Donaldson’s Circulating Library. Five o’clock. Wickham, Carter, and Denny intend to corner a Miss Jenkins. Forty thousand pounds. Her ruin is their objective. I shall be present. Your assistance in creating a distraction would be most welcome.
He folded the note twice and sealed it with a plain wax wafer, devoid of the Darcy family crest. It was a masterpiece of covert communication.
He strode to the parlour door and pulled it open.
Horlicks stood in the hallway, dusting a small portrait of King George with unnecessary vigour.
Darcy extended the sealed note. “It is almost midday. I believe you require mint pastilles, do you not, Horlicks? Please ensure Winslow receives this formulation as soon as possible.”
Horlicks accepted the note. It vanished into his coat pocket with the speed of a seasoned pickpocket. Then he bowed deeply. “Understood, Sir. Shall I bring back a specific flavour, or rely upon the classic mint to disguise the transfer?”
“Just give her the paper, Horlicks.”
“Very good, Sir. Shall I walk with a secretive limp to deflect suspicion?”
Darcy rolled his eyes to the ceiling, praying for strength. “No, Horlicks.”
“But, Sir.”
“No.”
Darcy closed the door and turned back to his cousin. The great Master of Pemberley was managing a confederacyof spies in a seaside town, and he found he was looking forward to five o’clock with an anticipation he had not felt in years.
Fitzwilliam Darcy arrived at Donaldson’s Circulating Library precisely at the stroke of five o’clock. He wore the dark blue waistcoat, though he refused to acknowledge to his cousin that he had spent twenty minutes deliberating with Horlicks over the choice. He appeared so focused that a small boy selling roasted chestnuts on the Steine took one look at his face and fled in the opposite direction.
“You must relax your jaw, Fitzwilliam,” the Colonel muttered, adjusting his uniform jacket as they crossed the threshold. “You look as though you are marching to the guillotine rather than borrowing a book. A spy must blend into his surroundings. Observe me. I am the very picture of a gentleman seeking light amusement.”
“You are perspiring, Richard.” Darcy did not break his stride. “And you have a smudge of ink on your nose.”
The Colonel hastily wiped his face with a linen handkerchief, cursing softly under his breath.
Donaldson’s Circulating Library was not merely a repository for books; it was the heart of Brighton society. The air was thick with the hum of vicious, whispered gossip. In one corner, a lively raffle for a silver tea service was causing a severe disruption among the dowagers. In another, a small string quartet battled valiantly against the rising volume of the patrons.
Darcy surveyed the room, his eyes bypassing the glittering displays of new novels, ignoring the eager stares of several young ladies who had instantly registered the arrival of ten thousand pounds a year.
He found her immediately.
Miss Elizabeth was standing by the poetry section, holding a small, leather-bound volume. She wore a simple, elegant walking dress of pale green. She did not look up when he entered, but Darcy saw the small tilt of her chin and the subtle shifting of her posture. She knew he was there. The Horlicks-Winslow team had functioned flawlessly.
“Our quarry is in view,” Richard whispered, leaning far too close to Darcy’s ear. “Wickham is by the philosophy shelves. He is deploying the mournful gaze on the youngest Bennet girl.”
Darcy turned his head a fraction of an inch. George Wickham was indeed standing amidst the philosophy texts, though it was doubtful the lieutenant had ever read a single word of philosophy in his life. He was leaning against a bookshelf, directing his arsenal of charm at Lydia Bennet.
Miss Lydia, oblivious to the danger, was laughing loudly, tossing her head and gesturing to Mrs Forster, who was engrossed in debating the merits of a pink ribbon with a distressed shop assistant.
“He has her captivated,” Darcy observed, his voice dropping to a low register. The sheer audacity of the man standing there, operating his schemes in broad daylight, caused a familiar, burning anger to ignite within Darcy’s chest. “We mustseparate them.”
“Wait.” Richard gripped Darcy’s sleeve. “The situation is developing. The secondary target has entered the field.”
Darcy followed his cousin’s gaze. The glass doors of the library opened, admitting a young woman of perhaps nineteen years. She had a sweet, open face, devoid of guile, and she was draped in fabrics that screamed of wealth. Miss Clara Jenkins.
Wickham’s reaction was instantaneous. The moment Miss Jenkins stepped inside, his stance altered. He straightened his shoulders, his eyes locking onto the heiress. He offered Miss Lydia a hasty, dismissive bow and began weaving his way through the crowded room.
“He is making his move,” Richard hissed. “The scoundrel is pivoting. What do you think? Shall I throw a book at his head?”
“Not yet, Richard.” Darcy’s eyes darted to the poetry section. Elizabeth had slightly lowered her volume. She caught Darcy’s eye across the crowded room. She gave a shake of her head.Wait.
Wickham reached the newly arrived lady and executed a bow that was a masterpiece of elegance. He deployed the smile that had ruined half the maids in Derbyshire, and opened his mouth to deliver what was undoubtedly a rehearsed compliment to Miss Jenkins.
