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They walked in silence for a minute. Darcy’s thoughts constantly circled back to Elizabeth. “I wish I had convinced her to return to Hertfordshire, but she is determined to do what she can for country and crown.”
“Admirable.”
“Foolhardy,” Darcy growled. “She risks her life.”
Richard considered for a moment. “If the woman were easily cowed, she would not hold your interest. You have had years to fall in love, but the first woman to win your heart is the one who exhibits bravery and cleverness beyond the normal bounds. I do not believe this to be a coincidence.”
They had arrived at his lodgings. Darcy paused with his hand on the doorknob. “What are you proposing I do?”
Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “I am suggesting, my friend, that you accept the bad as you embrace the good.”
They spoke no more, but for the remainder of the night, Darcy considered his cousin’s words.
Chapter Eleven
Mr. Wickham was his usual gallant self the following morning—and it turned Elizabeth’s stomach. Greeting her with a smirk in Colonel Forster’s drawing room, he kissed her hand and gave extravagant praise of her beauty. Sitting beside her, he murmured asides under the noise of the general conversation—provided by Colonel and Mrs. Forster, Lydia, and two of Mr. Wickham’s fellow officers.
The room was rather crowded.
Elizabeth had lain awake for a long time after Mr. Darcy’s departure and then slept fitfully; the resulting fatigue caused her to be restless and irritable. Pretending passion for Mr. Wickham was growing increasingly difficult. She hoped the nausea was not evident on her face.
Memories of the previous night rendered the deception more difficult. In the early hours of the morning, she had kissed Mr. Darcy on her bed, and now she was flirting with Mr. Wickham. Any action would be wrong. If she smiled invitingly at Mr. Wickham, she betrayed the feelings beginning to develop between her and Mr. Darcy. But if she beheld the officer with indifference, then she might lose an opportunity to collect valuable information.
Mr. Darcy understands my mission; he shares my goals.
The reminder helped alleviate some guilt, but the sense of betrayal lingered. It had been an enormous relief to tell the man the truth, but it created new complications.
Mr. Darcy and his cousin had not yet arrived to speak with the colonel, and Elizabeth anticipated their entrance with no small anxiety. Would Mr. Wickham be suspicious of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s sudden appearance? Might he reveal a clue about the location of the French spy?
Elizabeth was eager to be finished with this deception. Once they caught the agent, Colonel Forster could arrest Mr. Wickham and Elizabeth could return home.
In the meantime, she was virtually imprisoned in this drawing room, where the colonel was telling a longwinded story from his early days in the militia about a donkey and a goat. Everyone listened with polite attention—no doubt hoping, like Elizabeth, that the tale would prove to be moderately entertaining at some point.
While everyone’s attention was engaged, Elizabeth took the opportunity to scrutinize Mrs. Forster. Since the day at the beach, she had not noticed any signs of the lady’s particular regard for Mr. Wickham; perhaps their conversation had been nothing more than the usual insipid banter the colonel’s wife habitually exchanged with the officers. They did not steal furtive glances at each other or seek out private conversations.
Mrs. Forster flirted with every man within reach; there was no reason to believe she preferred Mr. Wickham or enjoyed an improper relationship with him. Now Elizabeth was pleased she had said nothing of the incident to the colonel. He had enough reasons for concern.
When would Mr. Darcy arrive?
The sound of the front door opening momentarily raised her hopes, only to have them dashed when Dawkins opened the door and addressed Mr. Wickham. “A boy brought this note for you. Said it was urgent.”
Mr. Wickham took the note from the woman and retired to the far-less-crowded front hallway to read it. When he stepped back into the room, everyone watched him expectantly.
“What is it, Wickham?” the colonel asked amiably. “It had better not be a love letter!”
The other officers chortled, glancing at Elizabeth, whose face heated. Uncharacteristically distracted, Mr. Wickham did not react to the jibe. “My friend, Henry Knox, has taken a fall, and his mother writes to beg my help. She cannot even lift him in and out of bed.”
“Fall, eh?” One of the officers laughed. “Probably foxed, he was.”
“Knox?” the colonel said. “He is not one of our company.”
“No, he’s a local man I knew as a boy. Might I go and help her, sir?”
“Very well.” The colonel waved dismissively. “I have no need of you this morning. Go, be a good Samaritan to your friend.” Additional jibes and laughter followed Mr. Wickham as he exited the drawing room.
While the conversation immediately turned to various types of muskets, Elizabeth considered the incident. She did not for one moment believe the note had been about an ailing friend. Mr. Wickham was not the sort of “friend” one sought out for assistance; he was too selfish. More likely he had been contacted by the traitor who wanted transport to France.
She tried to catch the colonel’s eye to learn if he shared her concern, but the man was deeply involved in the conversation and paid her no heed. If she remained here, Elizabeth would miss the chance to discover the spy’s location. It was too good an opportunity to lose.
