Mrs Gable remained unmoved. “See that you are. Breakfast is at eight. Promptly.”
They settled into the house. The rooms were spotless, though undeniably smaller than the cavernous halls of Londonhotels. Darcy found the proximity to the bustling street irritating, but he had not come to Brighton for comfort.
He had come for Wickham.
The following morning, Darcy sat in the drawing room with a cup of black coffee, attempting to read a newspaper but the noise from the street was deafening.
Richard strode into the room, wearing his finest coat, a finely knotted cravat, and an expression of grim purpose.
“Put the paper down.” He plucked the broadsheet from Darcy’s hands. “We are going out.”
“We have barely finished breakfast,” Darcy protested, reaching for his coffee.
“Wickham is not going to wander into Mrs Gable’s parlour and confess his sins.” Richard tossed the newspaper onto a side table. “We must find him and observe his movements. We are hunting, Darcy. One does not hunt from an armchair.”
Darcy considered pointing out the absurdity of treating a seaside promenade like a stalking ground, but after one look at his cousin’s determined face he decided against it.
He finished his coffee and stood up.
They walked to the Steine. The wide, grassy promenade was the very heart of Brighton society. It was crowded with people determined to see and be seen. The salt wind tugged at Darcy’s hat, the volume of humanity setting his teeth on edge.
They navigated through clusters of gossiping matrons and groups of loud, overly confidentjunior officers.
“There.” Richard stopped abruptly. He pointed discreetly to a large, elegant building at the edge of the promenade.
The sign above the door readWright and Son’s Royal Colonnade Library.
The area outside the library was congested with patrons. It was the premier location for acquiring novels, purchasing stationery, and exchanging town gossip.
Standing on the pavement, at ease, was George Wickham.
He wore the red coat of the militia with casual elegance, the uniform fitting perfectly. His fair hair curled appealingly in the sea breeze. He had the same handsome, open countenance that had deceived half of Hertfordshire and very nearly ruined Georgiana.
Darcy felt a surge of cold fury, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
But Wickham was not alone. He was engaged in deep conversation with three young women.
Darcy and Richard stood by the wrought-iron railing, maintaining a careful distance. They had a clear view of Wickham’s posture, but the women were facing away from them.
The brilliant morning sun necessitated parasols. Three silken canopies obscured the ladies’ faces. One parasol was a vibrant shade of yellow, the other two were a pale blue and a sensible brown.
Wickham leaned forward and said something softly to the woman holding the yellow parasol.
The yellow parasol dipped slightly as the woman laughed.
It was a masterful display in manipulation. Wickham deployed his charm effortlessly. He was attentive, deferential,and apparently the very ideal of a respectable, admiring gentleman.
“He is working very quickly.” Richard watched the display with deep disgust. “The regiment has only been here a fortnight.”
“He wastes no time when there is prey to be secured.” Darcy kept his eyes fixed on the red coat. “We must discover who those women are. We must warn their families before he enacts another scheme.”
Wickham offered one arm to the woman holding the yellow parasol and the other to the lady with the blue. He smiled, a perfect, brilliant flash of teeth.
Darcy stood rigid against the wind.
The hunt had officially begun.
Chapter Three: A Most Inconvenient Coincidence
