CHAPTER 1
LONDON
AUGUST 30, 1812
Spilled ale and urine assaulted Fitzwilliam Darcy’s senses. The soles of his boots squished against the floor of The Devil’s Tavern. Adding insult to injury, the putrid water of the Thames lurked a stone’s throw away.
Wishing he could breathe without smelling, Darcy squinted at Wickham in the dim, smoky room and wondered how his old friend had fallen so low. To think he had once considered Wickham as close as a brother.
Darcy never would have found thisplace had he not coerced Mrs. Younge to reveal Wickham’s whereabouts. How could the profligate bring Miss Lydia to a place like this? Darcy would never expose a young lady he claimed to love to this thieves’ den near the waterways—a tavern inn in the worst part of the east end of town where a man’s coat was valued more than his life.
Darcy had dressed accordingly, careful not to draw attention to himself. He could neither afford to be mistaken as wealthy (a tempting target for thieves), or a seafaring man (a target for the press gangs desperate to fill the Navy’s demand for able-bodied men). Even so, Darcy could not bring himself to sit or touch anything in the establishment. Already, his skin crawled.
In contrast, Wickham lounged against the soot-smeared wall, the rough bench creaking under his weight. Even in his red regimental coat and polished boots, he gave the air of a gentleman on the rocks. Pickpockets would not bother with him.
Leaning forward, Wickham clasped his hands together on top of the turned barrel that served as a table between them. “I have no intention of marrying Lydia when I have an heiress ripe for the taking under my influence. Nothing you can say shall change my mind. I would rather attach myself to a rich, toothless harpy than saddle myself with Lydia Bennet.”
Darcy clenched his fingers into a fist, feeling every muscle in his body tense. Wickham did not have a sixpence to scratch with; nevertheless, he presumed tonegotiate. Not for the first time, Darcy was tempted to bash the smirk from his face.
But he was a Darcy. Darcys did not give in to their base desires or impulses.
He controlled his rage and continued with his plan. He would not leave that vile room until the Bennets’ reputation was salvaged.
It was the least he could do for Elizabeth, though she must never know of his interference. She would think he was attempting to buy her affection. He could not bear for her to think worse of him than she already did. Or worse still, to prove her right.
No, he would right his wrongs and live alone with the consequences of his infernal pride that had built a haughty, reticent image of him in Elizabeth’s mind.
Even from afar—in distance and time, even after her impassioned refusal—Darcy loved her. He had thought perhaps there might be hope.
Until Wickham.
Darcy had believed himself free of him, and now Darcy would pay for his error in judgment the rest of his days. He had tried to protect the Bennets from Wickham, but his warning had been too weak, too late. He had failed Elizabeth.
And now he would spare her.
One irrevocable act to appease his conscience. One final interference to ensure she would have a chance of being as happy as he wished her to be.
His one path to redemption was rightnow, in this moment, and he would not let it slip. For Elizabeth, Darcy would bribe a man he despised and yet to whom he would make himself a brother. “I shall make it worth your while to marry Lydia Bennet on the morrow.”
Wickham chuckled and leaned back, stretching his legs in front of him.
Darcy was not joking, nor would he negotiate his terms. The marriage license was secured, as was the clergyman in Wickham’s parish who, with a few extra coins, was willing to perform the service at such short notice. Darcy would give Wickham no time to think or renege once he agreed. He would accept now or get nothing.
Pulling a thick parchment out of his pocket, Darcy pushed it across the barrel to Wickham.
Wickham jolted forward, grabbing the paper greedily. “A commission in the regulars. How did you secure this?”
“That is of no concern to you.” His cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had called in several favors, and Darcy had paid a premium to obtain the commission as quickly as they could arrange it. The parchment in Wickham’s grubby hands offered not only a reliable living with room to advance, but it also represented the prestige he so craved.
Not giving Wickham time to consider, Darcy pulled a stash of receipts out of his other pocket. He retained every bill he had covered for the leech over the yearsfor protection should Wickham attempt to blackmail him or Georgiana. Never could he have dreamed that his caution would benefit Elizabeth. Dropping the receipts, he let them smack against the table and spread. “Your debts, paid in full.”
Wickham thumbed through the pile, the sum of which was over one thousand pounds.
“Is that all of them?” Darcy demanded.
Struggling to maintain his nonchalance when he knew he had been bought, Wickham sneered, “Your man is thorough.”
As he should be. Darcy remunerated Hastings well for his exertions.
