He cleared his throat. “We shall manage quite well on the interest from my beloved’s dowry,” he said, giving Miss Watting a soft, self-deprecating smile. “We have already discussed the kind of house we might lease, and the number of servants required to live a comfortable life.”
“You presume her father will release her marriage portion without question,” Lydia said coolly.
“Of course, he will,” Carter insisted. “He will want his daughter cared for financially.”
“Without a marriage settlement, no father is obliged to part with a penny of his daughter’s dowry,” Lydia countered.
“You do not know what you speak of,” Carter snapped, his patience clearly running thin. “You are nothing but a silly, ignorant flirt.”
A hush fell. Lydia met his glare with carefully controlled composure. “I may have been foolish when we last met, Captain Carter, but I distinctly recall my father warning that should I hare off to Scotland with a ne’er-do-well, I would never see so much as a farthing of my marriage portion. There is no guarantee Miss Watting’s father does not hold the same view.”
“Dearest,” Miss Watting said softly, laying a gloved hand on Carter’s forearm, “perhaps we should seek my father’s consent. I know he will love you as much as I do.”
“We leave for Scotland,” Carter declared, his jaw set in stubborn resolve. “As soon as the innkeeper readies a basket of provisions.”
“But—” Miss Watting began, her lips trembling.
“No, Priscilla,” he cut in. “We depart immediately.”
Charlotte bent close to Mr. Collins and whispered a few hurried words in his ear. His eyes went wide, his jaw slackened, then snapped shut. With a curt nod, he excused himself and strode towards the registration desk. Lydia watched as he exchanged words with the innkeeper, who cast a furtive glance at their party before nodding assent, as Mr. Collins quit the room.
Lydia dared to hope her cousin sought discreet assistance. Captain Carter was clearly no gentleman, and dear Priscilla had left herself vulnerable to extortion and a hasty marriage.
About to grab her friend’s hand and drag her from the crowded tap-room, the heavy oak door burst open on iron hinges. A giant of a man filled the doorway, broad-shouldered, clad in a dark riding coat that strained across his chest, boots caked with dust from the road. In an instant, Charlotte’s rigid features melted into a look of utter relief, and Lydia realised that she had sent her husband to fetch the gentleman. Why he was here, and who he was, remained a mystery. Only one thing was clear: Charlotte trusted him implicitly, and so would Lydia.
“My dear Mrs. Collins,” the man said in a booming voice, “I understand you are in disagreement with an officer of the militia.”
“You understand correctly, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Charlotte replied calmly.
“You there,” the big man called out, his attention firmly fixed on Carter. “Why are you not at your camp in Brighton? If you have leave to travel, Captain, present your papers.”
“I answer to no one but my commanding officer,” Captain Carter snapped. “Who are you to demand such things?”
A slow smile curved the gentleman’s lips. In no way was it inviting, but strangely sinister. “I am the Honourable Richard Fitzwilliam, former Colonel, retired from His Majesty’s Royal Dragoons. I retain many allies in the Home Office and the utmost respect of my peers. If I demand to see your papers, you will produce them, or I will have you arrested as a deserter in a time of war. The choice is yours, Captain. Compliance or arrest?”
Carter swallowed hard. “My papers, they are in my room upstairs.”
“Then, I suggest you find them and bring them to me. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carter snapped a hasty salute, boots clipping on the floorboards as he bolted up the stairs. Lydia arched a dark brow at Charlotte. “Do you think he will bother to retrieve his belongings before making his escape back to Brighton?”
“Escape?” Miss Watting whispered.
Lydia looked at her friend with amazement. “You do not believe for one minute he intends to return when it is painfully obvious that he has no papers giving him permission to be away from camp, and he is the deserter Mr. Fitzwilliam declared him to be.”
“No, you are wrong.” Miss Watting insisted. “You… you must be mistaken.”
“My dear Miss Watting,” Charlotte said softly, guiding the confused young girl to a trestle table by the hearth, “let us behave like sensible ladies. My husband and Mr. Fitzwilliam will sort out Captain Carter’s conduct.”
They settled on stiff benches under the glow of a single oil lamp, and spoke in hushed tones over the tea the innkeeper’s wife brought. In the quiet conversation that followed, Miss Watting’s hopes unravelled. The man she believed devoted to her had slipped away, leaving behind a small, threadbare valise containing come clothing and little else of value. His fleeting attention, it seemed, had been tied solely to her fortune.
When their cups were nearly empty, Lydia ventured, “Mrs. Collins, how did you, Mr. Collins, and Mr. Fitzwilliam happen upon us here in Bromley?”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam is married to Lady Catherine’s daughter, formerly Miss Anne de Bourgh. We were bound for London, invited to your sister’s wedding. Lady Catherine and Mrs. Fitzwilliam went ahead for family entertainment, while Mr.Fitzwilliam stayed at Rosings to resolve a tenant’s cottage dispute. Once that was settled, Mr. Collins and I were delighted that he could join us.
Lydia glanced out a nearby window where early afternoon light brightened the busy courtyard. “In all the excitement, I nearly forgot, Papa is sending a carriage for me today. I only hope Mrs. Graham received my letter; I would hate for her to think I encouraged Miss Watting to elope with a scoundrel.”
