***
Three days later, Mr. Darcy was back at Darcy House, with a stack of IOUs in his saddlebags. His aunt had the address of Mrs. Younge’s boarding house, and there was nothing to stop Darcy from having his childhood friend arrested for debt.
He had put this off for years, paying George’s debts for him all over the country, hoping against all rhyme or reason that George would change his profligate ways.
Mr. Darcy dropped his head into his hands. His head hurt, his heart hurt, his eyes burned. He had hoped to never have to put George in prison, but it seemed now that there was nothing else to do.
Chapter Fifty-One
It had taken surprisingly little time for Mr. Bingley to get his sister settled in her new townhouse. Caroline had been remarkably cooperative after the day that he had told her how she affected him. She had taken trays in her room beginning that very evening, so he had scarcely been forced to spend any time at all with her, and had not required Dunstan’s nighttime concoction.
Once the lease papers had been signed, Caroline had packed her things in silence. He had escorted her there, along with Peggy, and had watched the footmen carry trunk after trunk into the house. Once all her things had been carried inside, he had bowed to her, wished her luck, turned on his heel and departed.
He felt downright buoyant, and whistled cheerfully as he climbed back into the carriage and headed back to Bingley House. But hold – did he not deserve a snifter of the very finest brandy at his club? Today he had rid himself of the person who had terrorized him nearly his entire life!
He stuck his head out the carriage window and called out, “Take me to Brooks instead!”
He was welcomed by the club’s butler and ushered to a small table. “Brandy,” he told the waiter who appeared at his elbow. “The best, the very best!” The waiter bowed respectfully and returned just minutes later with a glass filled with a deep goldliquid. He warmed the glass in his hand, as Darcy had taught him, and then swirled it. He then took a minute to appreciate the colour before raising the glass to his nose to breathe in the aroma. He opened his mouth as well, capturing the impact of the spices and fruits in the liquid. Then he took a very small sip. He raised the glass to his friend Darcy, who had taught him how to enjoy such beverages and – come to think of it – had helped him become a member of this very club.
At that moment, he heard someone at the next table mention his friend’s name, and then there was a general chuckle. His curiosity aroused, Mr. Bingley leaned forward so as to hear better.
What he heard shocked him. “So much for the high and mighty Darcys!” a man scoffed. Another said, “The steward’s son! Unbelievable!” There was general laughter around that table.
Mr. Bingley was deeply worried. He drained the expensive brandy in three large gulps – Darcy would not have approved of this cavalier treatment of a fine vintage – and all but ran out the door.
***
At Darcy House, he waited in the drawing room, pacing worriedly, while the butler went off to find his friend.
When Darcy finally joined him, he could not hide his surprise at how ill the man looked. “Darcy! I heard whisperings at the club. What has happened?”
Mr. Darcy hesitated. But – why should Bingley not know? He had told Miss Elizabeth that he did not trust Bingley to keep the information to himself, but was that still relevant? All of London knew of Georgiana’s disgrace!
“Georgiana ran off with Wickham.”
“Ran off? With Wickham?”
“Eloped.”
Mr. Bingley could only shake his head. Miss Darcy! She was just a child, was she not? No, she must be – what, fifteen? Sixteen? Old enough to marry, in any case.
He looked at his friend closely. The man had aged a decade in just a few weeks. Mr. Bingley closed the distance between them and put his hand on Darcy’s arm. “I am your friend, Darcy, no matter what. What may I do to assist you?”
Mr. Darcy raised his head. His voice was hoarse as he said, “Your presence here is tonic enough; I thank you, Bingley.” And he found himself telling Bingley all of it – the elopement, the bigamous marriage, the pregnancy, Georgiana’s determination to keep the child.
“What is being done to Wickham?”
“I rode to Pemberley to get his IOUs.”
“There must be thousands of pounds worth!”
“Five thousand.”
“He cannot possibly pay that.”
“No; I will see him in the Fleet Prison, where I hope he will think on his crimes before dying of some foul disease.”
“A fitting end for the rogue! But what of your sister?’
