted the beautiful, kind Miss Bennet.

Oh, how he still loved her! He dared to hope that she still loved him, but he knew that she had every reason to think the worst of him. She was all that was pure and good, and he had run off and left her like a dog with his tail between his legs. Yet every day apart from her had been a mixture of sorrow and disappointment. He shuddered, thinking of how great her own pain must be.

Bingley looked down at Puck's ears, the horse's mane bouncing gently with its trot. For a moment, Bingley was tempted to urge his horse to greater speed in order to reach Netherfield all the sooner. But no, he would not; there was little use in wearing the young gelding out, and it would be cruel besides. Indeed, he would need to change horses at a posting house somewhere along the way, leaving his own to be brought forward later. But that lay hours ahead, and for now the road unspooled before them like a long tawny ribbon leading to Netherfield.

/

Tuesday, 11th August, 1812

London

The room in the boarding house was small and, after two days of occupancy, rather odiferous. George Wickham, lately of his royal Majesty's 20th militia regiment, currently a deserter from said regiment, presently in the company of a vapid sixteen-year-old gentleman's daughter, suppressed a groan. Lydia Bennet was pretty and an enjoyable bedfellow, but she came with little money and had even fewer domestic virtues than he. That was not surprising, given that her mother, a solicitor's daughter who had captured a landed gentleman, refused to allow her own female progeny to learn any practical skills. The older three Bennet daughters had at least learned a few appropriate accomplishments, but Lydia had nothing to recommend her save her flirtatious demeanor, her beauty, and her reckless willingness to run off with him from Brighton when his gaming debts grew too pressing.

He did not like being deprived of attractive female company and had happily invited her on his sojourn to London. Of course, Lydia thought he would marry her, but why should he?

He was beginning to regret bringing her along now.

"But Wickham, it is so boring here!" Lydia whined and fell back dramatically onto the unmade bed. They lacked the extra funds to pay for the services of a maid, though the food, included in the price of the lodging, was at least decent, however far simpler than both he and his companion were accustomed to.

Not for the first time, he wished that they could have settled with his old paramour, Mrs. Dorothea Younge, who ran a boarding house in Edward Street. Regrettably, there was no room in that inn, so to speak, and he and Lydia had been forced to stay here, in less comfort and without any access to Mrs. Younge's fuller purse.

"Wickham!" Lydia repeated. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am, my love, of course," he mumbled, eying the bottle of cheap gin sitting by the table. He had almost drained it and would need to venture out to purchase more soon, but the little money that Lydia had brought with them must be spent with care…

There was a sudden, sharp knock on the door, and both Wickham and Lydia turned, startled.

"Who is it?" Lydia cried out eagerly.

There was no verbal response, only another hard rap on the door, and Wickham, with a sigh, rose idly to his feet and sauntered toward the door. There seemed little point in ignoring their visitor, and both of them were bored, so…

He opened the door to reveal the tall, unwelcome figure of Fitzwilliam Darcy, who promptly stepped forward and slapped Wickham across the face with one gloved hand.

Wickham reeled back from the blow, and Lydia screeched and hurled herself out of the bed to stand tall and indignant next to her lover.

"What are you doing?" she squealed. "Stop it! Stop it!"

Darcy walked into the squalid room, slammed the door behind him, and wandered a few feet further in, looking around himself with obvious disdain, as Wickham rubbed his cheek, his eyes narrowed. Lydia, suddenly aware that she was in her sleeping shift, hurried over to pick up a soiled robe from the floor and put it on.

"What do you want, Darcy?" Wickham snapped, forcing himself to lower his hand and glower up into his enemy's face. He had many advantages over his boyhood friend – winsome charm and a silver tongue, for example – but Darcy was several inches taller than he was and built more solidly, which was annoying.

He was also the very rich master of Pemberley, whereas Wickham, for all his looks and elegance, was merely the poor son of a steward, which was even more annoying.

Darcy, who was inspecting the nearly empty bottle of gin, turned back to glare at Wickham and straightened his already impeccable posture. "You seduced Lydia Bennet," he said coldly. "Prepare to die."

Wickham's mouth drooped open.

"What?" he finally breathed.

Darcy took another step forward, his eyes whorls of implacable determination. "You seduced a gentleman's daughter, Wickham. Prepare to die."

"What are you talking about?" Lydia interjected. Among many other things, she was a chatterbox. Wickham sometimes found it enjoyable, sometimes amusing, often irritating. In this case, he was grateful. He knew Darcy well and normally could predict his actions, but this was totally bewildering.

"He did not seduce me!" Lydia insisted, taking a bold step to stand next to the man she adored. "I am in love with Wickham, and he is in love with me, and we will be married soon."

"This matter has nothing to do with you, Miss Lydia," Darcy said evenly. "I am here to speak with a man, not a child."

"I am not a child!" the girl cried out indignantly.

