Outside, the wind whistled around the corner of the inn, but Wickham heard nothing. He had passed into unconsciousness as swiftly as he had fallen into corruption. His breath slowed. His fingers twitched slightly as he mumbled in his sleep, dreaming of gold, of silk waistcoats, of ladies’ laughter and London balls. He did not stir again that night. Not when the floorboards creaked under a passing footstep in the hallway. Nor when a shutter banged open in the wind. Not even when, far off in the distance, a carriage door closed with quiet finality and horses began to stir. George Wickham slept the sleep of the careless, deeply and unwisely.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The pale glow of dawn was just beginning to creep over the Hertfordshire hills, casting long, ghostly shadows through the thinning fog. The air was cold and damp, clinging to George Wickham’s coat and seeping into his gloves as he made his way along the narrow lane outside Meryton. His boots were soaked from the dew-laden grass, but he hardly noticed. His mind was too preoccupied with the prize he believed lay just ahead.
Today was the day. Yesterday, he sent Elizabeth a little note with details about their meeting place and the time. She would come—the reputation of her entire family depended upon it.
He crested the ridge, his breath misting in the chill air. In the clearing below, the meeting place he had designated came into view—a low rise on the edge of a wooded patch just south of Longbourn’s boundary. His heart beat faster as he approached, anticipation curling in his chest like smoke. A bag already packed sat at the foot of the old ash tree on the far end of the slope, hidden under a cloak of leaves. He smiled to himself.
She would come. She had no choice.
Ten thousand pounds. The Bennets would find some way to get the funds. They would do it to protect their lies. It still made him giddy. He would be free of the drudgery of the militia. London would welcome him. No more empty promises or threadbare boots. No more scraping for coppers or flattering fools in hopes of dinner. He would be rich. Respected. Feared, perhaps. And Darcy would be humiliated.
With a quick glance around, he ducked behind a thicket, eyes narrowing as he scanned the terrain. He liked to be early, to watch and wait. Let his victims feel the power shift. But what he saw made his jaw tighten. There—at the base of the hill, was Mr Bennet, and walking side by side—was …Fitzwilliam Darcy…with no Elizabeth in sight. They both began climbing quickly, making their way to the summit.
“Blast it,” Wickham hissed, ducking lower into the underbrush. He had been so sure Darcy had left for Pemberley days ago. All the trunks, the carriage—everyone had said he and his cousin were gone. Yet here he was. Tall, grim, steady. Just like the man Wickham remembered from childhood, only now the boyish civility had hardened into something unyielding.
What was he doing here?
Wickham’s fists clenched around a branch. This changed everything. He couldn’t take on both of them—not in broad daylight. He had expected to deal with Elizabeth and her father, to lord the secret over them, maybe even negotiate leisurely over sums. With Darcy here, things would be…more complicated. And more dangerous.
His thoughts whirled. He could slink away now, leave them wondering. They had not seen him. Not yet. He could regroup, wait for another opportunity. But as his pulse slowed and his breath evened out, a colder, darker idea took root. If they were working together—if they planned to deny him or trap him—then it was no longer about one demand and one payoff. It was about leverage. And what better leverage than the child?
Tommy.
The little boy who looked so infuriatingly like a Fitzwilliam. The very child Wickham had abandoned once, now old enough to become the perfect pawn. Darcy and Bennet would strive to keep him safe. They had already lied to the world to protect him. They would give anything to see him returned unharmed.
Anxiety for his situation fought for control in his body. His mind whirled with possibilities, wondering what he should do now that Darcy was involved. An idea came then, an act filled with desperation, driven by the circumstances in which he now found himself. Wickham frowned as he eased backward, deeper into the brush.
“I have changed my mind,” he murmured to himself. “Ten thousand was far too modest a sum. For the boy, I could name my price.” With Darcy involved, it would be no trouble.
Darcy would pay for his arrogance. Surely his appearance meant heknew.He knew the boy was Anne’s—his cousin by birth. Bennet, for his lack of cooperation. And Elizabeth—sweet, clever Elizabeth—would suffer the consequences of choosing the wrong man.
He slunk down the opposite side of the hill, slipping silently through the brush until he was gone. Behind him, the sun breached the horizon, casting gold and fire across the English countryside. Wickham did not look back. He had work to do. Plans to make. A child to steal. And a ransom note to write.
The wind on Oakham Mount bit through the layers of Darcy’s coat, and he adjusted his collar as he stared out over the tree line, his eyes sharp and unblinking. The horizon was painted in streaks of rose and gold, the sun now fully risen and mocking them with its warmth. Beside him, Mr Bennet paced with mounting agitation, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
“It’s past time,” Bennet muttered, glancing again down the hill. “If he were coming, he would have done so already. Perhaps we were wrong not to send Elizabeth as the bait.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “No,” he said firmly. “I will not put her at risk for the sake of expediency. Wickham may be arrogant, but he is not a fool. He would have known something was amiss if she came alone.”
Mr Bennet sighed, his breath turning to mist in the morning air. “He is clever, I’ll give him that. And slippery as a greased eel.”
Darcy nodded grimly. “He may have altered his plan, but I do not believe for a moment he will let this go. Wickham believes he is owed something. He will fight for it—dirty and underhanded as ever.”
Silence fell between them, broken only by the low rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird.
Eventually, Mr Bennet stopped pacing and stood beside Darcy once more. “What do we do now?”
Darcy kept his gaze forwards, scanning the path below one final time. Then he exhaled and turned. “We return to Longbourn. He will strike again—we must be ready when he does.”
They descended the hill in silence, both deep in thought. Darcy’s jaw was set with resolve, but he could not deny the twinge of unease that curled in his chest. Wickham’s absence felt ominous, not relieving.
When they reached Longbourn, Elizabeth was already waiting on the steps. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep—or perhaps something more—and she stepped forwards at once.
“Well?” she asked, her voice clipped but hopeful.
Darcy shook his head slowly. “He did not come.”
