Chapter Four
RichardFitzwilliamletouta low groan as he slid stiffly down from his horse and handed the reins to a groom. Brighton to London and back again in a single day wasn’t a trip he cared to repeat any time soon, even with high-class horses waiting for him at every stop. He was getting too old for this game, he thought, walking towards the inn’s rear doors and thinking of the pint of ale and hearty meal he would consume before he sought his bed. He should be in bed already, sleeping in his comfortable bed at his father’s luxurious London townhouse, but the Home Office had deemed his dispatches important enough to insist he return to Brighton immediately with a return missive for the High Command.
There was no arguing with the Home Secretary when he had that expression on his face, so Fitzwilliam had just said “Very good, sir,” and ordered a fresh horse.
Wellington was already abed when Fitzwilliam arrived at his house, and there was no way his aides would disturb him before dawn, so he needn’t have hurried. He had no need to earn any more credit with his superiors.
A hack chaise waiting in the inn yard caught his eye as he approached the inn door, and he frowned at it, wondering who would be leaving Brighton by carriage at this hour of the night when every soldier could go by horse much faster.
Something about the figure standing beside the chaise rang distant bells of recognition in his weary mind, and he paused mid-stride.
It can’t be.Why would Wickham be in Brighton?
The figure turned slightly, torchlight from above casting light on the features Fitzwilliam knew so well and hated so much.
“Wickham.”
Wickham whirled at his snarl, panic flooding his expression, and Fitzwilliam strode forward. The blighter had vanished after that disastrous episode in Ramsgate, and all Fitzwilliam’s enquiries had not turned up a single trace of him. Which was probably for the best, since if Fitzwilliam had found him when his rage was still hot, he might have ended up being taken up for murder.
Now, however, he was icy cold and calculated. Wickham had a string of debts in Ramsgate and more in London, and Fitzwilliam had laid out a good portion of his personal wealth to buy them up. Seeing Wickham rotting in the Fleet as a defaulted debtor would be even more satisfying than seeing him dead.
“Seize that man,” he barked an order to two nearby troopers, pointing to Wickham, who had taken a step backward and now whirled to flee, though he had no hope of escape.
“Unhand me,” Wickham shouted as the troopers grasped his arms. “You have no right!”
“The Colonel says to take you up, and that’s enough for me,” one of the troopers said gruffly. “What’s to do with him, sir?”
“Take him to the local lockup for the night. I’ll find the magistrate in the morning to settle my business with him.”
“You can’t do this!” Wickham blustered, but he was dressed in civilian clothes and Fitzwilliam wore his formal uniform. No soldier would take orders from a civilian over a full colonel.
“Wicky!” a feminine voice cried, and Fitzwilliam groaned inwardly, mentally girding himself to deal with whatever local ladybird Wickham had managed to gull into believing herself in love with him.
“Lydia?”
Fitzwilliam gaped in horror as Lydia Bennet hurried across the inn’s cobbled yard, her hood falling back to expose her face, thepicture of distress as she called out to Wickham, asking what was going on.
Intercepting her before she reached Wickham, Fitzwilliam grabbed her roughly around the waist and bundled her into a shadowed corner of the inn yard, yanking her hood back up to hide her face.
“How,” he demanded fiercely, “doyouknow Wickham?”
Looking up into Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face, Lydia gulped at his fierce expression. Lit by the flickering torchlight, he looked like an avenging angel, his blond hair gleaming fire-gold.
“We met in Hertfordshire,” she said in a small voice, completely cowed by the sheer rage on his face. “He’s with the militia.”
“Forster’s?”
Lydia nodded meekly, and then gasped in shock as Fitzwilliam let out a foul curse. He was grasping her shoulders firmly, gave her a slight shake then.
“What are you doing here, at this hour?”
She gulped nervously. “We - we were going to Scotland, and then to London. Wickham has been offered a position...”
Another lurid curse escaped his lips before he shook his head sharply. “I’d wager any money there is no position, and you’d never have reached Scotland.”
A tear slid down Lydia’s cheek. Fitzwilliam spoke with such certainty, she immediately believed every word that passed his lips, whereas in her heart of hearts she’d doubted Wickham’s sincerity. All her dreams of a romantic elopement and then life as the toast of London were gone up in smoke, it seemed, and the taste of ashes was very bitter.
Wickham had been dragged away, protesting, by the two troopers, but there were others in the inn yard, staring blatantly at her. Ducking her head to try and hide herself, Lydia whispered;
