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Elizabeth thought carefully for a moment, and for a time we thought she had gone to sleep.

Finally, she said the oddest thing. “He has an excellent memory, at least for hurtful things I say.”

Aunt Catherine leaned over, took her hand gently, and whispered, “Have there been many of those?” I suspect she had forgotten I was there, or perhaps she just trusted me.

“More than you can ever know.”

“How do you propose I dissuade him… and why precisely do you not want him here? Is it that you do not want him to see you like this, skinny, bony, lank hair, unattractive—and still married?”

Aunt was nothing if not blunt, which to tell the truth, was my favourite thing about her.

Elizabeth said, curiously, “That is of no importance. There will never be the type of… relationship… between the two of us where that matters. It is just—”

Aunt held her hand and said nothing, waiting patiently.

Finally, Elizabeth said, “I cannot let him see me this weak! He is the only one who knows all my secrets, and I do not have the strength to argue with him if he tries to dissuade me from what I must do.”

That sounded genuinely alarming, and I could see the look spreading to Aunt’s features the same as to mine, but she had enough sense to let it go… for the moment.

“Tell me what to tell him, Elizabeth.”

“Write this exactly, if you will. These exact words—no more and no less: `Do I truly have to explain it to you, Mr Darcy? It all seems so obvious to me that it should not even need to be spoken of.’”

She seemed understandably exhausted by the ordeal, but before she fell asleep, she said, “He will understand. He will do his duty. Tell him Easter! I shall welcome my friend on Easter Sunday, and not a day before.”

Quarry

Wickham

Bloody Heaving Slatternly Ballocks, I hated St Giles. I hated every damn thing about the festering skunk hole. There was not a cherry tart to be had anywhere without a price, and sometimes a hidden one. The older strumpets were as likely to kill you as give you a good taste of quim, and it was entirely a matter of chance whether they got you with the clap, the pox, a confederate after your purse, or a knife to the throat. The gambling was exciting, except that most of the tables were populated with entirely too many foxes and not enough hens for my taste. This was truly a dangerous place, even for a man such as me, accustomed to suchlike. The players were not unfriendly, precisely. They just had a very different idea of the right division of stacks, and a decided lack of interest in extending debts of honour. Once you got behind, you stayed behind. I hated every stinking thing about St Giles… except for the convenient fact that pigs, thief-catchers, creditors, and, most importantly the militia, never came here. I even knew Darcy had a dozen men looking for me in other places, but they would never find me in a rookery, no matter how big the reward, as long as I kept my head down and did not get noticed.

The mark was familiar. Something about him rang like someone I had once known, though not well. Being acquainted with someone could be a good thing or bad, depending on how and where you knew him, and how you played it. The wrong man could gain more advantage by making my presence known to certain people than through gambling, while others could be worked if you knew their story, especially if they had an excess of coinage and a lack of good sense. There was advantage to knowing something about a man, particularly if he did not know you were even there.

I could not remember exactly where I had seen him, but I was certain I had. He had the look of new gentry on the way down, a flash of money, maybe from his father, that he did not have the sense to hang on to. It was a look I could easily recognise, since I was the same—except for never having had the money in the first place, of course. His clothing was of the first circles, but it had not seen a valet in some time. His hair was once fashionable, but was becoming unkempt, even worse than a tradesman, who would have taken care of his appearance all his life and would know what he was about. This was a man who had been pampered, but was no longer being seen to. He had learnt the rudiments, but there was no style to it… no flair… certainly no fashion. His boots were recently buffed, but it looked like the work of a man who did not particularly know how to do it, or more likely, a street boy who knew how to take advantage of a chucklehead.

He obviously did not recognise me. I watched him and his confederate most carefully; they pretended they were not known to each other. They both had the look of desperation about them. Their card play was careful and even most of the time but with odd lapses. There were no big shows of flash or elegance, and they were holding their own for the moment, but I could tell the cards would not be friendly over the long night. Neither of them had the stones to make the big bets that might make them a real profit; but on the other hand, their odds of being found by creditors and dumped in the river were probably about even, whereas mine were decidedly worse if someone were to recognise me.

Even had I known them before, there was little chance of them recognising me. I looked nothing at all like I had a year or two earlier. Colonel Blackwood saw to that! The militia had seemed like such a lark. Pretty girls were falling all over themselves to attract a handsome officer, even if he did not have two farthings to rub together. I could sometimes even get two or three sisters competing to lay their precious virtue open to my perusal. The best had been that family of five daughters in Meryton, until the mousy bitchy one interrupted my fun. They were all just like sheep, easily found, easily led, and easily slaughtered by the big bad wolf. Gentlewomen and shopkeepers were equally easy to manipulate in those small villages outside town where the society was easy, the fathers lax, and the militia held in high esteem. Better yet, villagers were happy to extend credit, should you apply with all the appearance of a gentleman. Fellow officers were easy to bamboozle and happy to take debts of honour, unaccountably certain they would be repaid. They were as easy to fool as Darcy.

