Page 135 of The Difference of a Darcy
“But whatever we do will not be a long-term solution,” Darcy said. “We need something that will prevent him from causing any more damage… and my wife will not allow murder to be an option.”
This last was said with a wicked grin and a small wink towards Elizabeth, causing the colonel to laugh perhaps a bit more than the jest warranted.
He is as exhausted as I am.
“What about prison?” Elizabeth said once the humor had subsided.
“He has not broken any laws,” Darcy reminded her. “Even with his attempts with you, that would not be enough to put him in the gaol—not for long, at least.”
“If what I remember about Mr. Wickham is correct”—she gave Darcy a significant look—“then he must have quite a few debts. Could they be purchased and combined, then used to put him in debtor’s prison?”
Darcy gaped.The woman is a genius,he thought, just as Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed, “My dear, that is brilliant!”
“I know it will take time to gather his vowels, and it would mean a significant amount of money to be able to purchase them all…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off.
“That would be no trouble for my father,” Richard said, waving a hand. “The only issue will be what to do in the meantime until enough evidence can be gathered.”
The room fell silent as everyone contemplated the situation. Elizabeth suddenly grinned and said, “Perhaps I could hit him over the head with a bottle of wine, and then we lock him in the stables or the cellar for a month or two?”
Darcy was not entirely certain if she was serious or not, but there was no time to ask her. As she finished speaking, the faint but unmistakable sound of hooves coming up the long drive drifted through the still air.
Four heads turned towards the window, frozen, listening—the rhythmic beat grew louder, approaching the front of the house.
Mrs. Reynolds was on her feet in an instant, moving swiftly to the window where she had been keeping watch. She pulled back the curtain just enough to peer out, her posture rigid.
A breathless pause followed before her shoulders relaxed. “It is not Mr. Wickham,” she said, relief flooding her voice. “The man is too scrawny by half.”
The others exhaled as one. The colonel rose nevertheless, his hand resting on the butt of his pistol. “Best see who it is, Mrs. Reynolds. We can take no chances.”
She gave a brisk nod and hurried from the room. The muffled sound of a door opening, followed by low voices, reached them. A moment later, Mrs. Reynolds reappeared, ushering in a man Darcy recognized at once—the innkeeper from Lambton, Mr. Whitlow.
“Colonel, sir,” Mrs. Reynolds said, her face pale, “you are going to want to hear this.”
Chapter 27
Elizabeth watched as the thin innkeeper shifted nervously upon the threshold, twisting his cap between his hands. His eyes darted from one face to another before settling at last upon Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Sir, I was asked to bring you news—though Heaven help me, I would rather be anywhere else than bearing it.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his tone brisk but not unkind. “Then speak, man. Out with it.”
Mr. Whitlow cleared his throat. “Last night I was at the tavern across from my inn. I do not often join their games, but with the weather turning, there are fewer travelers. We pass the time playing for pennies, no more.” He gave a nervous glance at Mrs. Reynolds, as if uncertain how such talk would be received in Pemberley’s drawing room.
“Go on,” she said gently. “No one will think ill of a man for keeping company on a cold night.”
The innkeeper nodded gratefully. “Well then—about an hour before midnight, Mr. Wickham came in. He had been drinking elsewhere, I think, for he was loud and unsteady. He called for ale, teased the serving girls, that sort of thing.”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. Even after all she had seen, it chilled her to hear his name again.
“No one dared confront him,” Mr. Whitlow continued, lowering his eyes. “You know how it is. He holds sway over so many livelihoods in these parts. The girls laughed it off, but they were frightened. They may serve in the tavern, but they are good girls, sir.”
The colonel made a sound of impatience. “I can well imagine it. Get to the point, if you please.”
“Yes, Colonel. He saw us playing and insisted upon joining. We tried to discourage him, but he would not be denied. He sat himself down, wagered heavily, and lost almost at once. After the third hand, he slammed his cards on the table and accused us all of cheating.”
Elizabeth could picture it too easily—the flushed face, the sneer, the arrogance.
“What then?” Darcy asked quietly.
