“Yes, sir. ‘Disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,’ censure for all concerned unless the young people can be found and made to marry.” The valet’s features sank into lines as grim as those of his master, reminding Darcy that the widening effect of Wickham’s perfidy encompassed Fletcher’s nuptial hopes as well. Until Elizabeth was wed, Fletcher’s Annie would not entertain thoughts of leaving her mistress for her own matrimonial desires.

“There you have it.” Darcy nodded and passed his shirt to the valet. “It must be accomplished, or the parties must be bought off and sent into a sort of semiexile. I can conceive of no other acceptable solution that will provide the family — the young ladies — protection from the ‘outcast state’ of your sonnet. As it is, even should we succeed, the seemliness of the affair will be as thin as a veil.” He paused before his mirror, ready to avail himself of the hot water from the washstand in front of it. “So thin, so very thin, Elizabeth!” he whispered before bringing the water to his face. He then turned back to Fletcher. “But perhaps that is all that will be needed. Society has certainly entertained greater scandals with less concern. Let us hope that this may be one of them.”

“I devoutly pray it be so, sir.” Fletcher’s chin hardened as he held up Darcy’s dressing gown and pushed it over his shoulders. “And how shall I assist you, sir? I am even more at your command.”

“I have no conception as yet, save for the conviction that I shall stand in need of your powers of observation and your uncanny ability to come upon information when needed, which you displayed so well at Norwycke Castle last winter.” A slight smile creased Fletcher’s face. “Not to mention that I expect to be keeping very irregular hours, which must not be allowed to alarm the rest of the staff. It will be a dicey bit of work, Fletcher.”

“Yes, sir.” The valet gathered up Darcy’s discarded clothes. “But allow me to observe that the lieutenant, as despicable as he is, is in nowise the same class of fiend as was Lady Sayre or her daughter. I would not lay any odds in favor of him eluding you, sir.”

“Let us hope that will prove true. Now, get some rest.” Darcy waved him off. “We leave at six; I shall expect you at five-thirty.”

Fletcher bowed at the servants’ door. “I have no doubt of your success, sir,” he replied as he rose and, for a rare moment, looked Darcy full in the face. “No doubt at all. Good night, sir.” Inclining his head once more, he closed the door.


Two evenings later found Darcy encamped at Erewile House with only a skeleton staff to do the small amount of cooking and cleaning that were required in the extraordinary circumstance in which he had chosen to put himself. As an added precaution, he had directed that whoever answered the door admit only those on a select list, claiming that the family was not home to any others. Mr. Witcher’s bushy white eyebrows went up for a moment at such instructions, but trust and affection for his young master carried all questions before them, and the old butler merely nodded his head at the strange orders.

The first thing was to locate Wickham in the interminable warrens of London. When Darcy had given his final instructions to the staff and sent Fletcher on an errand, he sat back wearily at his desk, stretching his limbs and rubbing at his eyes. There were any number of mean districts in Town that might harbor a couple bent upon anonymity, and he was familiar with none of them. Even if he should go and make a search, he would immediately be noted as an outsider and mouths would close. A bribe would, undoubtedly, serve as an adequate wedge, but word of his presence would have gotten out, and the birds would have flown before he located the nest.

There were only two avenues into the underworld of London, he had determined, that held any promise — Dy’s contact at St. Dunstan’s church and the network developed by the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country, to which Georgiana had introduced him. First, a note to the head of the Society must be sent off at once. Then, since he had had no word from Dy since the day of the assassination, he would need to meet personally with the sexton at St. Dunstan’s and, if at all possible, tonight. Pulling a sheet toward him, Darcy flipped open the inkwell and drew out a pen.

“Dear Sir,” he wrote. “I have come upon an instance of the deception of a young woman from a respectable family and ask for the Society’s assistance.”

An hour later the common cab Darcy had hired to carry him and Fletcher pulled to a stop at the back of a darkened church. St. Dunstan’s was not a large building, but it was the most solid-appearing structure in a neighborhood that looked to be held together only by the grime and misery long resident there. The heat of summer had accentuated the smells that wound through the fetid streets and alleys, which even as late as it was, still undulated with the wary comings and goings of their wretched inhabitants.

Climbing down, Darcy flipped the driver a coin, which the man snatched handily out of the air and immediately bit. “Remember.” Darcy put a hand on the reins. “Back in a half hour and safely to my lodgings and twice that shall be yours.”