"Wickham, I challenge you to a duel," Darcy declared, ignoring her. "As the challenged party, you may choose pistols or swords. I recommend swords, as you do not have a chance of hitting me…"

"Wait a minute!" Wickham sputtered. "You cannot possibly be calling me out over … over her?"

Lydia, who had been glaring at Darcy, fixed an outraged look on her lover. "George!"

"I am," Darcy said calmly. "For too long, I have turned a blind eye to your disgusting treatment of women and penchant for leaving your debts unpaid. So what will it be, swords or pistols, Wickham?"

"You cannot be serious!" Wickham squeaked, his face white. "If you kill me, that would be murder. What would happen to your precious Pemberley then, not to mention Georgiana, if you were hanged for killing me?"

For the first time, an expression of genuine thoughtfulness crossed Darcy's face, and Wickham felt his stomach unclench slightly.

"It would not be good for me to be inconvenienced with a murder trial," Darcy said judiciously, "though with my connections, I daresay I would be acquitted with ease. But you are correct, Georgiana would not like it."

"No, no, she would not," Wickham agreed and retreated another step.

"So I will merely maim you," Darcy said and smiled so unpleasantly, so dangerously, that Wickham decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He took two steps further behind him, grabbed Lydia's reticule in one hand, opened the door with the other, left the room, and ran as fast as his feet could carry him away from his enemy.

"Wickham!" Lydia screamed. "Wickham! ... George? George??"

/

Fitzwilliam Darcy stalked over to the window and reached it just in time to observe Wickham enter the street below at a full run. The former militia lieutenant did not even turn around as he dashed to the east and then ducked to the south into a thoroughly disgusting alley.

Darcy felt his body relax. He had not entirely expected Wickham to take his challenge seriously; dueling was illegal, after all, and Wickham was not a gentleman's son. If Wickham had refused to act, Darcy would have taken the next step, that of having the man arrested for indebtedness, but he did not have any of the debt receipts on hand. No, this worked well enough.

"I hate you!" cried a feminine voice from behind him, and Darcy turned to observe Lydia, her pretty face twisted in fury, standing near the bed, her soiled robe clutched around her ample form. Darcy glanced at the door and was pleased to see it was open; he did not care to be in the room with Miss Lydia alone, after all.

"I daresay you do," he said with studied disinterest. "Do you wish to remain here, Miss Lydia, or accompany me to your relatives' house in Cheapside?"

Lydia looked incredulous and demanded shrilly, "How do you know about them?"

"I met Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner a few days ago in Derbyshire when they and your sister Miss Elizabeth toured my home of Pemberley. I admire your relations very much. I came to London on their behalf to seek you out after I heard that you had run off with Wickham."

"Why? Why did you, high and mighty Mr. Darcy, feel the need to interfere?"

Darcy sighed and said, "Wickham has seduced many a young woman before, Miss Lydia. He has no intention of marrying you, just as he married none of the other women he deceived before you."

Lydia's face turned red, not with distress but with anger. "You lie! He loves me! I love him! We will be married and soon!"

There was no point arguing with such stupidity, so he merely nodded and asked, "So you wish to stay here?"

"Yes, of course, and do not come back!"

Darcy made a show of considering this and then said, "I feel uncomfortable to think of you starving to death here, Miss Lydia, or being forced to go out and earn your bread. You are tall and strong, though; perhaps you can convince your landlady to feed and house you in exchange for cleaning and emptying chamber pots."

Now the girl's eyes were as wide as saucers.

"What are you speaking of?" she gasped. "I am a gentleman's daughter."

"But you have no money," he said patiently, "and I am quite confident Wickham will not return for fear that I will punch him, or duel him, or throw him into debtors' prison. Moreover, he took your reticule with him."

Lydia turned to stare at the chair where her reticule had, indeed, been sitting. "He … he…!"

"Of course," Darcy replied in a bored tone. "His only reason for bringing you to London was so that he could use your money and otherwise take advantage of your person."

"How dare you!" Lydia shrieked, and for the first time, she actually looked embarrassed.

"I assume you had intimate relations with him?" Darcy asked calmly. He was deeply uncomfortable about the conversation, but Lydia Bennet was a flighty, stupid thing, and dancing around the issue was pointless.

She gazed at him, and now there were tears in her eyes.

"He loves me," she said, though her tone had become uncertain. "I am sure he does. Why did you have to interfere?"

"I despise Wickham," Darcy replied with a shrug. "Good day, Miss Lydia."

He walked over to the door and heard the young woman's voice cry out. "Wait!"

He turned about and waited patiently as Lydia Bennet, gulping hard, said, "I … I do not want to be left alone here, penniless."

"I would be pleased to escort you to your relations," he said steadily, hiding his relief. He would, of course, have sent Mr. Gardiner to fetch Miss Lydia as soon as possible, but he could hardly haul her out of the house screaming and in the meantime, anything could happen to a na?ve gentleman's daughter in this part of London.

Lydia looked down at her night garments, and Darcy said, "I will wait for you in the corridor."