Brussels
Three colonels of cavalry strolled into the palace where expatriate British civilians were holding yet another ball. Brandon and Richard were in full-dress uniform, while Buford wore a suit of black with white stockings and his sash. Already the hall was filled with Dutch royalty, exiled Frenchmen, traveling members of the London ton, and officers from many different nations, in and out of uniform.
“Quite a crowd here tonight, eh, Buford?” offered Richard. Buford’s reply was noncommittal.
“I find it hard to believe that so many have come here from England,” observed Brandon.
“Bored, useless vultures—the lot of them,” grumbled Buford. “The ton, looking for excitement, journey across the sea to see a war. What fun! Bastards,” he added sotto voce.
“Well, I am glad you are enjoying yourself, Buford!” cried Richard.
“The two of you, be quiet! We have to pay our compliments,” warned Brandon as the group walked towards the receiving line.
Having been presented and received, the three officers entered the main ballroom—right into the path of one who was very familiar to Buford.
“Bonsoir, Sir John! Pray, introduce me to your charming companions,” purred Countess Roxanne de Pontchartrain.
Captain George Wickham could hardly believe his luck. Somehow, the colonel of his regiment had not realized there was a ball that night, and poor Hewitt was scheduled to serve as Officer of the Day. Wickham was finally out from underneath the colonel’s, and by extension Darcy’s, thumb and was free as a bird. He was under no illusion that this freedom would last or that it ever would be repeated. Therefore, Wickham was determined to enjoy himself as much as possible.
Helping himself to the first glass of wine he could secure, Wickham stood in his infantry-red best, looking for opportunities for diversion—if not more. Noticing one of his fellow officers conversing with a couple of ladies, he strolled over. There he was introduced to a Mrs. Norris, and he applied his considerable charm to the lady.
He was making progress when he noticed a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. He looked to make sure, and his countenance paled. Wickham beheld one of the two men in the world he least wanted to meet at a ball, or anywhere else for that matter—and this one was not Darcy.
After being accosted by Countess de Pontchartrain, the three colonels had separated. Richard walked about, taking in the dancing, when he almost walked into Major Denny. Turning away abruptly, cutting the man, Richard was surprised to see George Wickham not twenty feet away.
Richard stood rooted to the spot, staring a hole through his nemesis. His eyes narrowed and his fists clenched as he observed the creature—he could never call Wickham a man, much less a gentleman—who had labored so to ruin Georgiana, chatting with someone else’s wife. He unconsciously reached for the sabre that was safely in his trunk back at the boardinghouse.
The corners of Richard’s mouth twitched as he saw Wickham’s face go white when he became aware of his presence. Richard began to move in the blackguard’s direction. He had no plan; his legs moved of their own accord. Before he could take more than a few steps, he felt a hand restrain him. To his shock, it was Major Denny.
“Release me, sir!” Richard demanded.
“With all due respect—no, sir. You must come away. Wickham is not worth it.”
“I should have known you would defend him!” Richard’s voice rose.
“Remember who you are and where you are, sir!”
Eyes blazing with rage, Richard looked about the room. Recalling he was in a packed ballroom with officers, diplomats, and ladies, he went still, his arms no longer twitching. His gaze returned to Denny. “Yes, you are correct.”
Denny looked past Richard. “He is gone now. You had better come with me.”
Richard was taken aback. “For what reason?”
The major looked back at him. “For a drink, sir—why else?”
“An excellent idea,” said Colonel Brandon from behind Richard.
The game room was determined to be the best location, and five minutes later the three men were sipping brandy.
“Well, a toast to Denny,” offered Brandon.
Richard snorted. “Defender of Wickham.”
Brandon gave him a withering look. “Actually, he is the rescuer of Richard Fitzwilliam’s career.”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you not going to challenge Wickham?” asked Denny.
Richard snorted. “No! Believe me, I have had plenty of opportunities to do that and chose not to. Your precious friend was safe from me.”
Brandon frowned. “Are you certain, Fitz? I saw your face. I had the same fears as Denny. What were you going to say to him?”
Richard took a drink. “Honestly, I do not know, but I must admit that I would not mind ridding the world of that useless piece of garbage, given half a chance. Wickham’s too much the coward to give me an excuse, more’s the pity.”
