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Wickham and Denny had got nowhere talking to the locals at the various inns. There was plenty of talk but none of it was specific enough for them. In small towns, such as Meryton, there were no secrets. Bath was too big, and too rich, for two strangers to gain any intelligence, or at least quickly. There were people that knew exactly what they were seeking, but they had no idea who they were or how to find them.

“This is a waste of time Wickham, we need to search closer to the centre of the town. Maybe in time we might find some useful information but it has been a waste of a week.”

Wickham was loathe to agree with Denny, he felt he was the brains and planner of the pair of them, but Denny was right. The inns around the edge of the town had offered poor pickings. What Denny had not considered however was Wickham’s own sense of self-preservation. In the tiny county town of Meryton he was happy to swagger down the middle of the street. Even in Brighton, hidden in plain sight amongst all the soldiers, he had openly looked for naïve marks. But he could tell Bath was different. There were too many powerful people, too many footmen who were really guards, and Wickham had spent several years at the edges of that society. The risk of his known face being spotted was sufficient to give him pause. Yet one look at Denny, the poorly hidden traces of suspicion upon his face, hardened his resolve.

“We will dress our best tomorrow and see what we can find in the fashionable areas of the town. More and more people are fleeing the heat and smell of London every day, we will not stand out.”

He did not say he agreed with Denny but the words of his plan brought a quick smirk to the face of his companion. Denny was not ready to ditch Wickham yet, but ditch him he would at the right moment. He was merely waiting for them to make sufficient money so he could pay for a comfortable passage across the Atlantic. If Wickham did not survive his departure, well former Lieutenant Denny was not going to waste any tears. And dead men tell no tales.

Both were as bad as the other.

--

Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in the second row of his uncle’s box at the theatre. His aunt and uncle were in the front row, along with another couple. He had accepted the invitation from his aunt and was sat beside his sister and her companion. He had hoped that Georgiana would enjoy an evening out. However hard he tried, there seemed to be something missing with his sister.

She had been the belle of the season, had made her curtsey to the Queen, and had presented well. But that was the thing, it was an act. Despite it being three years in the past, Georgiana Darcy had lost her confidence. She was better than she had been, but no more than that. In the long darks evenings of the recent winter Darcy had worried that she might never recover her poise.

The action on stage was not holding his interest and Darcy contemplated his own situation. He had recently celebrated his 30th birthday, but it had not been a relaxed occasion. In the days before the event, he had made the mistake of talking with his solicitor. At the end of the previous year Darcy had instructed the man to find out who the heir to the Pemberley estate was, after himself and his sister. He had been informed that it was a third cousin, several times removed. The man was descended from a younger child of his great, great grandfather. They were unknown to each other.

Whilst his lawyer was pleased in terms of knowing who was the heir behind Georgiana, for Darcy himself this had been a necessary wake-up call. And it should have been an unnecessary jolt to his system. While he was rightly proud of the condition of the Pemberley estate, against any measure it was doing well, he had ignored the other pressing demand. He needed to marry and sire an heir, and that need was getting ever more pressing. 30 years of age was not old, many heirs did not marry until that age or even older. But those with the Darcy name were thin. And when Georgiana married it would be down to just him. He was a good horseman but there was always the danger of an unseen rabbit hole sending man and horse crashing to the ground.

In the dark of the theatre box he sighed. He supposed he should be grateful, indeed he was grateful, that at least Caroline Bingley was no longer in London society. He was unsure as to why the Ton thought he was responsible for her fall, but as she was gone he found he did not particularly care. Enough about someone who was never to be considered. He needed to find someone who he could consider.

Three hours later he was sitting in front of the embers of the fire in his study, a single candle guttering away, the corners of the room somehow darker as a result of the thin flame. He had spent the time thinking about this mythical person, the woman that he could be persuaded to marry. There were very few that he reminisced about with any kind of pleasure, and none of them with the sense of ‘the one that got away’.

He knew that he had been too passive when he returned to London society. He had not been ruthless enough, hiding behind his shyness as usual. Even to this day, he did not seek out the younger daughters of members of the nobility. The second or third daughter of an Earl, with a decent dowry, they were where he should be focusing his efforts. Although untitled himself, just like his father, it should not stop him making a good match, again just like his father with his mother. His only real requirement ended up being that she must be at least as comfortable in the country as in town. If she was more comfortable there then all the better.

As the brandy started to do its work, his eyelids were feeling heavier, Darcy wondered why he had not thought of the example of his parents before. He was not self-aware enough to realise that the fathers of these women wanted nothing to do with him. The Bingley friendship and connection had kept many people away, even more effectively than any scowl from the corner of a ballroom. The most socially connected wanted nothing to do with a carriage maker’s children. It was only now that he was starting to win back his social acceptability.

He mumbled to himself.

“I must ask Aunt Susan if I can join the Matlocks at Bath this summer. I am sure she will be happy to introduce me to any suitable women. Mind you, Stonehaven is in the same boat.”

He drunkenly chuckled.

“I do hope we do not end up fighting over the same woman.”

It was his last thought before his chin lowered to his chest and he passed out.

--

Elizabeth knew that Thompson would never consider sitting with her, there was no point in asking him to sit opposite, all it would do was fluster the old man.

“What is your assessment of the town Thompson?”

“The first thing I noted was that the town is busier than I had expected. There were late summer crowds yet it is only early July.”

“Is there any indication of why?”

“London is suffering through a heat wave, and.”

He paused and she waved him to stop.

“I understand. Not so much the pull of Bath, but the push of London.”

“Indeed, my lady. As a result there are more than just the normal widows in residence. It is not the full Season; indeed it is not the short Season, but the town is more than normally full of the socially active.”

“What were you able to discern regarding the events to accommodate these socially active families?”