Their pint of ale was scarcely a quarter gone when the Bennet carriage rolled into the yard, and Darcy’s attention sharpened at once. He watched as Wickham spent several moments fussing with the door on one side before moving to the other, speaking to the ladies within.
Through the glass, Darcy caught sight of two pale faces inside the coach—they appeared frightened, certainly, but were uninjured—and the tension in his chest eased by a degree.
Just as he had anticipated, Wickham left the carriage standing in the yard and made his way towards the alehouse. At a measured distance, two of Darcy’s men followed him inside and straight through to the back of the inn, where the necessary rooms were, while the remaining pair crossed the yard without haste. Quiet words were exchanged with the ostler, and the team was led round, making ready for the carriage to be removed; beside the door, the other man bent to address the young ladies in tones too low for Darcy to distinguish.
The Bennet carriage, with the ladies still within, would be driven quietly to the other inn. Fresh horses would be harnessed without delay, and the ladies escorted home under proper guard. If fortune favoured them, Wickham would not even perceive the carriage’s departure until it was far beyond his reach.
Although no sound carried through the glass, a subtle motion from one of the men towards the taproom window drew Darcy’s attention. He understood at once and rose, crossing to the pane so that the ladies might see him.
Even at a distance, he perceived the change in their countenances—the unmistakable easing of fear before they summoned composure once more. He inclined his head, a gesture meant to reassure rather than alarm.
Outside, the team was led away with studied quiet. Within moments, the carriage rolled from the yard, unremarked.
The ladies were safe. Now their attention could turn to Wickham.
The advantage lay plainly with them—four men against one. Wickham had never troubled himself with notions of fairness; still, there was something almost unsporting in confronting him with such odds.
Given the tendencies of his former friend, such an advantage would doubtless prove necessary. It would ensure that Wickham did not slip away and that he understood precisely who stood behind his apprehension. There remained some uncertainty as to how they would ultimately proceed—particularly in light of how Colonel Forster might choose to respond to this accusation against one of his men—but one way or another, Wickham would no longer be permitted to remain a thorn in the Darcy family’s side.
Whatever business detained him did not occupy Wickham long. After roughly ten minutes, he emerged from a back room of the inn and crossed the taproom without so much as a glance at those within. A moment later, he stepped into the stable yard and stopped short.
The space where the carriage had stood was empty.
Shock was written plainly upon his features. It gave way almost at once to dismay as the meaning of its absence became clear.
“Damn it to hell—blast the cursed fools,” he muttered, already scanning the yard, his eyes narrowing as he took in the empty space and calculated what might have transpired in his absence.
Darcy, who had stepped quietly into the yard and now stood only a few paces behind him, heard every word. The coarseness did not surprise him; Wickham had always shed refinement the moment it ceased to serve him.
While Darcy and Richard approached from behind, the other men had already circled and now advanced upon Wickham from the front. With them stood another soldier in a red coat whom they had happened to meet there by chance.
“Wickham,” the man said, his tone sharp but controlled, as Darcy and Richard paused to observe. “What the devil are you doing in Luton? You begged off duty this morning, claiming you were ill. The colonel will not be pleased to learn you have deceived him. Speak plainly—what has brought you here? Why are you not in uniform? Explain yourself, lieutenant.”
“Denny,” Wickham began, plainly intending to bluster his way through the encounter. It had ever been his method; when accused of wrongdoing, he relied upon easy charm and a careless air to persuade his accuser that some misunderstanding had occurred. It seemed unlikely to serve him now given the attitude of his examiner.
“It is Captain Denny, lieutenant,” the officer returned coolly, any former camaraderie absent from his tone. “Answer the damned questions without delay; I was obliged to take on this errand to Luton in part due to your absence. Others have been assigned your duty because of your so-called illness, and I am in no humour to hear falsehoods.”
At that, Darcy stepped forward.
“I believe I can help clarify the matter, Captain.”
The sound of his voice struck its mark. Wickham turned, colour draining from his face, and for a fleeting instant shifted as though calculating the possibility of flight.
Richard forestalled the attempt at once. His hand clapped down upon Wickham’s shoulder, firm and unyielding, while the other slipped beneath the man’s coat to remove the pistol from his belt. He passed it silently to Darcy before Wickham could think to resist.
Wickham’s jaw tightened under the pressure of that grip.
Between them, Darcy and the colonel explained, slowly and carefully, what had brought them to Luton—how the Bennet coachman had been found trussed up upon the side of the road, how the carriage had been traced, and how the young ladies had already been removed to safety. Richard supplied the remaining details, his tone clipped and unmistakably displeased.
Wickham offered no interruption to their account. He listened in silence, his features settling into an expression of injured dignity so complete it might almost have persuaded a less discerning observer. Darcy recognised the look. It was the same mask Wickham had worn in boyhood whenever mischief had been uncovered and punishment threatened. The only time it slipped—so slightly that Darcy might have missed it, had he not been watching closely—was when he learnt that the ladies were two of the Bennet daughters of Longbourn, not the heiress from Millwood whom he had believed himself to have secured.
Even now, his silence was not submission but calculation.
“Captain, you will note that this man is Fitzwilliam Darcy, and his cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” Wickham said smoothly. “I have known them both since childhood, and theyhave not always been inclined to view me with… generosity. I merely sought to assist the ladies when their coachman fell ill. I did not lie; I was indisposed this morning, but have since recovered and thought to offer a good turn when I observed the ladies in distress.”
Darcy did not speak, but Richard let out an incredulous bark, causing all eyes to turn to him.
“Will the ladies in question—or the coachman—attest to this account?” Captain Denny asked coolly, his expression suggesting he found the explanation wanting. His gaze moved briefly between the men before settling once more upon Wickham. “Since you have no horse and appear quite recovered, you will march back to Meryton, where this misunderstanding will be settled. If the Misses Bennet confirm your story, you will go free. If not, you will answer for kidnapping and desertion. As a reminder, the penalty for desertion is death.”
