“The scoundrel George Wickham is here too?” he roared.
“Oh no, no, no, it’s just my cat.”
“But for what reason is a feline named Mr. Wickham? What business have you with that man?”
Oh crap, how was I going to explain this without having to return to the whole “You’re a fictional character” thing?
“Uh…I named him after the town, High Wycombe. I love it there…very, uh, handy for the Chiltern valley.”
He frowned, but the answer seemed to have placated him a little. Mr. Wickham, for his part, was glaring up at the newcomer with undisguised hatred. I shooed him off the sofa so Darcy could sit down.
“Can I get you something to drink? Some water, perhaps?”
“Do you have anything stronger? I am in need of fortification.”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I hurried into the kitchenette and pulled a half-drunk bottle of wine out of the fridge, poured a generous measure into a glass, and carried it back to Darcy. He took it with a sharp nod and downed the drink in one. I refilled the glass, and he drank that too.
“Is there an inn nearby where I may rest until you are able to rendezvous with this acquaintance of yours?” he asked as he handed me back the glass.
“There’s a Premier Inn in Camden, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” I could just imagine Mr. Darcy storming down to reception and demanding they send up a butler to run him a bath. No, until I could speak to the bookseller, I was keeping this man safely in my flat so he wouldn’t get himself into trouble. Besides, as utterly bizarre as this was, I couldn’t deny that I was curious to spend a little more time with my and Mum’s dream book boyfriend before I worked out how to return him to wherever he’d come from. “You can sleep here tonight, if you’d like?”
Darcy looked around the room. “But where? I see nothing except, oh—” His eyes fell on my bedroom door, but I leaped forward to block his way.
“No, that’smybedroom. You can sleep out here; my sofa converts into a bed.”
He looked seriously disgruntled at the idea, and I thought he was going to kick off again, but he just muttered something about disrespect and social rank.
“I’ll get you some bedding and you can make yourself comfortable. I imagine you must be exhausted after your, uh—journey.”
He nodded assent and I went into my room to fetch a pillow and some clean sheets. I located them and then headed back out to the living room.
“Here you go, Mr.—”
I stopped when I saw him. The events of the past nineteen hours had clearly caught up with Darcy, as he’d fallen asleep right where he was sitting, his head lolling forward on his chest. He’d have a horrible stiff neck if he stayed like that, so I crept over and carefully lowered him sideways so he was lying down. I expected him to wake up and protest, but he was already in a deep sleep and made no noise except a smallsigh as his head hit the pillow. He was still wearing his shoes, so I gently pulled them off and laid a blanket over the top of him.
And then I stood back and stared at Mr. Darcy.TheMr. Darcy.Asleep on my sofa, his face soft and vulnerable now that he was no longer scowling. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This had to be a dream, triggered in my lonely unconscious by last night’s alcohol consumption, and any moment now I’d wake up with a pounding headache and pledge never to drink again. But for this brief moment, I allowed myself to revel in the fact that the character I had loved since I was fourteen—the gorgeous, honest, loyal man who had set the bar for all other men I’d ever met—was here, in my flat, as warm-blooded and real as I was.
And then I went into my bedroom and barricaded the door shut in case he tried to murder me in the night.
Chapter Six
It will come as no surprise to you that I barely slept. Several times, I crept out into the living room to check if my dream had ended, and each time I was confronted with a man snoring loudly on my sofa. I considered calling Bianca and telling her what had happened, but then remembered she had a massive court case that week—my best friend was a kick-ass barrister—and so she probably wouldn’t appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night. At five a.m., I gave up on sleep altogether, so I washed, dressed, and then sat on my bed with the copy ofPride and PrejudiceI’d stolen from Baskerville Books. It looked completely ordinary, if a little worn around the edges, but there was nothing to suggest it might be some weird magical book that summoned its characters into real life. But how else to explain what had happened? I’d been reading this book on the top deck of the bus, and moments later Mr. Darcy had turned up, apparently whisked out of the exact scene I’d been reading, onto the lower deck of the exact bus I’d been riding.
Of course, there was another, more rational explanation, which was that I’d been correct in my first assumption yesterday and “Darcy”wasn’t actually Jane Austen’s romantic hero but someone with a delusion or a really intense cosplay hobby. After all, just because he spoke like a Regency person and knew hisPride and Prejudicefacts didn’t mean he really was the fictional character come to life.
I opened the book and found the page where the Bingleys and Darcy were introduced for the first time. “Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mein…” I read. Did this man have a noble mein? I wasn’t sure I even knew what that meant, but he was certainly tall, and I thought he was handsome, although Enzo had been right: He lacked the sex appeal of a 1995-era Colin Firth. I flicked on a few pages. Mrs. Bennet thought he was “high and so conceited,” and Jane Austen herself described Darcy as “haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well bred, were not inviting.” I remembered the disgusted expression on the man’s face as he’d inspected my room, his near-constant frown, and the dismissive way he’d talked to Dana in the café. He was definitely haughty and conceited, but he wasn’t as reserved and aloof as Jane Austen’s character. Then again, if he actually was the real Mr. Darcy, then he must be in total shock and frankly terrified right now, so it was hardly a surprise he wasn’t behaving exactly like he did in the novel.
I sighed and closed the book. Clearly, sitting here scouring Jane Austen’s words wasn’t going to help. As much as I hated to admit it, if I wanted to work out what the hell was going on, my first port of call had to be that arrogant bookseller. Although he’d no doubt be furious at me for stealing his book and would probably call the police the second I arrived and have me arrested for shoplifting. Or worse, call a doctor and have me committed for raving about fictional men in my flat. In fact, it was probably best if I didn’t take Mr. Darcy with me or mention him, but go into the shop with a cover story and then gently dig to seeif I could get any sense of how this might have happened and how to reverse it.
At eight o’clock, I heard the sound of movement in the living room. I poked my head out the bedroom door to see Darcy rubbing his eyes and looking around in confusion.
“It was not then a dream, as I had so desired.”
“I’m afraid not.”
He sighed loudly, then bent forward and began rummaging under the sofa.
