Page 8 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

WICKHAM'S INTERFERENCE

Elizabeth stood at the broken window of her chamber at the Red Lion.

The shutters had been destroyed by the storm, and she didn’t want to spend another night exposed to the weather.

The morning light had brightened to full day, yet the road remained empty of the one traveler she sought.

He had promised to return by mid-morning.

The church bells had already tolled eleven, and still no sign of him.

Her rational mind supplied countless innocent explanations.

Securing suitable transportation in Barnet might have proven more difficult than anticipated after the storm.

Perhaps the roads, though passable, were slower going than expected.

He might have needed to visit local tradesmen to arrange matters for their journey.

Perfectly reasonable delays, all of them.

“Where are you?” she whispered, her finger tracing the Darcy crest, an engraved falcon sporting a “D” on its chest, on the ring he’d given her.

A knock on her door startled her. Elizabeth rushed to open it, expecting—hoping—to see her husband’s tall figure. Instead, the innkeeper’s wife stood there.

“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but there’s a gentleman below asking for you. Says he’s come from Mr. Darcy.”

Elizabeth’s heart leapt. “A message? Has there been an accident?”

The woman shrugged. “Didn’t say, ma’am. Just that he needs to speak with you immediate-like. He’s waiting in the private parlor.”

Elizabeth’s heart was unsettled as she followed the woman downstairs. Had Darcy sent word explaining his delay? Or had something gone terribly wrong?

The innkeeper’s wife opened the parlor door, and Elizabeth stepped inside. The man who turned to face her was not a stranger.

“Mr. Wickham,” she said, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

George Wickham bowed with a flourish. “Miss Bennet. How fortunate to find you here.”

“Mrs. Darcy,” she corrected automatically, her fingers tightening around the signet ring in her palm.

A peculiar expression flickered across Wickham’s face—amusement, perhaps, or something more calculating. “Of course. My apologies.”

“You said you’ve come from my husband?” Elizabeth prompted, choosing her words carefully.

Her acquaintance with George Wickham had been brief, but she recalled Darcy’s evident dislike for the man, although she was unaware of the cause.

That he should be the one sent with a message struck her as highly improbable.

“In a manner of speaking.” Wickham gestured to a chair. “Perhaps you should sit, Mrs. Darcy. I’m afraid the news I bring is not entirely pleasant.”

Elizabeth remained standing. “I prefer to hear it directly, sir.”

Wickham sighed, a picture of reluctance. “Very well. Mr. Darcy has asked me to convey you to London. He himself has been called away on urgent business to the north—family matters at Pemberley requiring his immediate attention.”

The coldness in Elizabeth’s stomach spread outward. This made no sense. Darcy would never send Wickham, of all people, as his emissary. And he certainly would not depart for Pemberley without informing her directly.

“He sent you a carriage, I presume?” she asked, gesturing toward the window. “I confess I didn’t see it arrive.”

Wickham’s smile never wavered, though something flickered behind his eyes. “Ah, no. I’m afraid Mr. Darcy required his own conveyance for his journey. But not to worry—I’ve arranged alternative transportation. Most suitable for a lady of your… circumstances.”

“How curious,” she said, keeping her voice level, “that he should entrust this task to you, Mr. Wickham. Didn’t you inform me that the two of you were not on friendly terms, and that he has ill-used you?”

“Ah, but you once told me you found him disagreeable, and here you are, calling yourself Mrs. Darcy.” Here, Wickham’s eyebrows took on the look of a mourner at a sickbed. “Perhaps I should mention that Mr. Darcy expressed some concern about your current state of mind.”

“My state of mind?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, the gesture masking her growing alarm.

“He mentioned you might be… confused. About certain matters.” Wickham’s gaze was steady, assessing. “That you had experienced some unfortunate circumstances that might have affected your understanding of reality.”

“How interesting,” Elizabeth said, her mind racing behind the mask of polite attention. “And did my husband explain the nature of my… confusion?”

“I will try to be delicate.” Wickham sighed and attempted to take Elizabeth’s hands, which she withdrew, hiding Darcy’s signet ring in her fist.

“Do not be concerned,” Elizabeth said. “I am certain there is nothing my husband can say that would distress me.”

