The Disappearance of Georgiana Darcy: A Pride and Prejudice Mystery (49 page)

Georgiana had heard the disturbance outside the cottage. With a great effort, she had pushed herself to a seated position. Instinctively, her fingers smoothed the wrinkles of her dress before she realized how foolish that was. If someone had truly come to her rescue, he would understand her disheveled appearance. Escaping this dilemma was more important than regrets over a heavily soiled gown.

Excited by the possibility of finally knowing her freedom, Georgiana struggled to stand. She could not support her weight fully on her right leg so she wobbled to balance on her left. Using the single chair as support, she stood tall as the door swung wide and a figure pitched forward, slamming against the floor. Shocked, Georgiana screamed.

One moment, he had supported his weight with his shoulder and forearm against the doorframe, and the next, George Wickham reached for a door that was no longer there. He slammed face first into the cottage's harden dirt floor. With a whoosh of air, his breath escaped into the small room before a sharp pain shot through
his chest. He heard himself groan “Aarrggh,” but another voice drowned out his pain, that of a female in distress. With a gargantuan effort, Wickham rolled to his back to look up into the anxious face of Georgiana Fitzwilliam.

“Cease!” he growled as her screams continued, and, miraculously, she went instantly silent. “It is I, Georgiana…George Wickham,” he said with distaste. With a deep grunt, he rose to his elbows.

“Mr.…Mr. Wickham.” Her lips moved, but the sound remained weak. He could read her countenance easily: Staring blindly at him, Georgiana Fitzwilliam's worst nightmare had come to life. The acknowledgment of that fact would play to his advantage.

Wickham tightened his lips as he shifted his weight to come to his knees. Instinctively, he clutched at his chest. The pain announced that his ribs needed binding. “I am certain,” he said through clenched teeth, “that I am…the last person…you expected…to find in a cottage…in Scotland; yet…I am here.”

“The prayer the Devil answers,” she said softly.

Despite the pain that ricocheted through his body, an ironic chuckle escaped his lips. “Still repeating…that old adage…are we? It was…a favorite of your father's.” Bracing his ribs with his forearm, he stumbled to stand straighter. “You will excuse me…if I… offer no bow of respect. I seem to have…accumulated both a soaking…and a injury to my ribs.”

Georgiana ignored his excuse for his bad manners. The idea of it bothered Wickham more than he would care to admit. It was if she expected him to act without decorum. “You do not appear surprised to find me here?” she said cautiously.

With a painful effort, Wickham managed a smile. Georgiana was no longer the weak, impressionable girl he had once known. He wondered if his betrayal had anything to do with her current strength. “In truth, my dear…the prospect…of finding you in this,” he gestured
with his free hand to the room in which they faced off, “shepherd's cottage…was not part…of my mental landscape…while I fought the elements…to reach this
pleasant
dwelling.” His smile widened in a conspiratorial smirk. “Yet, if it appeases your curiosity…I will admit to cursing your brother…with each step I took.”

Georgiana stiffened. Her grip tightened on the chair, and Wickham noted how her chin rose with that damnable air of superiority that he despised in all the aristocracy. He often wondered if those of elite bloodlines were born with the propensity to look down their aristocratic noses at others. He had often practiced the gesture in the mirror, but it did not come naturally to him. “What has my brother to do with your misfortunes this time, Lieutenant Wickham?” she demanded. “Surely, you cannot lay blame for the weather at Fitzwilliam's feet. My brother's influence does not extend to natural phenomena.”

“Perhaps not,” Wickham said ruefully. “Yet, much of my misfortune…can be traced to my former friend.” He took an awkward step forward. “Our elopement…” he began, but Georgiana finished his thoughts.

“Was a mistake,” she asserted. “A foolish whim of a too-shy schoolgirl who thought our familiarity would bring her happiness.”

“And you have no regrets…for your brother's interruption…of our plans?” Wickham said coldly.

Georgiana shook off his words. “How could I? If we had known success, then I would never have experienced the joy of knowing my husband's regard.”

“And how is the Major General?” he said gravely.

Instantly, Georgiana paled. Grief and regret shafted her. She swayed and sat back heavily on the cot. “My husband…reports say that Edward was lost at Waterloo.” Tears formed in her eyes, and she turned her head to hide her grief.

Her obvious anguish touched Wickham. Would anyone regret his passing? Would Lydia truly mourn for him or would Mrs. Wickham flaunt her newfound freedom? He said with a touch of empathy, “And do you…believe these reports?”

“I should not have considered the possibility,” Georgiana chastised herself with a shake of her head. “Now I question my emotional response. If Edward were lost to me forever, my heart would know. My heart speaks a different language.”

Wickham straightened stiffly. “Then you imagine yourself in love with the Major General?” he said through tight lips.

