Now, Darcy opened his eyes and looked down at the document resting on his immaculate desk. It was a report fromhis man of business, Johnson, detailing the second phase of Darcy’s penance. It concerned a matter far more important than broken vases and disappointed sisters.
George Wickham.
Darcy picked up the document. The ink was dry, but the facts burned his eyes. Wickham was in Brighton. The militia had encamped there for the summer season, moving from Meryton to the coast.
Brighton was the most fashionable, crowded, and morally flexible location in the kingdom. It was teeming with idle officers, frivolous matrons, and, most concerningly, unsuspecting young women with sizable dowries.
Darcy set the paper down and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples with his fingertips.
Georgiana was safe. She was residing in this very house, closely guarded by her new, infinitely more reliable companion, Mrs Annesley. Georgiana would not suffer from Wickham’s proximity. She was protected by the thick walls of Darcy House and her brother’s vigilance.
But Darcy knew the man’s pattern. He knew Wickham’s desperate need for funds to support his gambling habits and his extravagant lifestyle. He had the face of an angel and the charm of the devil. He had attempted to ruin a fifteen-year-old girl in Ramsgate for thirty thousand pounds, and would attempt the very same scheme in Brighton, surrounded by a fresh crop of wealthy, impressionable targets.
In Hertfordshire, Darcy had chosen silence. He had preserved his family pride at the expense of the community. He had allowed Wickham to spread lies, charm the local populace,and leave a trail of unpaid debts. Miss Elizabeth had been deceived by his lies and rightly so.
He could not sit in his perfect London study and allow Wickham to prey on the innocent when he had the means to stop him and the knowledge to expose him. Therefore, he had a moral obligation to act.
Darcy reached for the bell pull connected to his bedchamber and gave it a tug.
The door opened one minute later and Horlicks, his valet, stepped inside. Horlicks was a man of infinite discretion, impeccable tailoring, and a face that had never registered a single human emotion in his twenty years of service.
Darcy indicated the paper on the desk with a wave of his hand. “We are leaving for Brighton tomorrow morning, Horlicks. Pack my trunks. You will accompany me.”
Horlicks stood still and did not blink. “Brighton, Sir. Very good. Shall I pack the sea-bathing flannel? The striped ones are particularly fashionable this season.”
“I am going to Brighton to conduct business, Horlicks, not to frolic in the Channel.”
“Of course, Sir. My apologies. The woollens and the sombre waistcoats, then. Shall I include the boots suitable for marching on shingle beaches?”
“Include whatever you deem necessary for a gentleman attempting to navigate Bedlam.” Darcy stood and straightened his cuffs. “Before you pack, you must go to Johnson’s office. Instruct him to leave at once. He must secure lodgings for us in Brighton immediately. I require a respectable house, well-situated, with adequatestables and privacy.”
“I shall attend to it at once, Sir. Will Miss Darcy be accompanying us to the seaside?”
“She will remain here under Mrs Annesley’s care. Brighton is unsuitable for a young lady. It is filled with vice, noise, and military men.”
Horlicks bowed precisely. “A most disagreeable combination, Sir. I shall depart for Johnson’s office now.”
The valet withdrew silently, closing the door behind him. Darcy was alone once more.
He walked to the mirror hanging above the marble mantelpiece and studied his reflection. He saw the same coat he always wore, the same meticulously tied cravat, the same serious, unyielding features. But the man beneath the fine tailoring was fundamentally altered.
He was going to insert himself into a crowded seaside town. He was going to hunt down his worst enemy and act as a self-appointed guardian of the realm’s heiresses. It was out of character. Madness. It was an undertaking that invited scandal and public attention.
It was exactly what Elizabeth Bennet would expect a gentleman to do.
The thought of her name brought that sharp ache back to his chest. He wondered where she was and if she ever thought of him with anything other than disgust. He suspected she did not. He had ruined his chances through his own arrogance, but he could at least become a man worthy of her respect, even if he could never have her heart.
Darcy turned away from the mirror. He needed assistance. Wickham was cunning, andBrighton was a large town filled with distractions. A military encampment required a military mind to navigate it successfully.
He walked into the hallway. A footman emerged instantly from the shadows, holding his master’s hat, gloves, and walking stick.
Darcy accepted his hat, set it firmly on his head, and pulled on his leather gloves with deliberate, purposeful movements.
He needed to find his cousin. Colonel Fitzwilliam was on leave, residing in London, and likely dying of boredom in his club. The prospect of a covert mission to Brighton to thwart a scoundrel would be exactly the sort of ridiculous, dangerous adventure the Colonel would immensely enjoy.
Darcy opened the front door and stepped out into the bustling London morning. He had mistakes to rectify, and he was finally ready to begin.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was the second son of the Earl of Matlock, which allowed him to maintain respectable lodgings in Mayfair. The rooms were fashionable, comfortable, and shrouded in darkness.