“In that case, you will understand his hesitation in conveying his concerns.” Wickham’s tone was smooth. “He mentioned you might believe certain events had occurred which had not, in fact, taken place. A marriage, for instance. ”

He was suggesting—implying—that her marriage to Darcy existed only in her imagination. That she was, in essence, mad. She almost whipped out the signet ring to prove her marriage, but the twitch in his eye stopped her. Something was very wrong.

“How curious,” Elizabeth said as nonchalantly as she could. “What remedy does Mr. Darcy suggest, seeing as his recollection does not match mine?”

“Mr. Darcy, of course, is eminently concerned about his reputation,” Wickham said.

“Given the stories you’ve told around this inn, he felt it best if you had time to…

recover. He mentioned a very fine establishment near London, quite discreet, where ladies of quality can rest and regain their equilibrium. ”

A sanatorium. He was threatening her with a sanatorium, using Darcy’s supposed authority to legitimize the threat. Elizabeth forced herself to appear thoughtful rather than terrified, though her pulse hammered in her throat.

“How kind of him to think of my welfare,” she managed. “Though I confess I feel quite well. I believe I shall await further word from Mr. Darcy himself before making any decisions about my travel arrangements.”

Wickham’s smile tightened. “I’m afraid that would be most inadvisable. Mr. Darcy was quite clear that you should be conveyed to London without delay. He has arranged for you to stay at a… restful establishment while he attends to his business.”

“For how long?”

“Difficult to say. Estate business can be… complex. Weeks, perhaps months.” Wickham studied her reaction carefully. “But you needn’t worry about that now. The important thing is ensuring you’re properly looked after.”

Months. Elizabeth’s heart sank even as her mind rejected the possibility. Darcy would never leave her for months without word, regardless of estate business. Something terrible had happened to him—she was certain of it.

She needed information—accurate information—about what had happened to Darcy. And time to formulate an escape from whatever trap Wickham was setting.

“I see,” she said, adopting an expression of thoughtful consideration. “Mr. Darcy is, as always, most attentive to my needs. When do you propose we depart?”

“I have secured transportation. We could leave within the hour, if you are prepared.”

“So soon?” Elizabeth pressed a hand to her chest in a gesture of feminine distress.

“I confess, Mr. Wickham, the suddenness of this change in plans has quite overwhelmed me. Might I have a little time to gather my belongings and compose myself? Perhaps we could depart after I’ve taken some refreshment? ”

Wickham hesitated, clearly torn between his desire for immediate control and the risk of causing a scene that might draw unwanted attention.

“Perhaps a compromise,” Elizabeth suggested, seeing his indecision. “Allow me an hour to rest and prepare. We can depart at one o’clock, refreshed and better equipped for the journey.”

“Very well,” Wickham conceded after a moment. “One o’clock. My companions and I can take lunch while we wait.”

Companions. So he was not alone. The situation grew more perilous by the moment.

“Your consideration is most appreciated,” Elizabeth said, dipping into a curtsy that disguised the trembling in her limbs. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I shall take a light repast in my room. The events of recent days have been most taxing.”

Wickham bowed, the picture of a gentleman. “Of course. Rest well, Mrs. Darcy. The afternoon promises to be eventful.”

The subtle threat beneath the words was unmistakable. Elizabeth nodded and withdrew, maintaining her composure until she was safely back in her chamber. Only then did she allow herself a moment of pure, undiluted terror.

Something had happened to Darcy. Something that had placed her husband in Wickham’s power and now left her vulnerable to the same fate. But what? And how could she possibly escape it?

She needed information, and quickly. Descending to the taproom would be too obvious; Wickham would surely be watching. But perhaps the innkeeper’s wife might be persuaded to share what she knew.

Elizabeth rang the bell, and the woman appeared promptly.

“I wonder,” Elizabeth began, pressing a coin into the woman’s palm, “if you’ve heard any news of incidents on the London road this morning? My husband is considerably delayed, and I grow concerned.”

The innkeeper’s wife pocketed the coin with practiced swiftness. “There’s been talk, ma’am. A gentleman attacked by highwaymen not a mile from here, they say. Some claim he was gravely injured, others that he was merely robbed.”

Elizabeth’s heart constricted. “This gentleman—did anyone mention his name?”

“No, ma’am. Though one traveler mentioned he was driving a fine curricle with matched bays.”

The room seemed to tilt beneath Elizabeth’s feet, but she steadied herself against the bedpost. “I see. And what became of this gentleman? Was he brought back to Barnet?”