Wickham was cold, hungry, and irritable. The chill inside the hut sank into his bones, and the boy’s incessant crying, muffled though it was, gnawed at his nerves like a dull blade sawing at flesh. It had been two days. Two long, freezing days of crouching in shadows, feeding the boy just enough to keep him quiet, and waiting for the right time to send the ransom note.
That time was now. He needed food, warmth, and clarity to draft his demands. After all, this was not a game—it was his future. Fifty thousand pounds could buy comfort. Peace. Power. He would disappear with the funds and reemerge as a gentleman of means. Darcy would be disgraced, Bennet humiliated, and the little boy… well, he was just collateral.
Wickham crouched near the corner where the child lay on a mound of musty blankets. The boy’s hands were tied before him, and his ankles bound loosely to allow minimal movement. His eyes were red from crying, his face streaked with tears and grime. Wickham scowled as he shoved a stale crust of bread into the boy’s bound hands. He tugged the gag down.
“Eat it,” he snapped. “That is your supper.”
The boy whimpered, but obeyed, gnawing weakly at the bread.
Wickham donned his coat and hat, then dragged a thin blanket over the child. He would not freeze, not with the layers of wool and his thick coat. Besides, Wickham reasoned, he would only be gone a couple of hours.
He slipped through the bramble-thickened door, his careful camouflage of branches and dead leaves concealing the entrance well. No one had found them. No one would.
He made his way into Meryton by back roads and deer trails, entering the inn’s kitchen through the back entrance. The familiar smell of ale, mutton stew, and wood smoke greeted him like an old friend.
“Back again, Mr Wickham?” cooed the barmaid, her apron smudged and her cheeks rosy. “You look half-frozen!”
“I am half-frozen,” he said, flashing her a tired smile. “Fetch me something warm, will you, love? And maybe a nip of something stronger?”
She smiled, her eyelashes fluttering as she disappeared into the storage room, beckoning him to follow. He obliged her, and they sat for a while in the storeroom behind the inn. She brought stew and bread, a half-pint of ale, and a sweet tart for after. He ate ravenously, trading flirtatious remarks with the girl, feeding her just enough lies to keep her entertained and ignorant.
By the time he left, the sun had long since set. The sky was an inkblot smeared with stars, and the air had turned knife-sharp. He took the long route back to the shack, humming a half-remembered tavern tune. The boy would be crying again—he always was—but it no longer stirred guilt. Only annoyance. No one would hear him, anyway.
He stepped inside, brushing the hanging brambles aside. Sure enough, muffled sobs reached his ears.
“For heaven’s sake, cease your incessant wailing!” he snarled.
The boy’s thin frame quivered. Wickham stomped across the room and, in a surge of frustration, kicked him in the side—not hard enough to harm, but enough to frighten. “You keep that up and I will stop feeding you, do you understand?” He tugged the gag up and back in place.
The child’s only response was a soft, stifled cry behind the gag. Wickham sighed and rubbed his face. No use getting worked up again. This would all be over soon. He would write the ransom demand tonight and send it in the morning. Then it would all be out of his hands.
He dropped into the battered old chair beside the stove, pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat, and reached for paper and pencil. The stove remained cold—smoke was too dangerous—but he could write in the dark well enough.
He had just begun scrawling“To Mr Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy—”when the door crashed open with a thunderous bang.
“Wickham!” came a voice like gunfire.
He spun around.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam stood in the doorway, pistols trained on him, faces like carved stone. Darcy’s jaw clenched so tight it looked liable to crack. Fitzwilliam’s gaze was colder than the wind outside.
Wickham jumped to his feet and stumbled backward, knocking over the rickety table. He reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband. But just as his hand brushed the handle—
THUD.
Pain exploded in the back of his knees. He buckled, and his hands flew out, grasping at nothing. The child—he had kicked him. That weak, pampered little brat had kicked him.
Before Wickham could recover, Richard Fitzwilliam was on him, a knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades, one arm wrenched behind his back.
“You always were a clumsy lout,” Fitzwilliam growled, snapping iron cuffs around his wrists. “Well, that was a disappointing anticlimax.”
Darcy rushed to the boy, slicing through the ropes with a hunting knife. He ripped off the gag and gathered the child into his arms.
“You are safe now, lad,” he said softly. “You are safe.”
Wickham, panting and livid, lay pinned to the floor. His plans, his schemes, his escape—all shattered in an instant.
“You will pay for this,” he hissed.
