Page 65 of These Dreams (Heart to Heart Collection #1)
Chapter sixty-five
“T here, suh. Tha’s where ‘e ‘ad me bring the note from th’other chap.”
Darcy looked up to the shaded windows. If there was any light burning within, it was not visible from where he stood on the street. He glanced at his cousin. Richard’s blood was up, his fists balled, and he was enraged beyond recall. There was no point in asking the seasoned military man what he advised, for all thought of reason and tactics had fled his cousin’s mind.
Darcy gestured to Woods. “You had an errand you were to undertake. See your note delivered, and then return to us.”
Woods tried to conceal his doubtful expression, but did as he had bidden. As they watched him climb the steps to the flat, Darcy spoke lowly. “Richard, what do you hope to achieve here tonight?”
Richard’s nostrils curled in restrained anger. “If you fear that I will kill the blighter, you needn’t. I have killed enough men; the savour of victory is bitter when another man’s blood is on your hands. We collect him in his sleep, and drag him before the nearest regiment of the militia.”
Darcy looked back to the shaded windows. “If you intended to remove him by force, we ought to have brought two or three footmen.”
Richard grinned in the darkness. “We can manage.”
They waited in silence for Woods to return. When he did, he bore an expression of helpless resignation. “No answer, suh. I ‘eard somethin’, but none came to the door. I left the note under it, in case ‘e’s there, suh. May I go now?”
Darcy withdrew a fat little purse and began to hand it to him. “One word; Miss Dinah will be employed honourably at Darcy house, so long as she comports herself with dignity and is not found to be compromised by any connections to criminal activity. I must exhort you, sir, to also seek honest work. Naturally, you would not wish to jeopardise her chances.”
Woods accepted the bag of coins, slowly cradling them into his palm and then slipping them into a deep pocket. “Aye, suh,” he mumbled, then he turned and was gone.
Richard was shaking his head. “You cannot mend every man, Darcy.”
“No, but I can salvage that one. Shall we?” he gestured toward the flat.
Richard jerked his head in satisfaction. “I thought you would never ask.”
They listened for a moment at the door, trying to discern what was taking place. There was a scraping sound, a frantic clatter, and then a Portuguese oath. Darcy quirked a brow, and both stood back. At a signal from Richard, they charged together, throwing their shoulders against the door at the same time.
A single candle burned in one corner, rendering the room dusky and shadowed. Just to the right, Vasconcelos crouched with a small trunk full of papers. He still clutched a few in his hand as he recognised them, then the papers slipped from his grasp and he straightened.
“Fitzwilliam,” he half-smiled, then his eyes lit on Darcy. It was clear that he struggled for the first instant to match him as he appeared now to the bedraggled prisoner he had kept, but then his face set grimly. “So, have you come to return what is mine, or do you think to seek revenge?”
“Neither,” Darcy answered disinterestedly. “Please collect your belongings at once. You are to accompany us.”
“To what purpose, Senhor Darcy? We both know that your courts would do nothing to me but send me back to Portugal, which is where I am bound this very night.”
“I would have your testimony before you depart. You will tell me the location of the Viscount Matlock, as well as give me a sworn statement that will be presented to the general in command of the troops in Porto.”
Vasconcelos laughed. “You believe somehow that I will be censured? You have no influence there.”
Darcy flicked a glance at Richard. “I do not, but a well-respected officer with connections to the military hierarchy in Lisbon and Porto most certainly does. What will become of your family honour when the evidence of your depravity becomes known among your fellow countrymen?”
“And what shall become of yours, when all is revealed? I think you must reconsider your demand, for you will both be denounced as frauds, cheats, and bastards.”
Richard laughed and crossed his arms. “Ah, yes, this scandalous secret! What is it you think is so important that we could never withstand a sixty-year-old revelation?”
Vasconcelos bent to collect some papers and began leafing through them nonchalantly. “Nothing short of the parentage of the earl of Matlock and George Darcy.” He sneered, his eyes still on his papers. “English women are whores.”
Vasconcelos found himself suddenly jerked from his feet and thrown upon the bed, with Colonel Fitzwilliam pinning him down. “Speak another such vile falsehood, and I will rip out your tongue!” he snarled.
“Calm yourself, Cousin,” Darcy placed a staying hand on the other’s shoulder.
Richard eased himself off Vasconcelos’ stomach, but stood over him with fists cocked. “I would have the proof of a gentleman of your accusations, sir!”
