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!”
“Mrs. Younge.” He offered her a small, ironic bow as she sank into a curtsy.
“I hope…you are well, sir.” She examined him covertly, visibly struggling to regain some composure.
“I am well, Mrs. Younge, as is my sister. Miss Darcy is very well, indeed.” He looked at her steadily, willing her to meet his eyes. “But I did not interrupt your afternoon to exchange civilities.”
“I cannot imagine…”
“Can you not, ma’am? Think on it, I beg you.” She turned quickly from him, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze. “What possible connection might still exist between us that would bring me to your establishment today?”
Slowly, she turned back to him, a look of caution mixed with cunning on her face. “Wickham.” She almost smiled but caught herself. “Miss Darcy —?”
“Is very well, as I said, and in nowise connected to my business here with you.”
“I see.” The lady sank into her chair behind the desk. “And just what is your business with Wickham, Mr. Darcy?”
“Then you have seen him?” Darcy jumped upon her words.
A tick at the corner of Mrs. Younge’s eye revealed her annoyance at her misstep. “Perhaps.” She rearranged the papers lying on the desk before her, then looked up at him. “What do you want with him, sir? Do you seek him as friend or foe?”
“That will depend entirely on Wickham, ma’am. If he can quickly be made to see where his best interest lies, he may in the end be glad to have been found.”
“Indeed?” Speculation had now clearly joined with cunning. “How glad?”
“That is a matter between Wickham and me.” He leaned over her, fixing her with inflexible purpose. “Tell me, madam,” he demanded, “do you know where Wickham is? Is he here?”
Her lips pursed as she boldly returned his stare. “I cannot help you.”
“Cannot or will not?” he replied quietly, then looked about her small office. “I imagine that, as a woman of business, you expend yourself in only those endeavors that will result in some form of profit.”
A half smile appeared as she inclined her head in admission. “When I was dismissed from your employ, I lost a very good situation. I was fortunate to keep body and soul together. I learned an age ago that I must look after my own interests in whatever form they may come to me.”
His mind leapt to her dealings with Georgiana. The carelessness of her words awakened a surge of anger, but now was not the time. They must both measure every word. “That was made quite clear last summer in Ramsgate, madam!” he returned in the same quiet tone. “No one’s future may be permitted to stand in the way of your interests.”
Mrs. Younge dared to shrug her shoulders at him. “It is the way of the world, Mr. Darcy, certainly of your world no less than mine.”
“No, not all the world, Mrs. Younge.” He straightened and stepped back. “I will make it worth the while of anyone who can give me Wickham’s direction.” He made to leave but turned back at the door. “You must know, madam, you are not my only resource. Others, who have no personal interest save in the doing of good, are also looking for him. I would not wait long, were I you, to decide to place your trust with me. They may find him first, and that, I believe, would
Walking briskly down the hall, he nodded to the maidservant and let himself out. The hackney was just making the turn to come up the street again when he stepped to the curb and lifted his walking stick in salute. The driver pulled his horse to a halt before him. With one foot on the step, Darcy noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye, and looking over his shoulder, he spied a boy of no more than eight fade slowly into the alley between 815 Edward Street and its neighbor.
“Wait a moment,” he commanded the cabbie and strode over to the dark passageway.
“Don’t ya be worryin’, govn’r,” a young voice greeted him from the depths of the alley. Darcy stopped and squinted into the duskiness, barely able to see the face of his quarry as the boy peeped at him from around some barrels and boxes. “Jus’ you go home,” the voice continued. “I’ll be awatchin’ the old mort ’n’ send word ta yer groom if she bolts.” The boy’s head bobbed. “Mr. Tanner’s compliments, sir.”
“And mine to him,” Darcy replied and turned back to the waiting hack.
“Fitz! What the Devil is this about?” Richard strode into Darcy’s study before Witcher had a chance to
