Page 16
Story: A Lady’s Gambit
Elizabeth. Loyal, brave Elizabeth, who had all but readied herself for a match of practicality. Charlotte had stepped into that place—not as a rival, but as a consequence. In claiming a future for herself, she had lost a part of something irreplaceable.
Her mind raced for a solution—any solution—before she would have to confess to Elizabeth Bennet what had occurred. No matter how honorable the proposal, no matter how kindly given or sincerely received, the moment she spoke the truth aloud would mark a shift that could never be undone.
Charlotte knew Elizabeth’s heart far too well to believe she would begrudge her a respectable match—but friendship was not always measured by generosity alone.
There were silences, glances, buried hopes between them—unspoken but real.
And Charlotte feared that in accepting what had once been meant, even in part, for Elizabeth’s rescue, she had crossed into a place from which their closeness might not return.
Even now, surrounded by cheerful voices and bustling servants, she felt alone in her thoughts.
Time pressed forward, and soon she would have to face her friend.
But how? How to look into Elizabeth’s eyes and say, I took what you might have needed most—not out of greed, but because I could not bear to turn away from it?
She pressed her fingers together tightly in her lap, her composure steady only by force of will. Charlotte had always believed herself sensible, practical, even selfless. But now she wondered if she had only ever been quietly selfish—and whether her best intentions had betrayed someone she loved.
***
That afternoon, before the light had begun to fade entirely, a knock came at the front door of Longbourn. James, the stableman’s son at Lucas Lodge, stood upon the step—bareheaded, his expression polite but faintly eager.
Mrs. Hill opened the door and offered a brief nod of recognition.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hill,” he said, clearing his throat. “A note for Miss Elizabeth, if you please.”
“Miss Elizabeth is in the parlor,” said Mrs. Hill. “I will fetch her directly.”
Moments later, Elizabeth appeared in a simple day dress, her hair neatly arranged.
James straightened slightly and held out a small folded note sealed in cream wax, shifting a little on his feet.
“From Miss Lucas, ma’am. She asked that I deliver it into your hands directly.”
“Thank you, James.” Elizabeth took the note, her fingers closing carefully around it. “Please give my regards to Miss Lucas.”
She reached into her pocket and offered him a few coins, which he accepted with a grateful nod and a simple smile.
“Thank you, miss,” the messenger said, before trotting off down the path.
Elizabeth retreated into the parlor, broke the seal, and unfolded the sheet with more haste than she intended.
My dearest Eliza,
I write to assure you that I have done what little could be done without causing embarrassment or needless pressure.
Mama invited Mr. Whitmore for tea today, and the gentleman came with every appearance of sincerity, though not without a certain guarded air.
He was kind, even gentlemanly in manner, but alas, nothing further came of it.
I do not believe he is inclined toward reconciliation with you, nor did he seem open to discussion on the matter.
Please do not think me negligent; I spoke where I could, with care, but without the effect we had hoped. At the very least, you may be at ease knowing there is no hostility. I am truly sorry, Eliza. I had wished to bring you better news.
Yours always,
C. L.
Elizabeth read the note twice, her expression unreadable. Then she folded it slowly and laid it in her lap.
Her thoughts turned not to Mr. Whitmore, nor to Charlotte’s phrasing, but to the tightening window of time and the silence that still hung over her father’s study. Her hands clasped the letter more firmly, though her face remained calm.
“It is as I suspected,” she murmured aloud. “No miracle from that quarter.”
But her tone was not bitter. Only tired.
She rose and crossed to the window, where the morning light spilled across the floor in bright silence. Whatever lay ahead, she would not be saved by circumstance—or by any gentleman’s change of heart.
She would have to think again.
***
London, Monday the 21st of October, 1811
Uncle Phillips had received Elizabeth and Jane's visit on a Saturday.
After the nieces left, he paced and fretted and turned the matter over in every conceivable way, searching for a legal means by which he might deliver his brother-in-law from so wretched a predicament.
But all the legal texts and casebooks he consulted yielded no straightforward solution.
Worse still, Mr. Bennet had been so incautious—so painfully na?ve—as to have signed a document explicitly acknowledging the debt.
