“He is a monster, Lydia.” She placed a hand over Lydia’s arm. “You are safe, that is all that matters. You are safe, and we know the truth.”
“I want him punished.” Lydia glared at the far wall. “I want him humiliated. I want the entire regiment to laugh at him.”
Elizabeth looked at her sister, and a slow, dangerous smile curved her lips.
“You shall have your wish.” Elizabeth stood up again. “We are going to need assistance.”
Lydia watched her sister pacing the room. Elizabeth’s mind was working in full force. They were no longer victims awaiting a disaster. They were Bennet women, they had been insulted, and this could not be left without retribution.
“We are going to lay a trap.” Elizabeth stopped pacing. “Mr Wickham believes he is meeting a lady at midnight. He will receive exactly that.”
George Wickham sat upon the wooden bench of the hired carriage, his collar turned up against the cool night air. The street corner near Colonel Forster’s lodgings was quiet, bathed in the pale light of a half-moon.
He held the leather reins loosely in his gloved hands, and congratulated himself upon his brilliance. This was not the grand, comfortable escape he had envisioned when the regiment marched into Brighton. He had sincerely hoped to secure fifty thousand pounds at least, and a docile, romantic wife who would pay his tailors without asking tedious questions.
He thought of Lady Margaret Clement, and mentally consigned the dowager to the deepest pit of hell. Her public thorough set-down in the royal stables had been catastrophic, destroying his ability to operate within polite society. The heiresses were inaccessible.
But George Wickham was, above all things, a survivor.
The Bennet girl was not a prize. She had no significant dowry. She had a loud laugh and no intellect. However, her true value lay in her accessibility and her father’s respectability.
Wickham smiled into the darkness.
It was a beautiful scheme. He would drive the foolish child far enough from Brighton to ensure her reputation was thoroughly compromised, secure lodgings at a discreet inn, and write a demanding letter to Mr Bennet in Hertfordshire.
Mr Bennet would panic and empty his modest accounts to purchase Wickham’s silence. It would be enough to pay Ensigns Burton and Miller and save his fine legs from being broken.
And then, he would return the girl to her father. The Bennets could marry her off to some old country vicar or banish her to an obscure relative; it was no concern of his. He would have his funds, and he would remove himself to another county—perhaps the North—to locate fresh, unsuspecting targets.
He adjusted his cloak. The plan was flawless.
The distant chime of a church clock drifted across the rooftops.
Midnight.
Wickham leaned forward on the driver’s bench and peered into the shadows towards the back entrance of the Colonel’s house.
A figure emerged from thealleyway.
It was draped in a dark cloak, the hood pulled low, obscuring the face. The figure moved with a slightly hunched, hurried gait, clutching a small parcel beneath the fabric.
Wickham felt a surge of triumph. The silly girl had actually managed to escape without waking her sister or her hostess.
He whistled softly, a low, urgent signal.
The cloaked figure scurried to the carriage.
Wickham leaned down from the bench. He placed a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he hissed into the night air. “Do not speak. We must not alert the watch.”
The figure nodded emphatically.
Wickham reached down and unlatched the carriage door. The figure scrambled inside with surprising agility. The door clicked shut, securing his hostage and his financial salvation.
Wickham snapped the reins.
The horses stepped forward. He kept them at a slow, steady walk, navigating the cobblestone streets of Brighton with utmost caution. He maintained a sedate pace until they reached the outskirts of the town, ensuring they did not attract the attention of the night watchmen or lingering patrons stumbling from the taverns.
Once they passed the final tollgate and the open road to London stretched before them, Wickham cracked the whip.