“Aye, gov; me an’ ol’ Bill be right ’ere, awaitin’.” The cabbie nodded. Darcy released the reins as the cabbie flicked them. “Gee-up now, Bill.” The cab moved on into the night. Watching it pull away, Darcy took a firmer grip on his walking stick, the heaviest he owned. Unfortunately, it was also the most ornate and contrasted mightily with the plainest of attire in which Fletcher could be convinced to dress him.

“I see a light, sir.” The valet pointed up to a small corner window on the second floor. “It must be the sexton’s quarters.”

“Good — now to find the door.” Both men stepped forward, only to be immediately accosted out of the darkness by a beggar pleading for enough coin for a bit to eat. Before her plea was finished, two others joined them, little more than children. She turned on them, kicking them away. In moments the street was thick with urchins and derelicts, some interested only in the brawl while others were attentive to the strangers who were its cause. “On your life, show no fear,” Darcy hissed to Fletcher, “and follow my lead.” Slowly he backed up to and along the church’s wall, being careful to display the fact of the walking stick as he did so.

“I’ve found the door, sir,” Fletcher gasped. “It is locked!”

“Knock, man!” Darcy brandished the solid brass knob at the crowd that was now hooting and calling out insults as well as demands. It was most likely the noise of the crowd rather than Fletcher’s knocking that attracted the sexton’s attention, for the door opened suddenly behind them, and heavy hands on both their shoulders drew them in and behind a man of stunning proportions. Cries of disappointment rose from the mob.

“Do no behef so,” the giant called out in heavily accented English. “Trit straungers lack dis? No! Go home; pray Fadder forgif. Go!” With that advice or command, Darcy knew not which, the man closed the door, turned to them, and held his candle to their faces. “Who?” was all that composed his simple question.

“Darcy. I am a friend of Lord Brougham.”

“Lordt Brougham?” The giant was clearly at a loss.

“Lord Dyfed Brougham,” Darcy tried again.

“Oh, Mr. Dyfedt!” Relief shone on the man’s face. “Yes, I know Mr. Dyfedt, but I not know Lordt Brougham. Brudder, maybe?”

Darcy smiled. “Perhaps.” Of course Dy would not be known by his real name here! What was he thinking? “Mr. Dyfed told me to find you if I needed his help. Can you contact him for me?”

The sexton drew back. “Name again, please.”

“Darcy…and this is my man, Fletcher. Mr. Dyfed knows us both,” he said and pulled out the slip of paper Dy had given him. “Here is his pledge.”

The sexton took the paper and held it up to the candle. Nodding, he returned it to Darcy. “Yes, Mr. Dyfed.”

“Can you get a note to him?”

The giant shook his head. “Ach, no. Ist business?”

Darcy shook his head wearily. “No, a young woman in danger. He knows people here who might be able to help me find her and restore her to her family.”

“Yong voman? Hmm.” The man’s brow furrowed. “Not business?”

“No, not business; a personal matter in which I know he would wish to lend assistance.” Darcy sighed.

“Then perhaps I can help you,” came the reply in perfect English. Both Darcy and Fletcher stared at the smiling giant. “But first let me offer you gentlemen some refreshment. You have had a hard night of it, I think.”

Drawing back, Darcy stared up into the amused eyes of their rescuer and tightened his grip once more upon the brass-crowned walking stick he had brandished at the unruly lot outside the door. The giant’s rumbling laughter in response filled, then echoed off the circular stone walls of the stairwell. “Please, sir, come up. If Mr. Dyfed sent you to me, you can have nothing to fear at my hands. Please…” He indicated the steps. Still uncertain as to the wisdom of accepting, Darcy cast a glance at Fletcher, but his manservant was otherwise engaged.

“Tyke? Tyke Tanner?” Fletcher stepped toward the giant, whose regard now swung to him in surprise.

“Who…?” he began, then stopped, his eyes nearly starting out of his head. “Lem? Lemuel Fletcher? I’ll be!” Reaching out a great paw of a hand, he clapped Darcy’s valet a hearty slap upon his back. “Ten years, has it been? Unbelievable!” That observation summed up Darcy’s sentiment as well. How in the world did his valet know this man? “And your parents! How are Mr. Farley and Mistress Margaret? Still atread the boards, I’ll be bound!” Treading the boards? Darcy turned to his man, his brow cocked, awaiting Fletcher’s answer with more than a little interest.