It was not until Sunday evening, as he watched his children at play, assigning themselves imaginary roles and schemes, that inspiration finally struck. Before dawn on Monday morning, Mr. Phillips was already on his way to London, determined to act.
His first call was to Mr. Bennet’s solicitor, Mr. Blunt—a cautious but efficient man who also had not remained idle.
From the documents the latter had examined, he had already ascertained that the moneylender in question was a man named Peregrine Vale, known in certain circles for his discretion and for pursuing his claims with unnerving precision.
Worse still, Mr. Vale appeared to work in close cooperation with a certain Silas Cobb, a notorious gambler whose talents lay not only in cheating at cards, but in crafting the terms of defeat for any foolhardy enough to face him.
One detail, however, might yet prove useful: Vale bore a scar above his left eyebrow—a mark he could not easily conceal, especially given his bald pate.
Rumor had it the scar was the result of a knife attack by a wronged man seeking revenge, and that the moneylender had escaped with little more than a wound and a lasting fright.
Because of that unmistakable mark, Vale was compelled to use his real name; the scar made disguises of identity all but impossible, as it was well known in certain circles.
This was the chief reason he seldom worked alone—he always preferred to have at least one accomplice to act on his behalf.
They operated quietly through exclusive clubs where gambling was allowed under law conditions and obscure rooms—establishments where discretion could be purchased as easily as brandy—and it was said they employed proven methods of manipulation to entrap men of weak will or careless pride.
Like Mr. Phillips, Mr. Blunt was at a loss as to how such men might be caught or prosecuted.
So long as the games were voluntary and the debts acknowledged, there was little ground on which to stand in court.
Their conduct, though morally despicable, skirted just beneath the letter of the law.
And so the matter rested—frustrating, unresolved—awaiting some bold or ingenious intervention that might turn the tide.
After speaking with Mr. Blunt and reviewing the relevant documents, Mr. Phillips wasted no time.
Though still early in the day, a plan had already begun to take shape in his mind.
His first task was to secure the aid of two former clients—men whom, in years past, he had kept from imprisonment through sharp advocacy and legal ingenuity.
Both owed him a favor. More importantly, both could be trusted for their discretion, resourcefulness, and stout hearts.
The first was Will Downey, now chief carpenter at the docks—a man of steady hand and sound judgment, whose position afforded him both authority and the liberty to move about without drawing notice.
The second, Hugh Drake, worked as a butcher at the lower end of Clerkenwell—broad across the back, sharp-eyed, and instinctively wary of deceit, with a butcher’s memory for faces and a bruiser’s instinct for trouble.
Each of them stood like an oak, and either could have tucked Mr. Phillips under one arm and carried him a fair mile without pausing for breath.
Phillips found them both at their places of work and explained the scheme with brisk clarity.
According to Mr. Blunt’s inquiries, the conmen—one styling himself Peregrine Vale, the other known in gaming circles as Silas Cobb—circulated among three particular gentlemen’s clubs.
Their haunts were well chosen: The Mercury Rooms in the west, The Clarion Society near Chancery Lane, and The Ravenwood Club on the city’s eastern edge.
The plan was simple: observe first, then act.
Phillips and Drake would begin at The Mercury Rooms, arriving shortly before seven, when cards were likely to begin.
Downey, posing as a solitary gentleman with a mild taste for games of chance, would move eastward—first to The Clarion Society, then The Ravenwood Club—watching quietly for any sign of the rascals.
If Vale and Cobb were not at the Mercury Rooms, Phillips and Drake would proceed eastward and meet Downey wherever the trail led.
None—neither club porters nor fellow members—would suspect that three seemingly unconnected men, each with his own excuse for being there, were in fact part of a single, calculated design.
And if the tricksters were indeed discovered—well, Mr. Phillips had a very particular plan for that.
***
It was just past seven when Mr. Phillips arrived at The Mercury Rooms, his coat brushed free of dust, his cravat tied with meticulous care.
The doorman gave him a brief glance and admitted him without comment—Phillips had taken care to appear as any other seasoned gentleman, with nothing particularly new about him.
He disappeared into the inner salon without hesitation.
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