It all came crashing down with a change in commander, and the new one was nowhere near as accommodating as Forster had been. He was one of those pox-infested honourable men who felt it his duty to protect the local cattle, and worse yet, took his business seriously… deadly serious. It was hard to tell with Blackwood whether he truly felt a duty to protect the sheep, or he just liked the whip, but I can tell you, he does like his whip. His pleasure with the instrument was obvious to any who watched, and he made dead certain everyone watched. Whether that was to improve the punishment or give him an audience, he would not say… but being of a similar bent, I imagine the latter was the case.

I can tell you here and now that I do not recommend thirty lashes. Even one was too many. The man was also in love with showing off his skill, and laid one on each cheek to go along with those on my back, and since one cheek already had a festering wound from the tart’s fingers, it got ugly. The changes in my looks were not in the least helpful in my quest for sweet young things. It is one thing for the silly sisters to fall in love with a handsome, well-mannered, and well-dressed militiaman, but quite another to go for a man in ragged cast-off clothes with scars on each cheek. It was only by the sheerest good fortune that I managed to escape the prison cart taking me to ‘serve’ in Spain, but now I had to hide in the worst slums in London until I could manage enough coin to go somewhere entirely different. I could have tried to make my way to Scotland or Ireland, but there were just too many soldiers on the roads looking for deserters like me; and they had a far more efficient and permanent idea of ‘justice’ than Blackwood. The docks were out of bounds, as the navy was impressing men at a frightful rate, even if you looked respectable, which I did not. I was stuck trying to make one more big play to get me to a place I could live with my head attached to my neck for some time.

It took me three days of following the newcomers before I finally remembered who he was, and then I became very suspicious. Bingley! I had met him briefly in Hertfordshire when he leased an estate there, and he was apparently great friends with Darcy. As I remembered, he was after the eldest Miss Bennet, but then ran off the same night I did. Maybe he tried his hand at his girl and was rebuffed as well. I was fairly certain based on… what was her name… Sarah? Charlotte? Mary? No wait! Mary was the little strumpet who kept me away from sampling the delights of the youngest… Lillian? Abigail? Rebecca? No, wait! Lydia! Oh, yes, the delightful Lydia! Pretty as an angel, and stupid as a basket of hammers. According to her, Darcy took a run at one of the elder sisters… Anne? Hannah? No, wait! Elizabeth! Yes, lovely Lizzy. She was ripe for the plucking, but I saw her tear the hide off one of the other boys who got a bit fresh, so I thought to try my hand at fresher and more willing meat. Yes, Elizabeth! I had not thought of them in some time, but now that I think of it, Darcy must have taken a run at her at that ball, and she probably has his stones in a sack on her mantelpiece. She really disliked him and ate up my stories like sweetmeats, while he just stared at her like a mooncalf.

So, Bingley! Could I use him? What was he doing here? It took another two days of asking questions to find out the gossip. He had sold his townhouse with some weak-sounding excuses, then started gambling in rookeries. He was definitely a man who could no longer afford to gamble in his usual haunts, but why? Another two days of watching him carefully told the truth. I almost missed it. He took a swig from a bottle of gin he kept on the table, but then, so fast I almost missed it, he took a swig from another bottle, and it all became clear. Laudanum! So, the boy was an opium eater! That explained a great deal. If you wanted to turn yourself into a chuckleheaded idiot fit only for the army, and did not have the patience to do it with gin, opium would do the job nicely. I had seen more than one member of the gentry brought down by it. One or two bad wagers when muddled and ever so happy, and your estate was gone. Make the bet just a bit larger, and your sister and mother were dispensed with in turn. I remembered his sister… who was it? Caroline? Pretty girl, but nasty as a badger, chasing after Darcy like a calf to the teat. Yes! I could use an opium eater.

He looked at me somewhat strangely, an hour after I joined him at a table and cleaned him out of a few pounds. He made odd wagers, as if his mind was not really on the game, which may have been true or may have been an act. But then, as I watched him carefully, I remembered more of what I had heard in Meryton. He was a happy, bumbling sort of man that leaned on Darcy for everything. Did not even know how to ride his estate, and bought elegance by throwing fistfuls of money at it. Not the type of man who would come hunting for me in St Giles, that was for certain! It would take a hard-bitten man to come after me here, and there was not the slightest chance of taking me out of the district by force. At least in the slums, we were united against everyone else. He could certainly cut my throat if he wanted to, but if he was going to do that, he would have already.

I finally broached the subject. “I believe I may know you, sir!”

His expression was as blank as that Lydia chit’s. “I think not.”

“Bingley, is it?”

Now he looked at me. Granted, with longer and unkempt hair that had more than a bit of black dye, and a full beard similarly treated, and the scars on my cheeks, I looked very different.

“How do you know me?”