His face brightened. “Ah, yes. I have had a letter from my cousin Darcy. He is well—indeed, he writes with more warmth than I have known from him in years. He and Miss Darcy are to come to Brighton within the week. Though Darcy is still a curmudgeon, I believe Georgiana will be very pleased to see you. Would you allow me to introduce her to Miss Lydia, for she very much lacks company of her own age?”
“Of course, Colonel. I believe Lydia would also welcome the introduction. While Harriet is a dear friend, she also is a colonel’s wife, and has many duties other than promenadingalong the Steyne or the Marine Parade. And, while she will not admit it, Lydia sees me as her gaoler, determined to prevent her enjoying herself. Perhaps if you sent a note, I can ensure we ladies are at home to receive her.”
* * *
Chapter 9
The Channel
Georgiana Darcy, Elizabeth, and Lydia strolled along Marine Parade. There was little wind, the sea barely showing a ripple, the sun warm overhead. Elizabeth walked between her companions, her arm linked with Georgiana’s. Lydia, beside them, chattered inconsequentially about the shops and the officers she hoped to see at the Assembly that evening. Georgiana, less talkative, glanced often at the horizon, her eyes drawn to the ships bobbing in the bay. Elizabeth looked back—Harriet had lingered longer than usual at the circulating library. The proprietor, Mr. Donaldson, had placed recent copies ofLa Belle Assembléein the window, which Harriet intended to be the first to borrow. Surprisingly, Lydia had not remained with her, content to continue with Elizabeth and Georgiana.
The group came to the top of the steps that led down to the pebbled strand and stood waiting for Harriet to catch them. Elizabeth noticed a group of men loitering by the railings, their voices low, their eyes following the women’s progress too closely. There was something in their posture—shoulders hunched, hats pulled low—that set her nerves on edge.
“Lizzy, do look at that one,” Lydia said, lowering her voice for once. “He’s staring dreadfully.”
Elizabeth followed her gaze. The man at the centre of the group had a familiar curve to his mouth and a boldness in his eyes that made her breath catch. Surely not—George Wickham?The sight of him here—when last seen, mud-stained and desperate outside Baldock—augured very ill. She felt Georgiana stiffen at her side.
“Let us turn back,” Georgiana whispered, her voice barely audible. “Please, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth squeezed Georgiana’s hand reassuringly; she turned to retrace their steps back to Harriet, who was even now hurrying to meet them. Wickham’s gaze unsettled her; there was a cold edge in his eyes that made her skin tingle with unease. She glanced around for some sign of an officer or a familiar face, but the traffic on the Parade had thinned, and, apart from Harriet, the nearest group of ladies were far behind them.
They had no chance to retreat. Wickham and his companions moved quickly. One seized Lydia by the arm, another blocked Elizabeth’s path. Wickham himself stood before Georgiana, his expression a mask of civility, his eyes cold.
“Miss Darcy,” he said, bowing with mock courtesy. “How fortunate to meet you here.”
Georgiana shrank back, her face blanching. “Let us pass, sir,” she managed, her voice trembling.
Wickham only smiled. “That would be a pity. We have a little excursion planned, and I insist upon your company.”
Elizabeth stepped forward, anger bristling in her voice. “You will do no such thing. Let us go at once, or I shall call for help.”
Wickham’s lips curled. “I doubt anyone will come, Miss Bennet. Not today. Besides, we shan’t keep you long. Just a little outing, a change of scene.”
His men pressed closer. Lydia struggled, her bravado faltering as she realised the seriousness of their predicament. “Let me go!” she cried, her voice carrying over the empty stretch of Parade.
Wickham’s grip tightened on Georgiana’s wrist. “Enough. Down the steps, if you please. We wouldn’t want to make a scene.”
For a moment, Elizabeth thought to shake herself free, but she was held too tightly. Harriet was now only twenty paces away.
“Run, Harriet! Run for your life!” Elizabeth screamed, before a rough hand clamped over her mouth. The man’s odour was repulsive. With one last twist of her head, she freed herself, biting the fingers of the ruffian as he tried to stop her shout. He roared in pain, roughly gripping her arm with his uninjured hand; Elizabeth, in desperation, yelled once more to Harriet.
“Find Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Darcy! Tell them Wickham has taken Georgiana!”
A fist hit the side of her head—dazed, there was little more she could do. There was no choice but to follow Wickham. The steps led down to the beach, where a cutter—a shallow boat with dark tarred sides—rocked in the surf, a pair of oarsmen waiting. Beyond it, farther out, a single-masted sloop rode at anchor, a Red Ensign snapping at her mast.
“Quickly, now,” Wickham urged, shepherding the women to the water’s edge. Lydia stumbled, her face pale. Georgiana walked with head bowed, refusing to look at him, her hands clenched into fists.
Elizabeth’s mind raced. She had read of such things—of abductions and ransom demands, of women spirited away across the Channel to uncertain fates. Dread pressed on her chest, but she would not give Wickham the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
At the boat, the men forced them aboard. The oarsmen shoved off, and the cutter lurched into the waves. Elizabeth caught a last glimpse of the Parade above, the empty railings, the innocently gleaming windows of the houses. Harriet haddisappeared—their only hope now lay in her finding the Colonel or Mr. Darcy.
Wickham sat beside Georgiana, his posture relaxed, as if he were chaperoning her to a dance rather than dragging her toward a waiting ship. “You ought not to look so distressed, Miss Darcy,” he said, his voice oily with false concern. “A little salt air will do you good.”
Georgiana turned her face away. Elizabeth leaned forward, catching her eye. “Courage, dearest, we will get out of this,” she whispered fiercely. “I promise you.”
The cutter bobbed and pitched as it neared the sloop, whose crew now bustled about, readying lines and lowering a bosun’s chair. The Red Ensign fluttered overhead, a mockery of safety. Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She knew that Wickham had to be desperate—why abduct her and Georgiana?
As the boat drew alongside the sloop, Lydia began to sob. “Why are you doing this?” she whimpered. “What have we done?”