Vasconcelos held up a defensive hand, eyeing Fitzwilliam warily, but he spoke to Darcy. “Your grandfather deceptively hosted my father with intent to defraud him! My uncle also was on the voyage; the eldest son and heir of the family. They went honourably to purchase back what was theirs, but once they arrived, Senhor Darcy refused to negotiate. The old earl as well, he was a partner by then and wanted to keep what rightfully belonged to my family.”
“Your family,” seethed Richard, “owed a debt! It was not rightfully yours!”
“It was no more Senhor Darcy’s!” shot back the defiant man on the bed.
Darcy frowned at his cousin for interrupting. “Do go on,” he commanded.
Vasconcelos glared once more at Richard, then seemed to come to a decision. “After a time, it seemed that Senhor Darcy might be led to accept the offer, but not Matlock. My uncle went to prevail upon the young countess to speak to her husband, but instead she tried to seduce him. When they were found, Matlock murdered my uncle with his own hands.”
The room was silent. Richard’s face had drained of colour, and he looked to Darcy with panic in his eyes.
“And that is not all,” Vasconcelos jeered, clearly enjoying Fitzwilliam’s discomposure. “My father had already discovered Lady Georgina Darcy to be a temptress, dissatisfied by her own husband. Shall I continue?”
Darcy’s eyes were narrowed. “These are your accusations?”
“I find it coincidental, sir, that both ladies presented their husbands with an heir less than a year later.” Vasconcelos was smirking confidently now. “And whence came the dark hair and eyes shared by the Fitzwilliam men? Richard Darcy and the old earl were both fair, according to my father’s description.”
“Darcy,” Richard rumbled in a shaking voice, “remember how I promised not to kill him? I have changed my mind.”
Darcy was silent for a moment, then he smiled. And then he laughed—laughed merrily and long. Richard was jarred from his outrage to gape at his cousin in astonishment.
Vasconcelos felt brave enough at Richard’s distraction to draw to a sitting position and he pointed an accusing finger at Darcy. “You mock me, sir! My father was obliged to bring back the body of my grandfather’s oldest son and heir, with no deed for the land he had gone to redeem, nor even the family treasury with which to begin again! Our family was impoverished and humiliated at court, and my father spent the rest of his life trying to restore our honour. Only five years ago he died, and I thank the heavens that he never saw us lose everything again at the hands of Napoleon.”
“I regret if you were wronged in any way, but as to your accusations against my heritage, I have evidence to the contrary, in the form of dated journals. My grandmother and great aunt were both visibly with child when the debacle began, and family records prove that my father and the present Earl of Matlock were born within a fortnight of one another. I also have this.” Darcy drew a yellowed paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it before Vasconcelos’ eyes.
“The deed, as you can see, is made out to Lady Georgina Darcy, and signed at the bottom with a date. There is a note just below the signature, written in what appears to be the same hand, conceding the land as a loss in lieu of ‘personal offences against her ladyship and her unborn child.’ What you have explained to me this night, as well as what my own family has revealed, lead me to surmise that your father attempted an assault on my grandmother, possibly out of revenge to Richard Darcy for refusing the land sale. It would be no great stretch to imagine that your uncle made a similar attempt upon my great-aunt, but that Lord Matlock was less forbearing than my grandfather.”
Richard’s mouth quirked. “The Fitzwilliams protect their own,” he pronounced with satisfaction.
Vasconcelos was staring at the deed in pallid disbelief. “It cannot be,” he whispered. “No, this is a forgery! I decry this for the slander it is!”
“Would you care to have it examined by an inspector? I can verify that my grandmother’s signature is a match.”
Vasconcelos glared up at Darcy. “And what English inspector would judge in my favour?”
“I doubt you could find an honest inspector from your own country who would. I invite you to return there now, for I believe I have had done with you. I will thank you never to intrude upon my life again.”
“You expect to wash your hands of me so easily?”
Darcy pursed his lips, then nodded. “Yes, I do. I know too much about you for you to ever again become a threat to me. I presume that you were rifling through these papers and collecting your belongings for a departure this very night? I hope I have not detained you too long, for I desire you to leave these shores at once.”
Vasconcelos slowly edged off the bed. “I will not be content, Darcy. Sign over to me the deed, and let us put this unpleasantness behind us. You wish to have done? I do doubly so. What need have you for something you did not know yourself to possess? It was ill-gotten under duress, if indeed my father’s signature is even genuine.”
Darcy folded the paper and slid it back into his pocket. “I think not. Perhaps some enterprising individual will approach me some day and offer to purchase it honourably, and I will be pleased to hear him. I shall bid you safe travels, sir.” He turned to go, but Richard’s voice stopped him.