Georgiana sat perfectly still. With her face lifted in defiance, she declared. “There is no imagining involved, Lieutenant Wickham. The Major General knows my deepest affections.”

With a contemptuous snort, he said, “Personally, I never cared for the man.”

“I am certain that my husband's natural intuition told him how base your motives could be. Edward would see through your cleverness.” Her eyes spit fire.

“Does not your brother possess this same natural intuition? It would appear to me that Darcy considers himself a good judge of character,” he disputed. Wickham found he actually enjoyed this brief encounter. When he had pursued an alliance with Georgiana Darcy, he had done so for very selfish reasons. He had desperately desired her thirty-thousand-pound dowry. He could have finally owned a bit of the luxury he had always coveted; and, of course, having Darcy forced to acknowledge him as family would have been an added inducement. Yet, despite her beauty, he had never thought the shy, retiring Georgiana could have long held his interest. Now he thought otherwise. He found the woman's loyalty and her innate intelligence very engaging. “Darcy once considered me one of his closest acquaintances.”

As if suddenly aware of their surroundings and the shocking intimacy of their conversation, the lady's lips quirked. “Both Fitzwilliam and I have our father's trusting heart. Yet, we each learned a valuable lesson at your hands, Lieutenant Wickham. A lesson in those who present Janus's face.”

Wickham's gaze shifted from her countenance to the hearth. He said ironically, “We could debate my finer qualities all evening, but for the moment, I require a warm fire, or I will catch my death. Do you mind helping with the wood? I know it is not normally within a lady's realm, but I find my ribs are unforgiving.” He walked stiff-legged toward the ingle.

From behind him, Georgiana stirred. He had made his knees bend so he might reach the opening, but her words curtailed his efforts. “I cannot assist you, Lieutenant Wickham. My leg will not bear my weight. If it could, I would have walked out of here days ago.”

Wickham turned his head with renewed confidence. “I see,” he said impertinently. Standing again, he smiled deceitfully. “I will attend the fire.” He worked his way about the room tossing flimsy furniture and the broken chair into the fireplace. He felt Georgiana's eyes on him. Intently, she followed his every move. The knowledge that she could not escape this deserted cottage without his assistance pleased him. Darcy would pay well for his sister's return.

With difficulty, he managed to kindle a small blaze. “That should serve us well for the moment,” he said softly.

“Now what?” Georgiana crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from him.

The movement spurred him on. Wickham wanted her off balance—wanted the lady a bit afraid of him. He began to unbutton his waistcoat. Then he wiggled out of his jacket and removed the vest. He draped the clothing over the remaining furniture.

“What are you about, Sir?” Her voice rose in apprehension.

Wickham smiled deviously. “I am removing these wet items before they bring on the ague.” He flipped his shirt from his body and over his head. “And you are welcome, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, to look your fill.”

EDWARD GROWLED, “I REPEAT, Madam. How did my wife's locket come into your possession?” Despite the heated exchange, Edward shivered. He felt completely alone. Would he never find Georgiana? Was his wife lost to him forever?

The girl's energy surged from her. She swayed as he held her by the shoulders. Her eyes seemed to double in size. “I…I cannot explain,” she stammered.

Edward shook her soundly. “That is not good enough. My wife is missing, and you wear the locket I presented to her as a wedding gift. I want to know how you came by it.”

“I wish I could say.” Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

Behind them, Lord Wotherspoon said pleadingly, “Permit me to explain. The lady has suffered a head injury. She has struggled to recall her coming to Normanna and something of her past.”

Edward did not release the woman, but he loosened his grip. “What do you remember?” His gaze demanded that she continue to meet it.

“I see that it is your image in the sketch. All along I thought it was my husband's countenance staring back at me. I understand now why the image never brought me the comfort I sought. I am sorry, Sir. I truly possess no recollection of Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” The tears began to flow freely.

Edward dejectedly released her. “Where do I look next?” he murmured to no one in particular.

The girl loosened the latch and placed the locket in his palm. She closed his fingers about it. “When you find Mrs. Fitzwilliam, please present this to her as a symbol of your continuing regard.”

Darcy guided Wotherspoon to a nearby chair, so Edward directed “Lady Esme” to sit beside the man. Deep in his own thoughts, he abdicated the necessary interview to his cousin while he watched over Lady Wotherspoon until Weir's return.

Darcy eyed his cousin cautiously. He could never recall Edward being so distraught. If they did not find Georgiana soon, he thought, his cousin's normally even temperament would explode, and Heaven help the person on the receiving end of Edward's wrath.

While keeping the hunched posture of the major general in view, Darcy addressed his questions to Wotherspoon and the woman. “Would you explain to me why you tolerated such degradation under your watch, Sir?”