He located Mrs Harriet Forster three sets away, engrossed in a fierce debate over bonnet feathers with two young ensigns. She was functionally useless. She was not a guardian; she was a toddler who had been left in charge of a bakery and had wandered off to look at a shiny button.
Darcy looked back at the alcove. Wickham released Miss Lydia’s wrist, offering another low, confiding remark that caused her to lean even closer, hanging on his every syllable.
The puzzle pieces clicked together in Darcy’s mind, forming a picture so ugly it made his jaw ache.
Why her? She had no fortune. Her connections were negligible. She had nothing of tangible value to a man who lived exclusively on credit and artifice.
But she was wildly eager for attention. And, Darcy realised, she was available.
Wickham was running out of options. His debts were legendary and his reputation, in circles that mattered, was ruined. He could not secure an heiress with a vigilant family. But an impulsive sixteen-year-old girl, far from home, with a guardian who had the intellectual weight of a decorative cushion? Miss Elizabeth was there, yes, but she was not old enough to command the authority of a proper chaperone.
Miss Lydia was the perfect leverage. An elopement with a gentleman’s daughter—even a poor one—would force a desperate family to negotiate. It would secure him a sum to disappear. It was a despicable, ruinous gamble.
And she was Miss Elizabeth’s sister.
If Wickham ruined this girl, he ruined the entire family. He ruined Jane Bennet’s future with Bingley and any hope Miss Elizabeth had of a respectable life. George Wickham would completely destroy the woman Darcy loved.
Darcy’s hands balled into fists at his sides, the fine fabric of his gloves creaking in protest. Passive observation was inadequate. Standing by the pottedfern was no longer a viable strategy. The hunter had selected his prey, and the trap was being baited while the rest of the room danced the boulanger.
He stared across the sweltering assembly room. The noise of the violins and the chatter of the dancers faded. His focus narrowed exclusively to the red coat and the yellow silk.
The mission had fundamentally changed. He was no longer a watchman.
He was going to have to stop him, and he needed Miss Elizabeth on his side.
Chapter Five: An Alliance on the Promenade
At precisely eight o’clock in the morning, the Forster lodging house achieved a state of grace previously considered impossible: it was silent.
Harriet Forster and Lydia Bennet were unconscious in their respective bedchambers, having danced until their slippers frayed and laughed until they had no breath left. They slept the deep, unbothered slumber of the truly oblivious—a state of being Elizabeth envied.
She, however, was awake. She sat in the small, cluttered parlour, nursing a cup of lukewarm tea and a staggering case of self-reproach.
The previous evening at the Ship Inn assembly repeated itself in her mind like a catalogue of her own failures. She had marched into the ballroom fully intending to be the supreme guardian of the Bennet family reputation. She had planned to stand between her youngest sister and George Wickham like an immovable human fortress.
Instead, she had been outmanoeuvred by a dowager with a passion for affordable meat.
Elizabeth rested her forehead against the cool wood of the breakfast table. The memory was agonising. Lady Metcalf had cornered her near the refreshment table, gripping Elizabeth’sforearm with the strength of a seasoned wrestler, and proceeded to shout about the rising cost of mutton for forty-five continuous minutes.
And while Elizabeth was held hostage by the dire cost of husbandry, George Wickham had made his move.
She had seen him across the room deftly orchestrating the encounter. He had guided Lydia into a recessed alcove, shielding her from the main floor while simultaneously blocking her escape. He had leaned in close, murmured, and had deployed the exact charm he had used in the gardens of Hertfordshire and, undoubtedly, in Ramsgate.
Lydia had giggled, swatted his arm with her fan, and had looked at him as though he had the only acceptable face in the county of Sussex.
Elizabeth gripped her teacup until her knuckles turned stark white. Wickham did not really want Lydia. She had no fortune, no influential connections, and an attention span shorter than a mayfly. But she was available and she belonged to a family who would pay any price they could afford to avoid the catastrophic ruin of a public scandal. He was building a trap, and Elizabeth had stood and watched him lay the bait.
She was an abysmal chaperone. A sentry who had politely stepped aside to let the invading army inspect the silver.
The walls of the parlour began to feel exceptionally close. Bandboxes and discarded ribbons littered every flat surface, mocking her with their frivolity. She could not remain indoors. She needed to move.
She abandoned her tea and marched to the kitchens.
The domain of the housekeeper was quiet, smelling of hot ashes and baking bread. In the farthest corner, seated upona wooden stool, was Winslow. The elderly maid had the remarkable ability to exist in a state of suspended animation. She was staring intently at a copper kettle, motionless, looking very much like a monument dedicated to the concept of apathy.
Elizabeth crossed the stone floor and did not bother to speak. Attempting to converse with Winslow was a thoroughly documented waste of breath. Instead, she reached out, grasped the maid firmly by the wrist, and hoisted her to her feet.
Winslow offered no resistance. She blinked her milky eyes, her single tooth making a brief appearance as her jaw dropped in mild surprise.
