“Describe your cousin to you?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged, her expression perplexed, but said, “About half a head shorter than you. Charming smile. Wavy golden hair. Blue eyes. Engaging dimples and—”
“Dimples? Golden hair?” Darcy interrupted. “No. That is not Richard.”
“But it is.” Twin lines appeared on Mrs. Younge’s brow.
A horrible suspicion bloomed in Darcy. He knew a man who met Mrs. Younge’s description. The question was, did she know? Was she a fool, or playing one? Her very real frailty after her illness suggested the former. “How do you know the man who was spending so much time with my sister was Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
“Miss Darcy introduced us. We met by chance while walking the promenade.”
Cold dread coiled in Darcy’s gut. “You met by chance, and my sister introduced him?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Younge frowned at Darcy, obviously wondering why he found that so odd.
Oh, Georgiana, what have you done?“And why did you not write to me about his marked attention to my sister?”
Mrs. Younge shrugged. “For the reasons I told you. Oh, and because Miss Darcy said she had already written to…” She trailed off, her eyes going wide. “No. Surely not.”
Darcy scrubbed at his forehead again. Would Georgiana truly perpetuate such a horrendous lie? Not on her own, certainly, but if urged to, if charmed into doing so, she might. And Darcy knew precisely who could charm Georgiana into such recklessness.
Wickham.
“Her sketchbook,” Mrs. Younge exclaimed, coming to her feet. “She took very little. Her sketchbook is still here.” So saying, she rushed past Darcy.
He pivoted, following. Together, they went up to Georgiana’s room. Mrs. Younge crossed to her desk, practically flinging aside a pile of letters to get at a large, leather-bound volume that Darcy recognized as a gift of his. Turning back to him, Mrs. Younge flipped through the pages.
She held out the book. “She drew him here, and here.” She rapidly turned pages. “And here. There are quite a few, actually.” Pausing in her frantic page turning, she squeezed her eyes closed, the book held out. “I should have known. I should have seen it.”
Darcy stared down at the portrait open before him. It, like the others Mrs. Younge had flipped through, showed a grinning George Wickham in an officer’s uniform. Even sketched in pencil, his smugness as he gazed out of the page at Darcy was palpable.
“That is not Colonel Fitzwilliam, is it?” Mrs. Younge asked softly.
Looking up from Wickham’s smirk, Darcy shook his head. “That is George Wickham, son of my father’s steward.”
“She lied to me.” Mrs. Younge’s voice squeaked with indignation. “For weeks, she lied to me. To my very face.” Anger sparked in her eyes. She snapped the book closed. “What can I do to help?”
Darcy bit back the words,You have done enough. “I am afraid there is nothing you can do. I will go after them, gathering men to assist me when I reach London.”
“I can assist you.” She clutched the sketchbook to her chest. “I can copy these, and circulate them. Or give them to your men, to show to people.”
Darcy shook his head. Logically, he knew Mrs. Younge had been fooled by his sister and Wickham, who could charm pennies from a beggar, but she had also failed in her duty. And logic played no role in the anger he felt when he looked at her. “You will be given two weeks’ pay. I am afraid I can offer no reference. You are dismissed.”
“But, sir, Mr. Darcy, I can—”
“No,” he cut in coldly. “Do not force me to rescind my offer.”
She stared at him in clear misery, her lips clamped closed.
“I will depart now.” He tried not to feel how weary he already was after his headlong ride from London. Hopefully Patrick and the carriage were not too far behind him and would be easily spotted on the road back. Hopefully, as well, he could hire a new mount, for the one he’d ridden into Ramsgate was spent. “All that can be done to find my sister will be done.”
Mrs. Younge nodded. “And this place?” She gestured to the room in which they stood. “Would you like me to see Miss Darcy’s possessions packed?”
“I will speak to the housekeeper. As I said, your services are no longer required, Mrs. Younge.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
