When the path split, he veered left and wandered down toward the pond. Idly, he watched the ducks for a moment before moving on. A few more turns brought him to the grove—a quiet corner of the park where he and Wickham had played as children. Darcy’s governess had often brought them whilst Mr. Darcy handled business.
As he stepped deeper into the trees, he caught movement behind a stand of shrubbery. A moment later, Wickham emerged, peering about before stepping into view.
“I half-expected you would burn my letter and never come,” he said, relief evident in his tone. “Were you followed?”
“I saw no one,” Darcy said curtly. “Now, out with it. What danger threatens Lady Montrose?”
Wickham swallowed, and Darcy sighed. “How much?” he asked.
“I need enough to see me hidden. The man who approached me seems a rough sort. He will likely kill me for giving you warning.” Wickham looked genuinely distressed. Darcy had not seen such fear on his former friend’s face in a long time.
“I have plenty to meet your needs. Speak now, or I shall depart.” He leaned lightly on his walking stick.
Wickham glanced about, then lowered his voice. “Someone wants Lady Montrose dead. Only—he called her Miss Montrose. He does not seem to know about her title.”
“How doyou—never mind. It was in the announcement.” Darcy recalled it had been printed in small type at the bottom. Elizabeth had not wanted it to draw attention. “Did this man give you a name?”
“No. He found me in a public house in the Rookery—filthy place, filled with thieves and the worst sort. He knew far too much of both you and me—he did his research thoroughly. The man offered me a sum to help him dispose of Lady Montrose. Said his master had a vested interest in seeing her dead. I agreed, of course. He is not the sort one refuses.” Wickham cast another anxious glance around the grove. He was tense and seemed ready to bolt.
“And you thought you would be a good Samaritan, and come warn me. Really, Wickham, how stupid do you take me for?”
“I shall admit to less-than-altruistic motives—I am in a desperate position, and you know it. I also knew you would pay more for the information than the man’s mystery puppet master! Please, Darcy, I have told you everything I know.” He practically danced on the balls of his feet, eager to be gone.
Darcy slowly pulled out the bag of guineas from his coat pocket. “If I hand you this, you will go directly to the docks and board a ship out ofEngland,” he said firmly. “It is enough to establish yourself anywhere else. I hear the Americas are full of opportunities for an intrepid young mansuch as yourself.”
“Agreed.” Wickham lunged for the bag, but Darcy stepped back.
“If youeverreturn to England,” he said coldly, “I shall call in every marker of yours I possess and see you locked in Marshalsea for the rest of your life. Am I understood?”
Wickham had always known a good bargain when he heard one, and he nodded.
“Come to the mews at Darcy House in an hour. My man will be waiting to take you to the docks. You will receive your money then.”
“That will give me time to collect my belongings.” Wickham muttered with a grimace. “What is left of them, anyway. I have had to sell practically everything since—”
“Since your plans this summer were thwarted? Do not test my patience, Wickham. Be at Darcy House in an hour. Every minute you are late, I shall remove a guinea from this bag.” He tucked the pouch back into his pocket and walked away, praying Wickham would do as he promised.
He strolled through the park, taking a circuitous route to once more ensure no one had followed him before returning at last to Darcy House. Once safely inside his study, he added several carefully folded banknotes to the pouch—easier to conceal, and far lighter than gold. They would serve Wickham just as well, and cost Darcy little effort. The information he had offered was invaluable, and much as he loathed to give his wayward friend more funds, if this payment allowed Wickham to start afresh in a new land, it was a price worth paying…in gratitude for helping him keep Elizabeth safe. With this final act, Darcy intended to wash his hands of the man forever.
Wickham arrived at the kitchen door, where Darcy met himand handed him a satchel. “Food and drink for the day,” he said. “Your payment is inside. Have a care and do not part with the bag under any circumstance.”
He accepted it and slung the strap across his chest, tucking it beneath his greatcoat. Hebuttoned it securely, hiding the satchel from view. Then he lifted a sack containing the remnants of his possessions and nodded once at Darcy. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving his former friend standing in the doorway, watching him go.
When that business had concluded, Darcy went to his chamber to change for dinner and gather the gifts he had prepared for the Ladies Montrose. He was still uncertain how he felt knowing that his future wife now held a title in her own right—an earldom. One day, their eldest son would inherit it. Darcy had always imagined his firstborn son would inherit Pemberley. There would be plenty of time to sort that out later. For now, he wished only to see Elizabeth with his own eyes and be assured that she was safe.
He knocked awkwardly on the door to Montrose House, roses in one hand and the box of sweetmeats under his arm. The jeweled comb, fashioned in the shape of the Montrose crest, was in his coat pocket.
Morton answered the door and stepped aside to let Darcy enter. He accepted the roses and the sweets with a nod and waited as Darcy removed his coat and handed it to a footman. Darcy retrieved his parcels from Morton and followed him down the hall. The doors to the family sitting room opened from within, and he was shown in.
“There you are!” Elizabeth exclaimed from her seat beside her grandmother. “I thought you would never arrive!”
“Nothing could keep me from your side, dearest Elizabeth.” He bowed slightly, then turned to the Dowager Countess. “Lady Montrose, I have brought you something for your sweet tooth.” He offered her the box and flashed her a charming smile. Each sweetmeat had been shaped and wrapped in delicate paper. “The finest in London,” Darcy assured her.
“I suppose I cannot tease you now,” she replied, accepting the package with pleasure. “It was kind of you to bring them.”
“And these are for you, my dear.” He handed Elizabeth the roses, and she lifted them to her nose and inhaled with evident pleasure.
“And this.” Darcy pulled the jewel box from his pocket and opened it. “For your presentation ball.” Nestled within, a comb gleamed in the candlelight, with an arrangement of gold filigree and small gems shaped into a cluster of tiny roses and trailing ivy leaves surrounding her family’s crest.
