Page 66 of The Scarred Duchess
He said little, but immediately guided them back to Lady Catherine’s Ramsgate cottage, where he locked all the doors and checked the windows. “It’d be nice if you kept the miss busy, ma’am,” he said to Mrs Annesley.
“What shall you do, Mr Reeves?” asked Mrs Annesley.
“Dismantle the threat, ma’am.”
Three days later, Darcy leapt off his horse and tossed the reins at the waiting stable boy. “Walk him. Rub him down.” He tossed the lad a coin.
Entering the inn, the proprietor bowed deeply. “Your party awaits you in the Gull Room, sir. To our left.” Darcy pushed aside his exhaustion.Georgiana’s welfare is primary.
Darcy walked through the thin haze; an open window permitted sea air to freshen the common room.Tallow was cheaper than wax. He entered a private room to find Reeves and another man. Although the room smelled of food and spirits, the table was empty.
Reeves stood. “Darcy, Roark.”
Darcy tilted his head as a thought coalesced. “You are my uncle’s man.”
“At your service, Mr Darcy.”
“I regret our preparations for such an affair were necessary,” Darcy said. “How is my sister?”
“Miss Darcy is safe and protected.”
“And the maid Georgiana spied?”
“Ruthie. I followed her to her partner,” replied Roark.
“Who is?”
“Wickham.”
Damnation.“Wickham has chosen the wrong family to importune.”
"We could just toss his corpse into the sea. He’d be gone for good,” offered Reeves.
“I will not have a death, however just, on my hands. Remove him from these shores.”
“A bad penny may return,” observed Roark.
Darcy shook his head impatiently. He wished to see his sister. “My cousin Fitzwilliam would agree with you, but with your plan, I do not believe so.”
“What’d you say, Hammer?” asked Roark.
“Fine by me,” replied Reeves.
George Wickham awoke to a rag being stuffed into his mouth and his arms held against his sides. He tried to kick, but that gesture failed as well. Two men stood above him. He squirmed, but stopped when a hard object slammed into his hip. He grunted in response to the pain.
“Rise and shine,” said the first man.
“Wiggle a toe,” said the second.
Wickham recognised the voices of the Seven Dials. “You have it wrong,” he shouted as best he could through the grimy rag.
“You’re going for a ride, Georgie boy.”
They threw him into the back of a cart and covered him with a blanket. He bounced at every road rut, and held his arms tightly against his ribs. Soon enough, he smelled the sea. The cart stopped, the blanket disappeared, and he was hit by a gust of salty air. He saw a ship’s mast and grunted. “No...”
Several men with batons in their hands stood behind his two kidnappers. One man held chains.
“Good-bye, Georgie,” said the first man, a milk-white scar running through one of his eyes.
