“If you wish. I have a message, from His Lordship.”
“Wellington, he will give me an interview?” Wickham could hardly believe his good luck. All of the newspaper correspondents in Madrid had been competing to speak to the reclusive General Lord Wellington.
“Hardly, George,” said Fitzwilliam, stepping into the light. “No, my message comes from Lord Matlock, who was rather displeased with your article in the Post.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” said Wickham, with a half-bow, the sneer barely hidden beneath his polite mask. “And… Don Mateo, is it not? What an unlikely gathering.”
“You know why we’re here,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice flat. “You know what you’ve done.”
Wickham’s sneer deepened. “You take things too seriously, Fitzwilliam. I merely spoke the truth—”
“Oh, George, if only it were that simple. Let’s see—spiriting Georgiana away on the Great North Road; abducting Miss Elizabeth, Miss Lydia, and, of course, Georgiana again; collaborating with the French—a hanging offence; slander—destroying the reputations of two very fine women.”
Wickham laughed, a short, ugly sound. “Ruined? In Spain, with half the women whoring for bread and the other half for gold, you call that ruin? You’re a fool, Fitzwilliam. A sentimental fool.”
Don Mateo stepped forward, his expression cold. “In Spain, señor, we cut the tongues from men who speak so of women. Especially women who are not theirs to speak of.”
Wickham’s hand drifted to his sword, but Don Mateo’s knife was already at his throat, the blade so close that Wickham froze, sweat beading on his brow. “Now, now,” Wickham said, his voice suddenly thin. “Let us be reasonable…”
“There is no reason left for you,” Fitzwilliam said softly. “Not after what you have done.”
The alley was silent except for the distant sound of a patrol marching somewhere near the palace. Wickham looked from Fitzwilliam to Mateo. “What are you going to do?” he whispered.
Fitzwilliam stepped aside. “We’re not going to do anything, George. But there is a man here who has some business with you.”
A shape detached itself from the deeper blackness at the alley’s end. El Guapo.
“El Guapo,” Don Mateo said softly, “is a friend of Señora Isabella. He has little patience for men who disrespect her. Only the other day, a certain Colonel Dumoustier turned up dead outside a house in Burgos. Seems his appetites got the betterof him—at least his appetite for beautiful women with chestnut hair.”
Wickham tried to run, but El Guapo caught him with one hand, dragging him back into the alley’s depths. Wickham screamed—a thin, animal sound—but no one came. Not in Madrid, where the night belonged to the wolves.
Fitzwilliam watched, his face ashen. He told himself this was justice, but it felt like vengeance, and he wondered if there was any difference. Don Mateo laid a hand on his arm. “It’s done,” he said. “Let us go.”
They walked away, the sounds of the city swallowing them up. Behind them, Wickham’s screams faded into the shadows, and when they finally stopped, Madrid was quiet once more.
Fitzwilliam did not look back. Maybe he would tell Darcy what became of Wickham—but not the women Wickham had wronged.
* * *
Chapter 24
St. James’s
“Lady Matlock, must I be presented?” Elizabeth gave a beseeching look to her aunt, as they climbed into the carriage. Climbed was the operative word, for squeezing through a carriage door wearing a presentation gown was no mean feat, with the hoops of her dress requiring a footman to force them through the narrow opening. Her train was then carefully arranged over her slippers once she was seated.
“Your card had already been sent to the Lord Chamberlain’s office. It would be most disrespectful of Her Majesty if you did not attend. No, Elizabeth, you cannot escape.”
“B-but ’tis said that no person touched by scandal is received at court…”
Lady Matlock rapped on the roof with her fan; the carriage lurched forward. “Scandal? There is no scandal attached to our family. Only honours of the highest order.” She laughed. “I had thought to assist Georgiana in her presentation, but I had no idea of doing so for Darcy’s wife. We had despaired he would ever marry. Thank you, my dear, for you bring such joy to our family.”
Elizabeth attempted a smile, but the three ostrich feathers pushing against the roof forced her to bend her head. “I do believe,” she said, wryly, “that if I had known this was the consequence of León then I would have pleaded some indisposition, and returned to the mountains.”
Lady Matlock reached over, and took her hand. “We are all glad you did not, Elizabeth. Now, yours is the only presentation this afternoon, a rare honour. Invitations have been sent, and we can expect the highest levels of society to be present. My friend, Lady Jersey is to come, as well as the other patronesses of Almack’s—you are already recognised by theton.”
The Drawing Room was already crowded when Elizabeth entered. She had been told not to curtsey, but only to nod her head if she was acknowledged by any of the peers present. Darcy was wearing an elaborately embroidered silk tailcoat, matching embroidered waistcoat, knee breeches, white stockings, and buckled shoes. He reached out and took her hand, ignoring the breach of etiquette. Elizabeth felt such relief; the thoughts and memories which had pressed against her receded.
Suddenly, the hall was quiet. The ladies made deep curtseys, the men bowed as the Prince Regent and Queen Charlotte entered and took their places. There was the rustle of silk and satin as the Ladies in Waiting arranged themselves behind the Queen. The Lord Chamberlain stepped forward.