“Darcy… look.” Richard nodded toward the far corner of the rented flat, still veiled in shadows. Another bed had been hastily put up, and the blankets had even been turned down for the night. A traveling bag lay open upon it, and an extra pair of men’s gloves rested beside the bag.
Richard was at Vasconcelos’ throat almost instantly. “Who is staying with you? Is it that worthless son of yours? Has he come to look for her? ”
Vasconcelos was grasping helplessly at the hands which locked like vises around his neck. “I,” he gasped, then flailed desperately for air.
Richard loosened his grip just enough to hear what the man would say.
“I gave him one hour,” came the rasping words. Vasconcelos smiled, a look of cunning, and then wheezed again through lips that looked suddenly old and wicked. “He does not wish her to be left here for you.”
Darcy House, London
D arcy really did keep an excellent wine cellar. Wickham leaned back in the leather chair, savouring that last swallow. ‘99, he should think; a perfectly respectable vintage, even if it were not aged enough to be considered truly sophisticated. He held the glass up to the firelight, admiring the legs running down the curve.
It really was a pity that Darcy no longer liked him, for the man’s friendship was a rather convenient thing. If only he were not so odiously dull! What sort of gentleman left the house for a club night—or wherever he had gone—and expected another man to wait up for him like the house director from their Cambridge days? Fitzwilliam Darcy, that was the sort; the one man in the world who could make an indifferent gesture and have fifty leap at once to do his bidding. Oh, of course, Prinny had hundreds, and so did the assorted nobles of the land, but Wickham had never seen anyone else with Darcy’s casual air of command, nor the fervent loyalty of his staff—well, most of them, at any rate.
Wickham glanced up to the door of the study. O’Donnell stood there, facing discreetly away. On the other side, just out of view, was a second footman. As if he would try to go anywhere! He knew Darcy, and he was decidedly safer in this house than anywhere else in England. Fitzwilliam, he was less certain of. Now there was a man who delighted in keeping him guessing! Darcy would eventually prevail, however, and when at last they consigned him into the tender mercies of military justice, it would not be without some word and consideration in his favour. It might not be enough, but it was the best offer he was likely to get, and a far sight more generous than the viscount would have been.
He sighed and fingered his glass, then decided to pour a little more. To his dismay, the bottle contained only a drizzle. “O’Donnell,” he called out, “would you be a good chap, and ask for another bottle to be sent up? I’m bone dry.”
He saw O’Donnell glance to the left, at the other footman, but neither stirred from their place. Wickham frowned. Pity.
He adjusted his seat to look back into the fire and determined to satisfy himself with what little remained. A sharp clatter from behind him made him drop his entire glass. O’Donnell emitted a cry of surprise, and then Wickham saw him dashing toward a window outside the room, with the other footman in hot pursuit. What the devil?
Wickham stood up, listening to the grunts emitted by the straining footmen. Had someone just broken into Darcy’s house? Even in the middle of the night it was a fool’s errand, with so many vigilant servants about! He drew close to the door to watch the mayhem. Three men, with their faces covered, had broken through from the music room and were busily assailing the two footmen. More of Darcy’s servants came rapidly to aid their comrades, but they were quickly met with four more strangers surrounding them from all sides.
Wickham started to back toward the drawing room. This was not his fight. What could he do against so many? Best to secrete himself where none might trouble him, and see what came of it.
As he was stepping back, an arm wrapped firmly about his throat, with a blade tipped near his ear. “I’ve got ‘im!” a voice hissed. “‘E was in the drawing room!”
Wickham’s eyes went wild. They were after him ? Or had they mistaken him for Darcy, dressed in fine clothes and sipping wine in the man’s house? He reached behind himself in panic, trying to dislodge the hand that held the knife. Another man came to face him, holding a miniature in his palm and comparing Wickham’s face.
“This is the wrong man!” he spat. “Kill him anyway, and find Darcy!”
Something snapped inside George Wickham in that instant. Whether it was fear of imminent death, insult at being presumed for Darcy, or merely the indignity of being tossed aside as of no account, his blood boiled over in rage. The arm round his neck tightened, but he used his opponent’s very strength as his own.
With a half-strangled cry of fury, he threw himself back into his assailant’s embrace and lashed out with both feet at the second man. The man went down, senseless for at least a moment, and Wickham felt a surge of exhilaration such as he had never known. The arm slackened in astonishment, and he dropped his weight against it and was free, then he turned gave a mighty shove against the other.
