Richard chortled in glee at seeing their old friend with his wrist clipped in an iron shackle that was bolted to the old stone walls. The whole room gave the impression of something out of a novel by Walter Scott: Straw floor, dim December light beaming in through the bars, and a friendly rat nibbling on some cheese in a corner far outside of Wickham’s reach.
The man who'd opened the door made a squeaking sound at the rat, and in response it dropped the cheese, sat on its hindlegs, and waved at them. “Is he not delightfully small?” The guard bent down and gave the rat a bit of the pastry he’d grabbed from the breakfast provided by the inn when he’d come down to guide the gentlemen up to the gaol.
Wickham startled the poor rat into fleeing deeper into the corner of the room by shouting. “Darcy! I told you I’d hurt you.”
“And yet it isyouwho is hanging from his arm in an actual medieval dungeon — how’d you sleep last night?” Richard asked.
Wickham spat at him. “Darcy, you need me to marry your sister. Otherwise… heh. The consequences will be—”
“Ahem.” Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded to the guard.
“Give you the room, eh? Mr. Knight told me you might want to give him a bit of—” The guard punched the air several times. “Me, I’d kill a man who seduced my sister. Kill him — he scared poor Souris, who just wanted to keep him company.”
He then bent down and extended his arm to the rat, which ran up his hand and onto his shoulder, rather like a friendly cat. He then clucked his tongue several times at Wickham and said, “I hope these nice gents beat you up real brutal. Scaring a poor rat like that.”
“Souris? What sort of a name for a rat is that?” Wickham asked with a sneer.
“It’s French for a rat. He’s a very fancy rat.”
Darcy had to press his lips together to keep from laughing in amusement, or pointing out that the ‘s’ would be silent with proper French pronunciation.
When the three of them were the only inhabitants of the room, Colonel Fitzwilliam smacked a fist against his palm. “Might as well get to it.”
“You always were a proper bravo. But if you beat me up, I won’t marry Georgiana, and save her from the disgrace of having a child without a husband.”
“There is no consideration which would ever lead me to condemn Georgiana to a marriage with you.” Darcy hissed at Wickham.
“Cripple.”
“Ahem,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. He walked over to Wickham and wound up to punch him in the gut, but once Wickham had stiffened, Colonel Fitzwilliam instead smacked his head, rather softly. “We know you did not violate Georgiana’s honor.”
“So is that what she told you?” Sweat beaded on Wickham’s forehead. “Of course she would, to escape your censure. But you still need to make her marry me, so—”
“If I thought you had seduced my sweet cousin,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said smilingly, “I’d take you out to the field behind this old castle, give you a sword to defend yourself, and then delightedly run you through with my own. There is no world in which you marry Georgiana.”
Wickham sagged. He leaned against the cold stone of the castle. “There will be stories.”
“Better stories than an unworthy husband,” Darcy said. “But what surprises me is that you did not seduce her. You must have had sufficient opportunity to overcome any hesitation she would have offered.”
“The deuce. Fine, I’ll tell you — though I know you’ll not believe me.” Wickham sighed. “I know you think the worst of me, but she was always like my little sister — marriage, even to a man who you do not approve of, is an honorable state. But well… I just could not. She is too innocent and… young. And she looks too much like your father.”
“Now you are laying it on thick,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said. “I’ll not be convinced to treat you kindly with that speech.”
“No,” Darcy said, “but I will. I believe there was a mark of truth in how you spoke.”
“Will you then get me out of this prison? It was your crony, Shelham, who made up a charge against me, of suspecting me to be a smuggler. This far from the coast? It does not even pass common reasoning.”
“Are you a smuggler?” Richard asked.
“No! Goodness no. I’ve met a few of that sort.” Wickham shuddered. “They’d leave a man dead, his throat slit. Just for not being quite prompt in repaying a debt after losing at cards.”
“I’m glad,” Darcy said, “that you are not a smuggler. Here is what you shall do — I want you to leave England, and not return. We will place you on a ship to the Americas, and when you have boarded it, you will be given five hundred to establish yourself in your new home.”
“What!” Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “I’ll run him through before I see him with another pound from our hands.”
“It is from my hand and Wickham is near to family — you reminded me of that with what you said.”
“I did? — now say, I do not know that I wish to go to the colonies. And five hundred is certainly not enough—”
