Page 42 of Colour My World (The Bennet Sister Variations #3)

Barty hovered at the door.

Darcy looked up. “What is it?”

His valet stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and said quietly, “It is confirmed, sir. They are come.”

“Who?”

“Villiers. Reeves. Legget. They ride with the colonel.”

The heat from the hearth no longer reached him. He crossed to the fire and stared into it. “I had thought them still on the Continent.”

“Dispensation, they say. No one dares ask who signed it.”

“Armourers—here?”

“Aye.”

Villiers. Reeves. Legget. Fitzwilliam.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death.

The Four Horsemen rode, not for the peninsula, but for Meryton. Somewhere, the Earl of Matlock had broken the seals.

* * *

Meryton, November 23, 1811

George Wickham sat hunched in the dim corner of the Red Bull Inn, one booted foot stretched to the hearth and a dented tankard of ale in his hands. The common room reeked of pipe smoke and spilled ale. A guttering tallow candle lit the gnawed bone from his meagre supper.

Behind him, three militiamen he did not recognise spun tall tales.

“Ye sure o’ that?”

“Aye. It’s the fifteenth, no mistake.”

“Bloodthirsty lot, every man jack of ’em.”

“Their commander’s worst o’ the bunch.”

“For the Frogs. Can’t say I blame ’em.”

“What’re they doin’ back ’ere, though?”

“Nay, I’ve no notion. Long as it’s not me they’re after.”

Their chairs scraped the floor as they staggered out. Wickham shivered, but he returned to his thoughts. Thirty thousand pounds. Georgiana Darcy’s dowry. The pot of gold at the end of the Pemberley rainbow.

He deserved it. Raised alongside the Darcys, treated like family, until old Mr Darcy exiled him. No, the scales needed righting. his daughter would balance them.

He remembered her as a child, golden-haired, wide-eyed, and peeking round corners to watch him fence. Always smiling, always eager. Easy to charm. A kind word here, a wink there. That day in the garden came to mind. Georgiana, the nurse, and his deliberate attention.

He’d come closer once. Mayfair. Four years Ago.

Darcy, too preoccupied with business and personal pursuits to mind his household, hired a companion without checking references.

His wife—though she used her maiden name, Younge—had walked through the front door unchallenged.

Within a fortnight, she controlled Miss Darcy’s routine.

Then the plan: a seaside retreat, steady doses of laudanum, a carriage to Gretna Green. Her thirty thousand pounds would be his.

He waited all night. His wife never came. By morning, there was nothing.

Back in Town, Darcy was nowhere in sight. Redcoats patrolled the streets of Matlock House. He glimpsed Georgiana, once, through a window.

Fitzwilliam had ruined everything.

Just like Lambton. Wickham sneered into his ale.

He had tried to humiliate Darcy when they were lads, hinting that Georgiana longed for company, implying Darcy’s pride kept her caged.

Darcy snapped. Shoved him. But it was Fitzwilliam who nearly killed him.

Bare fists. Cold fury. Even now, the memory of the Lambton wall throbbed in his skull.

He shook off the memory.

Ireland had followed. Land, coin, a taste of success. He returned to Pemberley. Darcy turned him out without a word. Wickham picked the fight. Had it not been for Georgiana, he might not have lived.

Now, with Darcy fixed here in this county, his attention on a country girl, Wickham would risk desertion to finally get his due as well as his revenge.

He patted the glass vial of laudanum in his coat.

A few drops and she would sleep through it all.

No struggle, no tears. By the time she woke, she, and her fortune, would be his.

He tipped the last of his ale and shivered despite the warmth. The rumour that the colonel was back in England—if true… He set down the tankard. His hand trembled.

“No more mistakes.”

Wickham glanced about the tavern. No one noticed him. Just another threadbare officer. He rose, pulled on his coat, tossed his last coin on the table.

Laudanum. Compromise. By the time they woke, it would be done. He would force her hand—and Darcy’s.

As he turned for the door, a pang twisted in his gut. He glanced back. Shadows. Steady, now. He stepped into the yard. The cold air stank of straw and refuse. He turned into the shadows and was wrenched off his feet, his coat yanked hard from behind.

He flailed, trying to break free but slammed into a man. Barrel-chest. Red coat. Polished black boots. Arms unusually long.

Wickham looked up. “I have no quarrel with you.”

Another man stepped out from the shadows to his right. Lean. Wiry.

Wickham shook his head. “Whatever this is, I suggest you leave it.”

A third figure blocked the left. A knife flashed once in the dim light.

Wickham’s mouth went dry. “Now, gentlem––”

Hands seized his arms and twisted them behind his back. A boot struck the back of his knees. He dropped hard onto the packed earth.

A fourth figure stepped into view. The cut of the coat, the finer cloth, the cold authority in his bearing. An officer. Patrician nose. Dark hair. Cold, pitiless eyes of memory.

“You.” He tried to rise. Too late.

Something slipped over his head. Rough material scratched his lips. The stench of potatoes in smothering darkness. He twisted—shouted—but a fist struck the side of his head. Stars burst behind his eyes.

A hand gripped his throat. He gasped for air.

Something gave way. A warmth seeped down his leg. A second blow fell harder. Darkness.

* * *

Netherfield Park

Darcy entered his sitting room bone-weary, having fallen asleep while reading in the library. On his bed lay a letter, closed with a glob of wax. No embossed seal.

He set it aside, closed his eyes, and ran a fingertip along his temple.

The door opened. “Barty?” He turned, then sat on the bed.

Fitzwilliam. Just shadow and quiet tread. He crossed the room and sat in the opposite chair. “Ask your questions.”

Cobwebs filled Darcy’s head. “Why bring a cavalry squad into Meryton?”

“You know that they were not cavalry.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Because a gentleman will not always act first,” Fitzwilliam said.

“But soldiers will?”

“Always.”

“Why Wickham?” he asked.

“Some men do not stop. Not with warnings. Not with exile. Not even after ruin.”

“You said he would not trouble me. You did not say—”

“I spared you what you find distasteful,” Fitzwilliam replied.

“What did he do?”

Fitzwilliam reached into his coat and withdrew a soiled, creased letter. He held it out. Darcy unfolded it. The scent of smoke still clung to the page.

She’s near enough grown. Of a marriageable age.

Meet at the vicarage. I’ll sign our names.

She needn’t do more than stand there.

Tuckett gets his share when he produces the register.

Darcy looked up. “Tuckett?”

“Disgraced parson out of Southwark. Still wears the collar. Keeps a quiet book for men with coin.”

Darcy tasted bile. “Georgiana? She is safe?”

“Under guard. At Matlock House. She never knew. Nor will she.”

Darcy shut his eyes. “Why did you not tell me?”

“Because I knew what you would do. And it was not enough.”

Darcy leapt to his feet. “What were the years for—the bruises, the blood—if you always meant to act in my place?”

Fitzwilliam rose. “Because you fight as if society—men—follow rules. You challenged yourself to chase a belief you could be a better man than your father.”

Darcy felt as if he had been punched in the chest. “You accused me it was folly.”

“I did.”

Darcy turned away. An iron hand gripped his forearm.

“It was folly because…you were always the better man.”

Darcy closed his eyes and counted to ten. When he opened them, the room was empty.

The door was ajar.

Had he imagined the entire exchange?

“Barty.”

“Sir?”

“A drink, if you please. Not port. Something harder.”

Barty returned with a glass and set it down. “And the colonel’s letter?”

“Burn it. ”