*   *   *

The Darcys dined at Berkeley Square the following evening. Elizabeth had somehow managed to rally her spirits, if for no reason other than to conceal her family’s unhappy situation. Though Lady Matlock may have discerned something in her manner that gave her a cause for concern, both Lady Malcolm and Lady Sowersby were unaware of it. They found themselves immediately taken with the new Mrs. Darcy. Elizabeth was, to them, all that was charming and lovely. Darcy was as enchanted and attentive as ever, if somewhat concerned for her state of mind, and while Lady Malcolm and his nearest relations could easily tease him for it, Lady Sowersby, who had never married and who was ever the romantic, could find nothing but pleasure in his solicitous and tender attentions to his beautiful new bride.

Halfway through the meal, a message arrived for Colonel Fitzwilliam, who quickly excused himself from the table. Many minutes passed, and he failed to return, leaving at least two persons in the party anxious over his lengthy absence. After receiving numerous glances from Elizabeth, Darcy also excused himself. He eventually located his cousin in his uncle’s study. “What news, Fitzwilliam?” he asked without ceremony, shutting the door behind him.

The colonel’s countenance was grave. “My men have located a young woman whom they believe may be Miss Lydia. It is not promising. She is currently residing in Madame Tremont’s house. Do you know of it?”

Darcy’s eyes grew wide. “In a brothel? I cannot believe this,” he gasped, shaking his head. “Is it known whether or not she came to be there willingly?”

Fitzwilliam exhaled loudly. “I believe it unlikely Miss Lydia would have agreed to enter such an establishment of her own volition. It is my guess that Wickham probably sold her into servitude. He is no doubt low on funds and most likely growing desperate.”

Darcy ran his hands over his eyes. “Good God. This will kill Elizabeth. I cannot have her learn of this. We must leave at once and recover Lydia. God only knows what may befall her in such an establishment. We have not a moment to lose.”

“I agree, Darcy. I have dispatched my orders to my men. We will be moving within the hour, but you must know you cannot possibly accompany us.”

“Why ever not? She is my sister-in-law. She is my responsibility. Wickham is my responsibility. Surely, I must be the one to go.”

Fitzwilliam gaped at him. “You cannot be serious! Do you have any idea what it will look like if you were to go? To a brothel? You, who have only just exchanged your sacred vows before God—and with a woman whom Lady Catherine would happily tout in public as your mistress if given leave to do so? Can you not imagine the talk such an action will inspire amongst the ton? The repercussions to Elizabeth’s reception in society alone would be devastating, to say nothing of your gaining a reputation as a philanderer.”

Darcy, who had been pacing, threw himself into the nearest chair and growled in frustration. “What the bloody hell am I supposed to do, then? Elizabeth will want me to retrieve her sister, as well I should!”

“But not at this cost, Darcy! There will be enough talk already. You will do well to leave this to me. Miss Lydia knows me—well enough to understand I would not harm her in any way. I am confident she will feel safe enough to leave with me. In fact”—he smiled grimly—“I would wager a great deal that she will jump at the chance—especially if I am wearing my red coat.”

Darcy looked at him sharply, and Colonel Fitzwilliam moved to lay a hand upon his cousin’s tense shoulder. “Forgive me. That was poorly done. If it is, indeed, Miss Lydia, Darcy, I shall return her to her family tonight. Shall I bring her to Darcy House, or would you rather I deliver her to the Gardiners?”

Darcy ran the back of his hand over his lips. “No, bring her to Grosvenor Square. The Gardiners have young children. They should not be subjected to such scandal.”

“Very well. What will you tell Elizabeth?”

Darcy sighed. “I hardly know. I do not want to raise her hopes if it is not Lydia. In any case, the news will be distressing, to say the least. I will make our excuses to your parents in a short while. They shall not suspect anything untoward. Elizabeth is not quite herself, in any case, and I daresay my aunt has discerned as much. Then I suppose I shall wait at Darcy House for word from you. What of Wickham?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I have received no word of Wickham, but when I do, you shall be the first to know.”

*   *   *

It was nearly eleven o’clock that night when Colonel Fitzwilliam was ushered into the dimly lit back foyer of Darcy House, bearing Lydia Bennet in his arms. Elizabeth had been on edge ever since her husband had reluctantly told her Richard’s men had discovered the location of a young woman who may or may not be Lydia. Elizabeth raced down the stairs when she heard Darcy’s voice mingled with that of his cousin, barely managing to fasten her dressing gown about her waist as she went. She gasped when she beheld Lydia, who appeared listless, battered, and bruised. Holding back tears, Elizabeth instructed the colonel to carry her sister to one of the family apartments abovestairs. One of his men went off to summon the doctor; another, Mr. Bennet, who had not yet returned from Gracechurch Street.

