“He is distressed,” Darcy whispered. “His tailor is undoubtedly demanding payment.”
“It is worse than his tailor,” Richard replied with a grim chuckle. “See the two gentlemen hovering near the pillars?”
Darcy adjusted his angle of vision. Ensigns Burton and Miller were standing a few feet away from Wickham. They were not smiling. They were watching Wickham with the intense scrutiny of creditors who had finally realised that the gentleman who borrowed their funds had absolutely no intention of returning them.
“The young ensigns have calculated their losses,” Darcy deduced, satisfaction settling over him. “Wickham is out of time. His debts have caught up with him. He needs an immediate windfall, or he faces social and professional ruin.”
“Which means,” Richard concluded, pulling his boots back from the ledge, “he is going to attempt something desperate tonight. A wealthy heiress is no longer a luxury for him, Darcy. It is a vital necessity to avoid debtors’ prison.”
Darcy’s gaze swept across the theatre, searching for Wickham’s intended target. He did not have to search for long. Seated in a highly visible box directly opposite their own was Miss Clara Jenkins. The young heiress was fanning herself demurely, unaware of the danger lurking on the ground floor.
Beside Miss Jenkins sat Lady Clement, who was examining the stage through a pair of silver opera glasses with supreme, undisguised contempt.
“He cannot possibly approach Miss Jenkins,” Darcy stated, bewildered by Wickham’s apparent strategy. “Lady Clement dismantled him thoroughly at the circulating library. He would not dare to cross her path again.”
“Desperation breeds foolishness, Fitzwilliam,” Richard observed, resting his chin on his hand. “And Lady Clement cannot remain glued to the girl’s side for the entirety of the evening. The interval approaches. The saloon will be crushed with people seeking lemonade. It is the perfect environment for a desperate man to orchestrate an accidental, isolated encounter, even a compromise.”
Darcy turned his attention back to Miss Elizabeth. She had turned her head slightly, looking up at his box. Even across the noisy expanse of the theatre, he felt the invisible current of their shared purpose snap into place. She gave a single nod. She had seen Wickham. She understood the peril.
The curtains on the stage began to close, signalling the end of the first act. The audience erupted into loud applause, scraping chairs, and raised voices.
“The interval is upon us,” Darcy said, standing up and smoothing the flawless lines of his evening coat. He retrieved his gloves from the small side table. “We must descend. We cannot allow him to separate Miss Jenkins from her chaperone.”
“I shall provide a distraction,” Richard offered, springing from his chair with far more eagerness than a gentleman typically displayed for an intermission. “I am perfectly willingto spill a glass of lemonade on Wickham’s boots if the situation requires it.”
“We shall attempt to resolve the matter with slightly more dignity, Richard,” Darcy replied dryly, though he secretly approved of the concept. “I intend to utilise the crowds to our advantage. The corridors are narrow. It is possible for a gentleman to become an obstacle if he positions himself correctly.”
“You plan to block his path with your size!” Richard laughed, a booming sound that caused the smelly dowager in the next box to jump in her seat. “A brilliant, absurdly simple manoeuvre. You shall be a human barricade.”
“It is a social obligation,” Darcy corrected smoothly, opening the door of their box and stepping out into the dimly lit corridor. “One must always ensure the safe passage of young ladies through crowded spaces. If Wickham finds his path impeded, he can only blame the architectural failings of the Theatre Royal.”
The descent into the saloon was akin to wading through a sea of honey, formed by five hundred people attempting to purchase refreshments at the same time.
Darcy utilised his height to peer over the heads of the patrons to locate his objective. Miss Clara Jenkins was standing near a large, ugly marble pillar carved to resemble a weeping willow. She was separated from Lady Clement, who was engaged in a ferocious battle with a vendor over a glass of ratafia.
It was a window of weakness for the heiress.
A flash of scarlet caught Darcy’s eye. Wickham was approaching from the opposite side, moving with determination, feeling the breath of his creditors on his neck.
Darcy altered his course, stepping smoothly into the narrow, congested space between the weeping willow pillar and a curtain that concealed a storage closet. It was the only viable path to reach Miss Jenkins. Darcy planted his polished evening shoes firmly on the patterned carpet, squared his shoulders, and expanded his chest to its maximum width, transforming himself from a gentleman of leisure into a bespoke brick wall.
Wickham arrived a moment later. He was moving quickly, his eyes fixed greedily on the oblivious Miss Jenkins. He did not see the obstacle until he collided with it.
“I beg your pardon,” he muttered hastily, attempting to slide past Darcy’s right shoulder.
Darcy took a half-step to his right, blocking the gap. “Are you in haste, Wickham? You should watch where you are going. You would not want to get trampled by the thirsty spectators.”
Wickham halted, a flash of annoyance crossing his handsome features. He offered a tight, impatient smile. “Of course, Darcy. I shall be careful. If you would kindly allow me to pass...”
Wickham shifted his weight and lunged to the left, attempting an evasive manoeuvre around Darcy’s other shoulder.
Darcy mirrored the movement with flawless, aggravating grace, stepping to his left and creating a barrier of fine wool and starched linen.
“Do mind the curtain, Wickham,” Darcy advised, his tone dropping to a register of polite boredom. “I understand they rarely clean the drapery in these establishments. You would not wish to soil your uniform. I imagine laundering scarlet wool is a tedious endeavour.”
Wickham stopped, the panic in his eyes revealing raw desperation. He stared up at Darcy, his chest heaving. They were trapped in a narrow space, surrounded by the deafening roar of societal chatter, engaged in a silent wrestling match of etiquette.
“I must speak with Miss Jenkins,” Wickham hissed, abandoning the pretence of casual conversation. “Step aside, Darcy.”
