He never had the opportunity to speak, because a shadow fell over him.
It was not a metaphorical shadow. A woman of extreme proportions stepped out from behind a shelf of encyclopaedias. She wore a turban adorned with a single, aggressive ostrich feather, she had the jawline of a bulldog, and the eyes of a hawk.
Lady Agatha Clement had arrived.
Lady Clement examined Wickham from the top of his pomaded hair to the scuffed tips of his boots. The assessment took exactly three seconds.
“You are blocking the light, Sir.” Lady Clement spoke with a voice that could shatter granite.
Wickham offered his most engaging, tragic expression, and pointed to his left. “A thousand apologies, Madam. I was admiring the cartography. The rendering of the Italian coast is quite exquisite.”
Lady Clement tapped her cane against the wooden floorboards.
“That is the coast of the West Indies, you simpleton. Remove yourself from my vicinity before I instruct the porter to toss you into the street.”
Wickham gasped.
“Shoo.” Lady Clement waved her cane in a dismissive gesture. “Go find a barmaid to impress. My niece requires intellectual stimulation, not the company of a man whose debts likely exceed his vocabulary.”
Wickham’s smile cracked. He bowed stiffly and turned away.
Darcy felt a sense of respect for the woman in the turban.
“I think I am in love.” Richard whispered the sentiment with sincerity. “I wonder if Lady Clement requires a suitor.”
“Come along, Clara,” Lady Clement was saying. “I need a new volume of sermons, and I refuse to breathe the air near the romance section. It smells of cheap cologne.”
Miss Jenkins, bewildered by the exchange, was swept away by her aunt.
But Wickham was not one to be defeated easily. He smoothed the lapels of his red coat, adjusting his features back into the mask of the injured gentleman, and set his sights on the philosophy section.
“He is going back to Miss Lydia,” Darcy stated, his voice tight. The amusement of Lady Clement’s victory vanished as the reality of the threat returned. Wickham could not have Miss Jenkins, which meant Lydia Bennet was in severe peril.
Darcy looked across the room. Miss Elizabeth was staring at him. Her eyes were wide, conveying a clear command.Do something.
Darcy did not hesitate. He abandoned his cousin, he abandoned his dignity, and strode directly to the philosophy section, preparing to execute the most absurd act of his life. He kept his gaze fixed on the feathered monstrosity adorning the hair of Lydia Bennet.
He arrived the moment Wickham leaned forward, a sickly, sympathetic smile on his face, prepared to resume his campaign of manipulation.
Darcy stepped between them before Wickham had the opportunity to complete his exhalation. Darcy reached out and selected a volume from the shelf beside Miss Lydia’s shoulder without reading the title. He merely opened it to the middle and turned to her in scholarly inquiry.
“Miss Lydia,” Darcy said, his deep voice carrying a tone of such urgency that Miss Lydia startled, nearly dropping her reticule.
Wickham jerked backwards, his smile freezing into shock, staring at Darcy as though he were an apparition.
“Darcy! I did not know you were visiting Brighton.”
“Now you know, Wickham.” Darcy did not even glance at him.
“Mr Darcy!” Miss Lydia blinked rapidly, her eyes darting from his tailored coat to the massive book in his hands. “I... I did not see you coming. Are you searching for a book? I assure you, this section is terribly dull. There are no pictures whatsoever.”
“I am aware of the lack of illustration, Miss Lydia.” Darcy held the volume outward, presenting the dense, impenetrable text to her. “However, I find myself in a state of deep intellectual perplexity, and I recalled your great understanding of... societal constructs. I need your immediate assistance.”
Wickham let out a sound that was half a cough and half a strangled gasp. He stared at him, his mouth slightly open, unable to process the absurdity of Fitzwilliam Darcy requesting intellectual guidance from a girl whose primary academic achievement was identifying the regimental facings of the local militia.
Miss Lydia’s vanity, however, rendered her immune to sarcasm. She puffed out her chest, a delighted smile spreading across her face. “My assistance? Well, I am always happy to help a gentleman in distress, Mr Darcy. What is the difficulty?”
Darcy glanced down at the book. He had accidentally selected a volume of classical Latin translations. He pointed blindly to a paragraph concerning the nature of stoicism.
