Page 205 of A Question of Character

“You will remain.”

Wycombe’s lip curled. “I think not.”

Wickham moved before Darcy did, barring the door. “You will answer for this.”

“I owe none of you anything.” Wycombe’s eyes went to Georgiana, then away from her tear-wet face with visible distaste. “The venture has failed. Keep the girl. Keep the fortune. Keep your moral lectures.”

Mrs. Younge rose unsteadily. “George, do not—”

“Do not what? Remain to be arrested? Called out? Dragged before some magistrate with a Darcy holding the purse?”

Darcy’s voice dropped. “If you leave this room, I will find you.”

Wycombe gave him a shallow bow. “Then I shall endeavor to be elsewhere.”

He did not leave then, not with Wickham at the door and Darcy holding Georgiana. But that night, after arrangements were made for rooms, after Mrs. Younge was confined under watch, after Georgiana had cried herself into exhaustion behind a locked door, George Wycombe vanished.

He left no apology.

Only an unpaid bill and Mrs. Younge weeping in the chamber where the innkeeper’s wife had placed her.

Darcy discovered it near dawn.

He had spent the night seated outside Georgiana’s door, not trusting sleep, locks, servants, or his sister’s own despair. Wickham had taken the chair at the end of the passage and dozed in his coat with his arms folded, waking whenever Darcy shifted.

When the landlord came up, pale and stammering, Darcy knew before the man spoke.

Wycombe was gone. The explanation was soon found. A narrow window at the rear of his chamber stood open above the sloping roof of the inn’s kitchen offices. From there, he had lowered himself into the yard, taken a groom’s coat from a peg beside the stable door, and departed on one of the horses before the ostler understood that anyone had given an order. The animal was discovered several miles away, blown and riderless. Wycombe had evidently abandoned it and continued by some conveyance no one could identify.

Georgiana heard it through the door.

A single cry came from within, followed by muffled sobs.

Darcy stood with one hand against the wood, unable to enter until she permitted it.

Behind him, Wickham said, “Let him go for now.”

Darcy’s shoulders drooped, and he looked over his shoulder.

Wickham appeared exhausted, unshaven, and older than he had the day before. “Your sister needs you more than Wycombe deserves pursuit.”

Darcy closed his eyes.

For once, he listened.

Darcy did not leave the passage.

The innkeeper’s wife emerged once to ask whether he would permit her to bring Miss Darcy a posset. Georgiana answered through the closed door before Darcy could speak, thanking the woman softly and refusing everything. Later, a chambermaid carried fresh candles upstairs and cast him an uncertain glance, plainly wondering what gentleman chose to spend the night in a wooden chair rather than in the comfortable room for which he had paid. He neither explained nor moved. The hours passed with the slow, relentless tread peculiar to anxious nights. Floorboards creaked as travelers retired. Doors opened and shut. Somewhere below, laughter from the common room dwindled to scattered voices before disappearing altogether. Rain began shortly after midnight, tapping first against the windows, then settling into a steady rhythm upon the roof.

Across the passage Wickham shifted, stretching one stiff leg before folding his arms once more. “You will accomplish little by remaining awake until dawn.”

Darcy kept his gaze upon the closed chamber door.

“I am aware.”

“It was not meant as criticism.”

“No.”