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“I have never seen you be so ‘friendly’ with any man!” Lydia exclaimed.
Elizabeth let out an exasperated sigh. If only she could explain the truth! But Lydia could not be trusted to keep such a secret. “Believe me, Lydia, I have no aspirations to make Mr. Wickham my beau. He is far too—” She just barely prevented herself from uttering the word “dangerous.” “—too unstable. You should not get close to him.”
Lydia tossed her head. “You are not Papa. You cannot tell me what to do. Wicky likes me better than you anyway. And I shall prove it!”
With that declaration, Lydia climbed to her feet and hurried to join the cluster of people conversing with Mrs. Forster. Elizabeth did not follow; they could not continue such a conversation in front of others.
She was unsurprised that Lydia had not heeded her warning, but she had hoped to at least give her sister cause for reflection where the man was concerned. Elizabeth sighed; she would simply have to watch her sister carefully around the militia officer.
At the moment there was nothing to do but savor the sights and smells of the seaside. Waves rolling onto the beach created a hypnotic rhythm. The sun was bright, but a brisk breeze kept it from being too warm. Growing drowsy, Elizabeth slid down on the blanket until her head was pillowed on her arms, and she fell asleep.
The sun was past its zenith when she awoke; Elizabeth judged it to be early afternoon. Her stomach reminded her forcefully that she had not enjoyed any luncheon. Perhaps she could persuade the other women to return to the house for some refreshments.
Sitting up, she shaded her eyes to scan the beach, which had fewer inhabitants than earlier. Lydia was fast asleep on the blanket beside Elizabeth, snoring lightly. But Mrs. Forster was nowhere visible. She was not walking on the beach or talking with any of the women Elizabeth could see. It was possible she was in one of the bathing machines trundling deeper into the water, but would the colonel’s wife subject herself to such treatment twice in one day?
Elizabeth stood, shaking sand from her shift, and surveyed the beach more fully. There still was no sign of Mrs. Forster. Would the woman have returned home and left them sleeping on the beach?
She climbed up a slight incline of piled sand, heading toward the grassy area near the road. Perhaps Mrs. Forster had taken a stroll along the street in search of refreshment. Rounding the corner behind a cluster of small huts, Elizabeth located her quarry. Several yards away, Mrs. Forster was in urgent conversation with Mr. Wickham.
Elizabeth quickly hid behind the huts. Mrs. Forster might be sufficiently clad, but Elizabeth wore only a shift, and Mr. Wickham was the last man she wished to see her so attired. Why is he so close to the ladies’ beach? Is he hoping to catch a glimpse of partially clad bathing beauties? If he is only indulging his prurient curiosity, why is Mrs. Forster allowing it?
The two conversed quietly, their heads together and Mr. Wickham’s hand on Mrs. Forster’s arm in a rather familiar way. With all his attention on the woman beside him, he made no effort to spy on the ladies’ beach. A row of trees would conceal them from the sight of nearly everyone on the beach or street. Unfortunately, Elizabeth could not approach the couple and listen to their conversation without being observed.
Before they could notice her, Elizabeth hurried back to the blanket, considering the import of what she had seen. Mrs. Forster flirted with every man in the regiment. It flustered some officers, and many ignored it, but Mr. Wickham seemed to enjoy the attention and returned her flirtatious banter. Such was the nature of their characters that Elizabeth had thought little of it. Today, however, they had conversed intimately in a location that would conceal them from sight. Were they conducting an affair?
Elizabeth gasped at the thought. Mr. Wickham was younger and far more handsome than Colonel Forster; she would not be the first wife to stray from an older husband. But Mrs. Forster would take a terrible risk by forming an intimate relationship with another officer. If the colonel discovered them, Mr. Wickham would lose his position and could be brought up on charges. Dallying with other officers’ wives was strictly forbidden. The colonel could sue his wife for divorce if she had been unfaithful. Quite a scandal would ensue.
