Page 34 of Unwillingly Mrs. Darcy

Darcy

1st November 1812

Darcy House, London

T he journey to London had been long and exhausting, yet neither Elizabeth nor Darcy could allow themselves a moment’s rest. Mary was still missing, and every second that passed brought the threat of a fate too terrible to contemplate.

As the carriage rolled to a halt before Darcy House, Darcy stepped out first, then turned to offer his hand to Elizabeth. She placed hers in his without hesitation, and for a moment, he forgot the urgency of their mission. The warmth of her touch, the way her fingers fit perfectly against his—it delighted him beyond words.

For two days, since the tender moment in the carriage, they had spoken of the future—a future where Mary was safe, where Wickham was stopped, and where they might finally claim their own happiness. Knowing Elizabeth returned his love had filled him with a quiet, undeniable joy. If not for Wickham’s crimes, he would have been the happiest man alive.

But that future could only exist if they solved the mystery before them.

Darcy led Elizabeth up the steps and into the grand entrance hall of Darcy House, where they were immediately greeted by the housekeeper, Mrs Sutton, and the butler, Mr Redford.

“Sir,” Mr Redford said with a bow, “a letter arrived for you just this morning—from Colonel Fitzwilliam. He instructed that you receive it at once.”

Darcy took the letter and broke the seal swiftly, his brow furrowing deeper as he read. Elizabeth watched his expression change, the tension in his stance growing.

“What does it say?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Darcy exhaled sharply. “Richard was able to speak to one of Wickham’s friends, or rather former friends, in Meryton.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “What has happened?”

Darcy turned to her fully, his face shadowed with a mixture of anger and grim realisation. “This fellow, Mr Denny confirmed that Wickham left the militia months ago with intentions to claim what was rightfully his, as he said. Richard confirms that Wickham has been evading capture by the militia where he is wanted for desertion, slipping through every effort to locate him. Mr Denny admits he had a suspicion where he might be, but kept it to himself. However, upon hearing what Wickham has been up to, he has confided in Richard. It seems Denny is fond of your sister Lydia, and felt he needed to speak the truth for her sake.”

Elizabeth frowned. “I remember Mr Denny, he danced with Lydia a number of times at various balls. A decent fellow.”

“With a poor taste in friends. Anyhow, he says that for a time, he was in London. And while he was here, he was living with someone we know all too well.”

Elizabeth felt her breath hitch.

Darcy met her gaze, his voice sharp with frustration. “Mrs Younge.”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. The name struck her like a blow.

“The woman who helped him nearly ruin Georgiana?” she whispered.

“The same.” Darcy’s jaw was tight with fury. “She took him in when he arrived in London, provided him with shelter—and possibly more. I am certain Mary was taken there.”

Elizabeth drew in a shaky breath. “Then we have no time to waste.”

Darcy turned to her, his expression fierce with determination. “We must move quickly. If we hesitate—”

“We won’t.” Elizabeth took his hand, her fingers tight around his own.

He looked at her—really looked at her—and the moment stretched between them. Despite the urgency, despite the looming danger, there was something undeniable in the way they stood together.

They had started this journey as reluctant allies. Now, they were something far more.

Darcy gave a decisive nod. “I have her address. We will go there at once. Even if Wickham is not there, I am certain she will know where he’s gone. Then let us begin.”

And together, they stepped forward—into the heart of London, into the depths of a mystery, into a battle they could not afford to lose.