Darcy opened his mouth to reply, but the words died in his throat.
A carriage turned the corner at the end of the street.
It was not a sleek, private town carriage. It was a hired hack, looking decidedly worn and slightly lopsided, and it moved at a funereal pace.
The driver sat slumped upon the high wooden bench. The moonlight illuminated the red flash of a militia uniform. The driver held the reins loosely, staring blankly ahead.
“Is that...” Richard stopped walking.
Darcy stopped beside his cousin and stared at the driver.
It was George Wickham.
The man looked defeated. The arrogant posture was gone, his shoulders were hunched forward, and he had the demeanour of someone who had just been sentenced to the gallows and was personally driving himself to the execution.
“What in God’s name is he doing?” Richard whispered. “He appears to be attending a funeral.”
The carriage drew closer, the slowclop-clopof the horses’ hooves echoing loudly in the quiet street.
As it passed beneath the glow of a streetlamp, the leather window shade of the carriage rolled up, and a head poked out of the window.
Winslow.
The elderly, supposedly deaf, former scullery maid of the Bennet household leaned her head out of the carriage window, with an expression of satisfaction. She caught sight of Darcy and the Colonel standing upon the pavement, and she lifted a bony hand, offering a cheerful wave.
Darcy stared at the old woman. He stared at the defeated driver.
His legendary intellect, honed by years of rigorous education and estate management, failed him. He could not comprehend the sequence of events that would place his sworn enemy in the driver’s seat of a hired hack, driving a fraudulent septuagenarian through the streets of Brighton at three in the morning.
“Darcy.” Richard’s voice was hushed with awe. “Did Wickham attempt to elope with Miss Elizabeth’s maid?”
“I... I have no idea.”
“Because if he did, I must shake his hand. The man has a truly staggering ambition.”
“Do not be absurd.” Darcy recovered his senses, though the confusion remained. “We must follow them.”
They fell into step a discreet distance behind the carriage. The slow procession navigated the streets, eventually turning onto the lane where the Forsters resided.
The carriage rolled to a halt directly before the front door.
Wickham did not move from the bench. He sat there, staring at the brick facade as though it were the gates of perdition.
The carriage door opened from the inside.
Winslow descended to the pavement and shook out her cloak. Then, she turned and rapped her knuckles against the wooden side of the carriage.
“Thank you, young man.” Winslow croaked. “The night ride was good but I’m disappointed we didn’t reach Scotland.”
Wickham let out a muffled sound that resembled a sob.
Before Darcy could intervene, the front door of the townhouse wasthrown open.
Colonel Forster stormed out onto the front step, wearing a nightshirt, a dressing gown, and a nightcap. For once, he did not look mild. He was furious.
“Wickham!” Colonel Forster roared. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you driving a carriage to my door at this hour?”
Wickham slowly lifted his head. “Colonel. Sir. There has been a misunderstanding.”