Taking her place on the blanket beside the still-slumbering Lydia, Elizabeth wondered if she should mention her suspicion to the colonel. But what could she say? That Mr. Wickham was at the ladies’ beach? That might earn him a mild reprimand. Without seeing how intimately the two had stood, the colonel might not understand her concern. Their conversation was probably completely innocent but conducted in a flirtatious manner. Most likely any report would only cause the colonel heartache, sowing doubt without providing any certainty.
Elizabeth’s mission was to observe Mr. Wickham for treasonous activities; she had not been asked to concern herself with the state of the colonel’s marriage. He might not thank her for any interference. Yes, it would be best not to say anything.
Chapter Four
Darcy thought he might be ill.
Upon arriving in Brighton, he had secured lodgings at the Crescent, one of the more elegant buildings in town. His next task had been to call upon Colonel Forster and hopefully Elizabeth. The hour was rather late in the afternoon for a call, but he could not bring himself to wait until the morrow. Elizabeth and Wickham had already been in Brighton for four days without his supervision.
The colonel’s lodgings were on the corner of two streets not far from the beach. It was not the most fashionable neighborhood but eminently suitable for a militia officer. As Darcy strode up a side street toward the front entrance, he happened to get a glimpse into the garden, where someone had carelessly left the rear gate open. This provided Darcy with an unobstructed view of…Elizabeth sitting with Wickham on a garden bench.
The sight had struck fear in Darcy’s heart, and he had stifled an impulse to remove Wickham bodily from Elizabeth’s vicinity. Instead, he reminded himself it was an opportunity to gather more information about Wickham’s intentions. Even while berating himself that such devious activities were beneath him, Darcy had stolen closer, peering through a hole in the fence.
What he saw nearly made him toss up his accounts on the dirt of the back alley. Elizabeth and Wickham sat side by side on a wrought iron bench before a low rose bush, facing a weeping willow tree. However, neither appeared to be appreciating the garden’s beauty. Wickham spoke with great animation, although Darcy could not discern the words. Elizabeth regarded him with rapt attention, a soft smile on her lips. Worse, she clung to one of Wickham’s hands with both of hers while he gesticulated vigorously with the other.
The sight sickened Darcy, and yet he could not tear his eyes away. In the weeks since he had seen Elizabeth, he had done his best to convince himself that his memories exaggerated her beauty. But in truth, memory had not done Elizabeth justice. Soft, dark curls fell around her face, and the faintest tinge of pink colored her cheeks. Her deep emerald gown echoed the sea green color in her eyes. Darcy would gladly have admired her all day.
However, he did not like the besotted expression on her face. Darcy would have given his entire fortune if she would direct such an expression of adoration at him. Seeing it bestowed upon such an unwo
rthy recipient was…provoking another bout of nausea.
The low murmur of feminine voices alleviated Darcy’s anxiety that the pair was alone. Solitude would give opportunities for many kinds of mischief, but the colonel’s wife and a few women were nearby. However, Wickham behaved as if they were unchaperoned, taking Elizabeth’s hand and brushing it with his lips.
Pressing his eye to the hole in the fence, Darcy clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. More than anything he wanted to race into the garden and wipe Wickham’s cocky smile from his face with a well-placed right hook. But a violent reaction would only provoke sympathy for Wickham and confirm Elizabeth’s worst opinion about Darcy.
Even as Darcy observed, Elizabeth laughed—a high shrill sound he had never heard her make. Nor had he ever glimpsed such adoration on her face. She always spoke to Darcy with an arch and teasing manner, with glances full of cleverness and understanding.
Why was her manner so different with Wickham? How was it possible? Was Wickham the one she wanted? Had she rejected Darcy because of her infatuation with the militia officer? Perhaps she was so besotted with the man that she simply had not believed a word of Darcy’s letter.
Darcy’s stomach threatened rebellion once more, and he focused his thoughts on not disgracing himself—the better to avoid a sense of grief that threatened to engulf him and drag him to the bottom of the ocean. If Wickham were the one she wanted, if she were infatuated with the man, then it was possible she was not the person Darcy believed her to be. His heart contracted painfully. He had not thought it possible to feel worse after her rejection in Hunsford, but this sight was proving him wrong.
