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“Damnation!” His exclamation was loud enough that a few heads turned on the street. If she truly loved Wickham, Darcy could not change that. He could offer his carriage, his home, his name, his hand on bended knee—and nothing would sway her. Inconstancy was not in her nature. Many women would forsake a poor suitor for a man of greater fortune, but Elizabeth was not such a woman—or she would not be a woman Darcy could love.
But why was she so constant to Wickham?
To Darcy’s—admittedly biased—eye she did not appear particularly besotted with Wickham, and the idea of a drive with Darcy appeared to tempt her. Yet she had most definitely chosen Wickham.
What I need is a good stiff drink or two…or three. His rig had been wandering the streets of Brighton aimlessly; miraculously he had not completely lost his bearings. Now he scrutinized his surroundings. By chance he was not too far from his lodgings, but he would find no libations there. Unfortunately, he had not thought to bring brandy during his frantic race to the coast.
Ah…yes! There was a pub: the Three Ships. It appeared reputable enough, and at this time of day it would be sparsely populated. Darcy could enjoy a table to himself.
When he appeared in the doorway, the barkeeper hurried up to him and inquired as to his pleasure. The establishment likely did not see many men dressed in so fine a fashion. However, Darcy was in no mood for company, obsequious or otherwise. He merely requested a private table.
The pub was relatively clean, and he was the only patron. The barkeeper sat him beside a window, with glass that was rippled and distorted but covered in only a superficial layer of grime. The table itself was pitted and scarred and showed the remnants of spilled ale and past meals, but Darcy had visited worse pubs.
A barmaid bustled over. Quite a bit older than most in her profession, she was buxom and matronly with a broad smile on her face. “Och!” she exclaimed immediately. “What did she do to you, lad?”
“I beg your pardon?” Darcy asked. Nobody had addressed him as “lad” for quite some time.
“She broke your heart, didn’t she?”
Darcy was unsure whether he was more startled by the woman’s effrontery or her perspicacity. Usually he was loath to discuss his private concerns with anyone, particularly strangers, but for some reason the idea held some appeal at this moment. Perhaps it was the sympathetic tilt to her head. Perhaps it was simply that he had no one else with whom he could discuss them.
“I suppose she did,” Darcy answered slowly.
The barmaid shook her head slowly. “Tell Peg about it. Did she go and marry another fellow?”
Darcy’s hands clenched involuntarily. “Not…yet.”
“Then there’s still hope!”
“I do not believe so.” His heart ached at the admission.
The woman stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her skirt. “And why would that be?’
“She chose to take a carriage ride with him today. He is a thoroughgoing blackguard, and she knows it and yet…”
“Hmm.” The barmaid tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Have you asked her about him?”
Of course, he had! This was a waste of time, but out of politeness Darcy answered, “Yes, but she told me almost nothing.”
“She knows he’s a scoundrel?”
“Yes!” Darcy suppressed a desire to tell her everything. “I had thought her of better discernment than that.”
“Did you talk with her when there is nobody around to hear you?”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “No. It would not be appropriate to be alone with her—”
She waved this objection away. “Psh! Folks of quality have such strange ideas! Appropriate? Who would care?”
“Her father, for one.”
“Very well, but—” Peg slipped into the chair opposite Darcy’s and lowered her voice. Her presumption should have offended Darcy, but he found it rather amusing. “Perhaps you might get a few moments alone with her on a walk or at a dinner. Give her a chance to tell you the whole story.”
Darcy sighed, tracing one of the grooves in the table with his finger. “I fear that the whole story is that she is in love with the scoundrel.”
“Did she tell you that?” Darcy shook his head. “Why would she love him if he is a blackguard?”
“In my experience, love rarely makes sense.” Darcy himself was proof of that.
