Page 33 of Mr. Darcy Comes to Town

“Yes, me,” George Wickham replied in a jaunty tone. He removed his bicorn hat. “What are you doing in St. Albans?”

“Never mind that. When did you join the militia?” Darcy demanded, moving aside to permit Bingley to exit the shop.

“I joined recently,” Wickham told him. “Hallo, Bingley, old fellow. How are you?”

“What are you doing here?” Bingley asked in as aggrieved a tone as Darcy had ever heard from him.

“I joined the militia,” Wickham said rather gayly. He waved at his uniform. “I look rather magnificent, do I not?” When neither Darcy nor Bingley responded, Wickham added, “The ladies love an officer in uniform.”

Darcy stiffened and felt Bingley’s hand on his arm.

“But what are you doing in Hertfordshire?” Bingley asked.

“My regiment is returning inland for the winter,” Wickham said, his lips twisting into his usually disarming smile. “I am part of the colonel’s staff, and we are searching out a location for our winter quarters. I am in favor of St. Albans, but the other officers prefer Meryton. I expect we will settle there. The regiment should arrive next month. I am tasked with finding lodgings for the colonel and his staff.”

Darcy’s stomach tightened and his jaw clenched. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Why did I invite Georgiana to Netherfield?

“Meryton!” Bingley said, a squeak of alarm in his voice. “You will be stationed in Meryton?”

“Yes, what of it?” Wickham asked, frowning now. “Is there something wrong with the place?”

Bingley cleared his throat. “I make my home in Meryton now.”

“Do you, by Jove? Well, that explains why you are in St. Albans,” Wickham claimed. He laughed, slapped Bingley on the arm, and strode off, whistling.

“Damn his eyes!” Darcy whispered furiously. “Come, I must send another letter to Georgiana, telling her not to join us at Netherfield.”

“Good Lord, yes.” Bingley patted his arm. “If we return to the White Hart, you can write something for Georgiana and the letter will catch the evening mail.”

“The evening mail?” Darcy cursed at the truth of it. “If only my first letter has missed her.”

“And your letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Bingley reminded him.

“I may go to London myself, instead.”

“Your chaise will beat the mail,” Bingley agreed. “It is not above five miles to Meryton. Once we are driving on the open road, we can be home in approximately a half hour. With about four hours to London, door-to-door, you will see Georgiana before dinner time.”

“You see that I must go?” Darcy asked, striding alongside his friend toward the White Hart where they had left the gig. He hated having to go, and hated Wickham even more for continuing to make his and his sister’s lives more difficult. Georgiana must not see him!

“Certainly, you must go,” Bingley said. “Be sure to return, mind. I am counting on you to support me during Caroline’s party.”

“I will set off from London first thing tomorrow, and I should be at Netherfield before your afternoon party.”

“Excellent.”

*

London

Darcy arrived in London in time for dinner, just as Bingley had promised. Pemberley Place appeared mostly dark, and the knocker had been taken off the front door. He thought nothing of how odd it appeared, since his sister currently resided on Curzon Street with his Aunt Orillia Fitzwilliam. He leapt out of his chaise, followed by his valet, Elliot, who hurried up the two steps to the front door and proceeded to pound on it with the side of his fist. A large man, ten years older than Darcy, Elliot could make a considerable racket when he wished. Soon, the black door opened and Cranford, their proper London butler, stared down his nose at Elliot.

“I thought it might be you,” he muttered, before opening the door wide and bowing. “Welcome to London, sir.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said, sweeping past the upper servants into the entrance hall. “I am only staying the night.” He began to tug off his gloves. “Ask Mrs. Cranford to send something upstairs for me as soon as possible. I mean to change into evening dress and then go out again. But I am famished. Some bread and butter will do. We only stopped to change horses on the way and I have eaten nothing since eleven.”

“Bread and butter, sir?” Cranford repeated in horrified tones.

“I will eat properly later at my club if Aunt Orillia refuses to feed me,” Darcy said, heading for the stairs.