Elizabeth saw to her sister’s comfort as best she could, assisting one of the maids with bathing her, dressing her, and tending to her battered face, which felt feverish to the touch. All the while, Elizabeth spoke to Lydia in a low, soothing voice full of tenderness and unrestrained affection. After Lydia was settled beneath the counterpane, and even when the doctor finally arrived, Elizabeth pointedly refused to leave Lydia. Indeed, even after her father had appeared by his daughter’s bedside and insisted Elizabeth rest, she would not. She was determined to stay beside her youngest sister until she was well—be it hours or days.

Darcy looked on with concern for his sister-in-law, as well as his wife. Since this was to be his wife’s stubborn decision, and since he had very little success in swaying her from it, Darcy saw nothing else to do but emulate it. If Elizabeth would not leave her sister, neither would he leave Elizabeth. The fact that he felt she was putting her own health at risk, as well as that of their unborn child, by refusing to look after herself, disturbed him. In vain did he and Mr. Bennet attempt to persuade her to retire and rest in the comfort of her own rooms. Not until the following evening, when Elizabeth finally succumbed to exhaustion—falling asleep in a chair by Lydia’s bed—was Darcy able to remove her to their bed for the night. Though she stirred and attempted to rise and return to her sister several times while Darcy eased her gown, corset, and chemise from her body, somehow, he hardly knew how, he had managed to calm her agitation, cradling her in his arms until she drifted into a heavy slumber. He did not dare leave her side, not even after the sun had risen high into the cold, gray sky.

Another week would pass before her family could be reassured of any improvement in Lydia, and before Colonel Fitzwilliam would finally receive word from his men with regard to George Wickham’s whereabouts. It was a frigid night when the cousins departed Darcy House with eight trustworthy officers, all of whom shared the distinction of having female members of their acquaintance affronted by Wickham in one unscrupulous manner or another.

The two unmarked carriages that transported the ten men rolled up to a run-down house in one of the seedier parts of London. There was a commotion coming from within—angry voices and the sound of breaking glass. Colonel Fitzwilliam took the lead, banging upon the door with a heavy fist. A frightened young girl of no more than twelve peered through a dirty window several seconds later. Upon seeing the blur of red coats assembled on her father’s steps, she threw open the door and beckoned them to enter, practically pulling Colonel Fitzwilliam by his sleeve. “Please! You must stop ’im! ’E is out of ’is mind with rage!”

“Who?” prompted the colonel.

“My Papa! Please! ’E says ’e’s gonna kill ’im! My Papa can’t go ta jail! ’Tis just my ma, my sister, an’ me. ’Ow’ll we ever live?” She dragged the colonel up a narrow staircase and into a dimly lit hall, with Darcy and the other men hard on their heels. The sound of raised voices alerted them to Wickham’s unmistakable presence in the room just beyond. All ten men drew their weapons and entered to the appalling sight of George Wickham gasping for air while suspended against the far wall of the small parlor by the hands of an irate man, much in the same manner Darcy had held him not many months before against the side of the milliner’s shoppe in Meryton, his hands closed around the scoundrel’s throat.

Colonel Fitzwilliam advanced and ordered the man, who was slowly choking Wickham to death, to cease and desist. Unsurprisingly—or not—the man refused to release his captive. “This bloody bastard laid ’is ’ands on me eldest girl, ’e did! I ain’ goin’ ta let ’im go fer nothin’! Not until the life is squeezed from ’is miserable body! Do with me wha’ ya will after, but I ain’ lettin’ ’im go ’til ’e’s good an’ dead!”

It was Darcy who approached the angry man and, with a cold look of hatred directed at Wickham, cocked his pistol and extended it without ceremony to the irate father, who grinned. “I see ya ’ave a grievance with this ’ere fine gentleman, as well, ya rotten piece o’ filth,” the man continued with renewed vigor. “Perhaps ’e’d like ta do the ’onors instead?” Then he addressed Darcy, his eyes—and his hands—never leaving Wickham. “What’d ’e do ta ya? Did ’e ’urt one o’ yer precious girls, too?”