“Thank you, Tanner.” Darcy offered his hand to the surprised giant, who took it wonderingly into his. “You have my confidence in this. Any expenses you incur shall, of course, be covered; so do not fear to spend what is needed to acquire what I want.”
“Yes, sir, and you are welcome. Now, you must go! You will hear from me soon.” Tanner drew open the door and bustled them out into the night and up into the cab. “Grosvenor Square, and look sharp, Jory,” he rumbled at the cabbie. “He be Mr. Dyfed’s friend. No tricks!”
Monday morning saw Darcy in Lord ——— ’s study, where he laid out the matter of Lydia Bennet to the president of the Society for Returning Young Women to Their Friends in the Country. His Lordship listened carefully, taking notes as Darcy labored to give him all the particulars he could without putting the identity of Elizabeth’s sister in jeopardy.
“A difficult case, indeed.” His Lordship sighed as he put down his pen. “Unfortunately, it is not a unique one. On the contrary, it is quite common. Young country miss meets dashing officer smacking of the world and excitement, and there is no stopping the mischief that results. You realize” — he looked at Darcy earnestly — “that she may not yet wish to leave her officer. Depending on how flush he is, it may be quite some time before disillusionment sets in or until he tires of her.”
“Yes, My Lord, I realize that.”
“I fear that if the young lady is as heedless as you indicate, Darcy, there are only two realities that may move her. The better is that the officer has or will shortly run out of money. The other, far less desirable” — he dropped his eyes momentarily before fixing them upon Darcy again — “is that he has been cruel to her.”
Darcy nodded grimly. “I am prepared for both eventualities, but thank you for your warning.”
“Then I shall advance this information to our people.” His Lordship rose and extended his hand. “You will hear from me directly any news arrives. They needs be buried very deep in London to escape the Society’s notice, sir, very deep. They shall be found.”
Pushing away the remainder of a light repast, Darcy rose from his desk, scattering the scraps of notes from Tanner that lay among the dishes and the first draft of a note he’d sent off to his cousin Richard. Wearily, he pulled his pocket watch from its resting place and held it up to the study’s clock. Three-twenty. His morning interview with the head of the Society seemed an age ago, but the times of clock and pocket watch marched together perfectly, each click of the hands marking off another moment of his lack of progress in relieving the disgrace Elizabeth endured. The scene at the inn at Lambton, her shame and desperation, and the tears that had traced down her cheeks were ever before him, spurring him on. Yet time perversely dragged its feet even as his feelings of urgency mounted.
A knock sounded at the door. “Enter!” Darcy called out. Another note from Tanner lay on the servier Witcher placed upon his desk.
“From Harry the Groomsman, sir.” The butler sighed. “Yet again. What could be so important that he must be sending notes all morning…” His query faded away at his master’s expectant face.
“Thank you.” Darcy snatched up the scrap of foolscap. What he read caused him to call after his retreating butler. “Witcher, hold there.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I will be going out and have no notion of when I may return. Please tell your good wife to lay by something in the larder for later tonight. I shall find it when I return.”
“I shall tell her, sir.” Witcher’s bushy white eyebrows twitched ominously. “But she will not like it, sir, especially with the way you have been keeping to yourself and holding odd hours.”
Darcy laughed for the first time in days. “Tell her she may spoil me with her cooking soon!” He waved the note at his butler. “This may lead to what I have come to London to discover.” He tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “Send a boy for a hack, Witcher. I must leave at once.”
A half hour later, the hackney driver opened the door of his cab with a flourish at the sight of Darcy’s somber elegance. “Where will it be, sir?”
“Edward Street,” he called over his shoulder as he mounted the carriage’s step. “Yes,” he affirmed when the driver’s widened eyes darted up at him, “Edward Street and as quickly as can be.”
Tyke Tanner’s note had been brevity itself. “Mrs. Younge. 815 Edward Street.” Darcy stretched out his legs as much as the hackney carriage would allow. He had supplied Tanner with the name of Georgiana’s former companion even though he could not guess whether the lady and Wickham had remained on good terms since their connivance against him at Ramsgate. For her complicity, she had been turned off without a character reference. She might well hold a grudge against him for the loss of a highly remunerative situation. But if thieves were thick, as the saying went, perhaps she would have rumor of Wickham or even have seen him.
Darcy settled back into the cushions of the hired carriage and noted their progress through Mayfair, then the government districts, and into the east side of London. He gripped his brass-knobbed walking stick. Edward Street was unknown to him, but he guessed it would not be in the best part of Town. Therefore, when the hack came to a stop in an upper-working-class neighborhood, he was somewhat relieved that the walking stick he carried would find no more employment than as the article of distinction for which it was intended.
“Edward Street, sir,” the cabbie called down. “Any particular address?”
“No, let me out here,” he directed. “I wish to walk.” The cabbie clambered down and opened his door. Darcy gave him the fare and two shillings more. “Walk your horses around the block until I am ready, and your time will not be wasted.”
“Your obedient.” The cabbie tugged at his forelock. “Me and my lady ’ere will jus’ take the air, so to speak, sir.”
Darcy nodded and, tucking his walking stick under his arm, began a saunter up the street. It looked a respectable neighborhood. If Wickham and Lydia Bennet had taken refuge here, he would at least give Wickham credit for seeing her protected from the rougher elements of Town. Not every building retained its number, but 815 Edward Street was easily discerned, its number artfully painted on the door below the sunset window at the top. Steeling himself for the confrontation, Darcy mounted the stairs of what appeared to be a rooming house and rapped his stick upon the door. It opened at the hand of a young maidservant.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there ain’t any rooms. Try the inn down the street an’ over one.” She motioned after his retreating cab. “Jus’ follow the cab there, sir, an’ you’ll see it.”
“Thank you,” Darcy responded to her bid at helpfulness, “but I have come to see Mrs. Younge. I was given to understand that she lives here.”
“The mistress?” She looked at him, taking in the quality of his coat and his complacent air. “No one told me that the mistress was expectin’ a gentleman.” She warily looked down at the calling card he extended. He gently placed a shilling atop it. Quicker than a Covent Garden pickpocket, she snatched the shilling, secreting it down the neckline of her dress, and took his card. “If you would follow me, sir?” She turned from her guard of the door and let him in.
Instead of asking him to wait while she went up to inform Mrs. Younge of her guest, the girl continued down the hall to a room at the back and knocked on the door. “Mr. Darcy to see you, ma’am.” She ducked her head to the room’s occupant and quickly stepped back to admit him just as a faint, strangled cry issued from the interior.
“No — Oh! You stupid girl! Close the door!” Darcy stepped into the open doorway as his former employee rose from her desk in agitation. With a countenance the color of blancmange, she stared at him as if at a ghost. “M-Mr. Darcy!”