With space now to fight, he put up his fists and grinned. His attacker had somehow lost his knife when he had broken free, and now they were equally matched. Well… not quite equally, for Wickham knew the house. He feinted and dodged, ever advancing, until his opponent found himself backed into a small alcove made by an oddly placed support beam in the room. Wickham closed in then, and delivered the sort of punch Richard Fitzwilliam always used to knock him down with when they had been boys.
The man dropped most satisfyingly, and Wickham stood back, shaking his fist with a pleased little smile. Old boy, you’ve still got it! he congratulated himself .
Another crash behind him drew his attention back to the fight still going on in the corridor. He arched his brows and shrugged to himself. Why not? Either Darcy would hear how valiantly he had acquitted himself and exert his considerable power on his behalf, or he might find an open door and perhaps a ship ready to sail in the harbour.
Without a second thought, he charged into the fray. Boots and fists were flying, Darcy’s black-clad footmen straining against what still seemed to be an oncoming tide of assailants. Where the devil had they all come from? The only lunatic Wickham knew who might be both willing and capable of hiring enough men to storm Darcy house was… he gulped. The viscount!
There was a scream from above stairs, followed by what sounded like a vase shattering against a wall. Wickham jerked his head up and saw a commotion on the stair landing, and then there was another shriek. It was distinctly feminine… and terribly familiar. His face whitened in horror. Miss Darcy was here ?
At some other point in his life, it is likely that he would have hesitated. After all, why should he put himself at risk for that spoiled little heiress? But on this night, his ire was hot and he had tasted the valour of the defender. In the next moment, he was flying up the stairs, dodging planters and sculptures that had been tossed at the attackers. Well did he know where her room was to be found, and there his steps carried him.
One brave footman had wedged himself in the door, but he could hear Georgiana Darcy struggling inside. She was not cowering behind the man, he could see, but trying to get beyond him, while he was attempting desperately to keep her safe from the men in the hall.
“Let me through!” came her irate voice. “I will not lie helpless in wait!”
“Please, Miss,” the footman was answering through gritted teeth. “You must stay inside!”
Wickham could not help a short laugh, even in the moment. So, Georgiana Darcy had at last found her Darcy backbone. He was not spared long, for another tried to force him back, away from Georgiana’s door. This man held a pistol, and it was leveled at his head.
Wickham backed, his hands held before him, as he cast about for some weapon to employ. Nothing, not even his own babbling tongue, was faster than the finger on the trigger. Surely, however, the man did not intend to waste his one bullet on him. It was, in all likelihood, destined for one Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“Don’t be a fool!” he implored the man. “Darcy is not even in the house, and look below! The footmen already have the upper hand.”
The pistol wavered slightly. Behind him, Wickham could see Georgiana Darcy throwing a heavy water basin through the door, just missing the man who tried to get through. The pistol drifted away… then snapped back, and the hammer cocked.
“Leave my husband alone!” came a savage cry, and then a fire poker slashed down on the hand holding the pistol.
His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Lydia? What in blazes would she be doing here, of all places?
She wielded her poker with lethal intent, if not accuracy, slashing upward and then crashing it down on the man’s shoulders. Wickham was frozen in awe. Lydia, the girl he had seduced, abandoned, and… oh, bloody hell. She turned toward him, her face red and her hair wild, but it was her figure that held him mute.
He raised his eyes to hers, still speechless. She was carrying his child! How could he not have guessed at Fitzwilliam’s meaning? He tried to remain standing, but his legs shook. He was to be a father?
“George!” she cried, her hand over her mouth, and her eyes full of tears.
He regained his voice. “Lydia? Oh, Lydia, my girl, look at you!” he breathed.
She stepped close to him, almost into his arms, then drew back a fist and delivered a sound blow to his jaw.
She did not hit that hard, truly, but the shock of it knocked him from his feet. He tumbled to the floor, testing his lip for blood and glancing back up at her. She was shaking her head, her expression a confusion of anguish and relief as she wept. “George, I should kill you!” she rasped.
She should. She was right, and he knew it. “Lydia, I….” He stopped. No apology would do. There were no words that could pay her back for all the grief he had caused her. He looked at his feet, splayed on the floor before him, then back up to her face, and he cried out in alarm. “Lydia, no!”
The man with the pistol had recovered his senses, and was in a high temper at the insult. He pushed Lydia aside and leveled the pistol again—at his heart, this time. George Wickham: seducer, cheat, liar, gambler, and worthless coward, gritted his teeth and prepared to meet his end.
“No!” shrieked one final cry, and the pistol discharged.
George opened his eyes just in time to catch his wife as she crumpled into his arms, a bloody mass already spreading over her robe.