Darcy moved on to the next enticement. “In addition to the commission and paid debts, I shall settle one thousand pounds on Lydia to be paid once you sign the wedding register on the morrow, witnessed by myself and Mr. Gardiner, who shall act as Miss Lydia’s guardian in lieu of Mr. Bennet.”
Mr. Gardiner was as eager as Darcy to see his niece married. He had agreed to hide Darcy’s role from Mr. Bennet, who should not be greatly inconvenienced with the paltry one hundred pounds per annum plus the settlement of Wickham’s debts in Meryton. Darcy would have been happy to spare Elizabeth’s father that expense as well, but he had to lend some credibility to Wickham’s sudden marriage to the gentleman’s most undesirable daughter. Mr. Bennet was too clever by half, as wasElizabeth. They would suspect another’s involvement if it was too easy.
While Wickham considered the offer, Darcy pressed his advantage. “Hastings will ensure your travel costs to Newcastle are covered. Additionally, he will secure suitable accommodations for you and Mrs. Wickham that shall be ready after you have been seen as a properly wed couple and have allowed your wife to bid her adieus to her family. I think a fortnight should suffice.”
Wickham scoffed but held onto the commission firmly, obviously aware that it promised instant relief. “You have thought of everything, as you always do. However, I could really use that thousand pounds tonight. I owe some unsavory men—”
Darcy shook his head firmly. He would not budge. “Once I witness your signature in the register—and only then—shall I pay. That is my final word on the subject.”
And now, the ultimate incentive. Collecting the pile of receipts, Darcy tucked them inside his pocket. “If you do not accept my conditions, I shall call in your debts.”
That had Wickham’s full attention.
“The commission does you no good if you are in debtor’s prison.” If looks could kill, Wickham would have impaled Darcy with his eyes. “Marry Miss Lydia, and you may leave for your new commission free ofdebts, reclaim your dignity, and be a thousand pounds richer.”
Wickham clenched his jaw and slammed his fist against the barrel. Darcy had won, and Wickham knew it. “Devil take you, Darcy. I am not in a position to refuse,” he hissed through gritted teeth.
“Do we have an agreement?” Darcy folded his arms over his chest and glared down at Wickham.
Bowing his head, Wickham snarled, “You have my word. I shall marry Lydia.”
Darcy turned toward the door. Breaking glass, bawdy laughter, and angry, drunken shouts awaited him on the other side of the street. It was only a matter of time before shots were fired. Uncrossing his arms, he said, “Meet me at St. Clement’s at ten o’clock on the morrow.”
Without further leave, he departed, shoving his way through the odorous bodies, trays of rancid beef, and raised tankards. As wretched as the Thames smelled, it was a relief to breathe the night air outside the tavern.
He would order a bath the moment he returned to Darcy House. A couple of glasses of his finest brandy ought to dispel the remnants of the tavern.
Glancing cautiously about, Darcy walked swiftly to the corner, his gaze roving for a hackney to convey him far away from this unsavory neighborhood. He wished he could have brought his own carriage, but a gang of ruffians would have harmed his men and stolen hisconveyance.
He rounded a corner, raising his hand when a hackney came into view, his voice catching in his throat when he heard a scuffle behind him.
Nerves on point, he turned. There was a blur of motion, then his hat flew off his head. At the same time, he heard glass shatter and felt his head part. Blurry and unbalanced, he flung out, catching his assailant with his fist.
“Pretendin’ to be a gent. Almost didn’t recognize him,” he heard in a strange man’s voice.
He felt another hand—a rough one that scratched against Darcy’s shaved cheeks—pressing something against his mouth and nose, smothering him. “Don’t forget how dangerous he be. Stay alert ‘til he sleeps.”
“Busted yer nose proper, didn’t he,” chuckled the other.
Two men. Darcy struggled, but the cloth smelled sweet, and his limbs grew heavy. He felt himself fading into the night.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered before he succumbed to the black void.
Darcy woke hours later—dayslater. He did not know.
His head swam and throbbed. Careful not to make any abrupt movements, he tested the strength of hislimbs, discouraged when his body did not react as he needed it to.
Unable to do much more, he observed his surroundings. Curtains billowed at the small, round windows. Ruffles and frills adorning bright silks and shimmery fabrics were draped over the open door of a closet. A woman’s room.
The ground swayed beneath him, and Darcy groaned. If this was a dream, he wished he would wake.
He thought back, remembering his assault. There had been two men. They had rough accents—Devonshire men. Seafaring men, no doubt. Press gangers? No, Darcy thought as he recalled bits of their conversation. They had spoken like they knew him. But how could that be? He had few friends in Devonshire, and certainly nobody of their sort. Where had they brought him? And why did it look like the inside of a mantua maker’s shop?
They had claimed he was dangerous, pretending to be a gentleman. Clearly, they had mistaken him for someone else, but for whom? This was a horrible misunderstanding. He had to get out of there so he could make it to the church on time.
Had he already missed the wedding? Would Wickham marry Lydia if Darcy was not there to make him? Bile rose in his throat, and his stomach churned.
Darcy tried to sit up. He needed to find someone and tell them of their mistake.
