Page 44 of I am Jael (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

“Mr. Darcy, is it not?” Colonel Forster asked, his face hard with suspicion. “What brings you to my quarters late on a Monday evening?”

“One of your officers, Colonel, precisely Lieutenant George Wickham. I have evidence that he has committed a number of crimes tonight.”

Forster glowered at Darcy, “I have heard of your persecution of Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy. The lieutenant has performed his duties well, and I will not be a part of your godless vendetta against him.”

Darcy felt a spurt of rage at this stupid man, but tamped it down carefully, “One of his crimes, Colonel Forster, is that he stole your horse – unless, that is, you gave him permission to extract it from its stable and gallop it down the London Road in the last hour.”

The Colonel’s dark brown eyes narrowed at these words as he considered what Darcy had said. A moment later the militia commander was calling for his hat and coat from a startled servant.

Ten minutes later, Forster was staring in disbelief at the empty stall where his horse should be eating its grain even as the stable boy shivered nervously.

“But sir,” the youth stammered, “Lieutenant Wickham had a paper giving him permission to take your horse, sir!”

“I most certainly did not give him such permission,” Forster roared in fury. “How could you be so stupid?”

“Wickham learned to forge my father’s hand as a boy of twelve, Colonel Forster,” Darcy said grimly. “He is quite adept with such things.”

The Colonel leaned on the stable door and shook his head, “I apologize profusely for my earlier words, Mr. Darcy. So the fellow is a miscreant, is he?”

“Completely,” Darcy replied, his earlier anger giving way to a modicum of sympathy.

Colonel Forster sighed, “Without any idea of where he is heading, I fear we will not catch him easily. That horse was a gift from my late father, and precious to me.”

“Do not give up hope too quickly. We had servants watching him in case he tried to run for it. I expect my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, will have him in custody before dawn.”

/

The room was simply furnished but clean. Wickham threw his coat on the bed and gave Mrs. Younge a quick kiss and a longer embrace.

“Phoebe,” he murmured seductively. “You are as lovely as ever.”

Mrs. Younge allowed herself to enjoy the man’s strong arms for a moment before pushing him away, “I’ve work to do, George, and do not think I’ll be putting you up for free here.”

“I have money,” Wickham assured her with his most soothing tone, “though I will not be staying long. I am afraid I’ve managed to displease Mr. Darcy again.”

Underneath his calm demeanor, Wickham concealed a surge of fury.

Darcy, and now the man’s stupid sister, had interfered with his plans again.

He shook his head to clear it, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

With the money he had taken from the unwitting officers, he could enjoy life while considering how best to subtly strike back at Darcy.

An open war was undesirable as Darcy was well connected and powerful, but Wickham expected that a guerrilla strategy would work against the man, who was shackled by the conventions of society in a way that Wickham most decidedly was not.

Mrs. Younge allowed an unladylike snort to escape from her at Wickham’s reassuring words.

She was a poor gentleman’s daughter, married young, widowed only a few years later, left without either children or monetary resources and thus forced to take on the position of paid companion to richer women.

Her education was excellent and she had even liked her last charge, Miss Georgiana Darcy, but she had liked both Mr. Wickham and the possibility of money more.

And then it had all fallen apart. Miss Darcy’s imposing brother had arrived unexpectedly at Ramsgate before Wickham could sweep Miss Darcy away to Gretna Green. Mrs. Younge was summarily removed from her post and metaphorically tossed out into the street.

Darcy had warned her that if she dared take on the post of companion again, he would expose her alliance with Wickham to all of London society.

She had been forced instead to take her meager savings and open a boarding house in one of the more foul areas of London.

Now she worked long hours providing meals and minimal cleaning services for her boarders, and her hands were rough with her toil.

She knew that George Wickham was not a reputable man, but his admiring eyes made her feel like young Miss Crandon again, before marriage and widowhood and unwise decisions had brought her to ruin.

“I will see you soon, George,” she whispered, leaving his room with a swish of her skirts and a playful look behind.

It was late and she was nearly finished with her tasks for the evening, but she must prepare dough for tomorrow’s bread, else there would be nothing for breakfast. She turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen, which was lit with only a few candles.

She gasped in shock at the sight of the man sitting in a wooden chair.

“Mrs. Younge, I presume?”

/

George Wickham, very recently of the Meryton militia, sauntered over to the window and looked out into the still busy street.

He was on the ground floor, allowing the malodorous air to seep into his nostrils.

Even with the stench, though, it felt good to be in London again, though he would ensure that after the immediate danger wore off, he moved into a more pleasant part of the metropolis.

But the great city buzzed with energy day and night, so different from the dreariness of the small market town of Meryton.

There was a soft click at the door and Wickham turned, prepared to welcome Mrs. Younge with his signature charm. His sultry smile drained away into a look of horror at the sight of the man standing in his doorway.

“Wickham,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said grimly.

Wickham knew at once that disaster was upon him.

He had to escape! He cast a despairing glance at his coat, which contained his money and would be sorely missed, and made a dash for the window, which was firmly closed and sealed against the December cold.

He struggled with the pane and managed to get it a few inches open before he felt the Colonel grab his arms. He turned and tried to land a blow, but his attempt landed wide.

Fitzwilliam drew back his own arm and landed a crushing strike on Wickham’s left jaw, knocking the steward’s son to the floor.

George could not believe his dreadful luck. How had Colonel Fitzwilliam found him so quickly? His anger mixed with fear and was sufficient to wash aside some of the dizziness from being knocked down so rudely.

“Fitzwilliam, let me explain,” he squawked. “It is truly all a misunderstanding. I merely came to London for a short trip and planned to return in the morning. Just ask Mrs. Younge. Surely you can see the truth. It is but a mistake ...”

Richard Fitzwilliam, son of the Earl of Matlock, cousin to Fitzwilliam and Georgiana Darcy, spoke over the man’s frenzied explanations.

“This time, I can honestly say it is good to see you again, Wickham.”