“Deuce take it, Fitz!” Brandon shouted as he slammed down his glass; by some miracle, it did not break. “The duke has made it quite clear—no duels! We need every last mother’s son out there, whether his name is Wickham or not! You would be lucky if the only thing they did was cashier you!”
Richard was incredulous. “Put me in prison for facing Wickham on a field of honor? I cannot believe it!”
“I would listen to him, sir,” said Denny quietly. “The duke is serious.”
Brandon continued his dressing-down of Richard. “We are to fight a war against the greatest threat to face England since the Armada. Get that through your thick skull. We are not here to satisfy your personal notions of honor.” He was merciless. “Save it for the French, Colonel.”
The last cut hit Richard hard, but he tried to stare down Brandon without success. The older man did not waver. Finally, Richard looked down, acknowledging defeat.
“Forgive me, Brandon, you are correct. I let that bastard rile me.”
Brandon let out a breath. “It is all right, old boy; I understand.”
Richard rolled his eyes, said, “Forgive me, but I do not think so,” and took a swig of his brandy.
Brandon simply said, “Ramsgate.”
It was amazing that neither he nor Denny were hit by Richard spitting out all of his brandy.
“How… how is it you know about that?”
Brandon explained, “Marianne is very good friends with Mrs. Darcy and Miss Darcy. My wife and your cousin compared cads some time ago.”
Richard whirled upon Denny, concerned that he had heard too much about Georgiana, but found him unsurprised at the revelation. “You, too?”
Denny looked down. “Wickham boasts when he is in his cups.”
Richard raged. “He boasted of—enough! I should have called him out years ago!”
Brandon crossed his arms. “Well, you shall have to wait a while longer, Fitz. You shall not challenge Wickham while you are both in Belgium. Do I have your word?”
Fuming, Richard relented.
Denny was thoughtful for a moment. “Colonel Brandon, I would like to discuss a private matter with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Would you please excuse us?”
Brandon gave each of them a look. “As you wish. I will see you gentlemen later.” He left the room.
The two remaining officers eyed each other warily. Richard was the first to speak.
“What do you want, Major?”
“Permission to speak frankly, sir?”
“Granted.” Richard sipped his brandy.
Denny looked at Richard. “I was hoping you could tell me what you have against me.”
“I do not like your friends, Denny.”
Denny raised an eyebrow. “All of my friends or just one in particular?”
Richard put down his glass. “Any man who could be friends with the likes of George Wickham—”
“Forgive me for interrupting,” said Denny softly, “but there might be some who say the same about you, sir.”
Richard was taken aback. “Just what do you mean by that?” He quickly swallowed his indignation. “No—go on, Major.”
Denny paused. “I have the greatest respect for Sir John—”
“Sir John? Now, just wait one minute!”
Denny stared Richard right in the eye. “Sir, can you deny what he was?”
Richard looked down, stymied. “There is all the difference in the world! While his behavior was questionable, the gentleman never harmed anyone. And besides, he has ended his dubious behavior.”
Denny shook his head. “There are those in London who would disagree with your opinion of that gentleman’s ‘harmless’ behavior—husbands, brothers, fathers.”
“I suppose you are correct,” Richard allowed.
“Yet, you stood by him. Why? Because you saw goodness in him; you saw what he had the potential to be. And the gentleman has proven that your faith in him was not unwarranted.”
Richard looked at Denny unbelievably. “And you see the same in George Wickham?”
Denny was pained. “I can hope. I changed; at one time, I was not so different from George. Might he change as well someday?”
Richard shook his head in wonderment.
Denny sighed. “Yes, sir, I might be a fool, but I do hope for my friend. In the meantime, I try to see that no one is harmed.” He smiled without mirth. “I know what George is capable of doing. I am a fool but not an idiot.”
Richard looked at the younger man for a long time. The two drank in silence for a time.
“So, you were protecting more than Wickham, eh? You are protecting me?”
Denny nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Richard frowned. “One last question—what do you know about the events in Ramsgate and Brighton?”
Denny sighed. “I first met George when he joined the ——shire militia, so I only know what he told me about Ramsgate. Subsequent events have led me to believe that George was not truthful there. As to Brighton, I knew of Miss Lydia’s partiality for George, but I thought nothing of it at the time; she being quite attentive to… many there.”
There was a flash of pain again, and Richard could only wonder as to the cause.
Denny continued, “George showed no particular interest in Miss Lydia, and he did not acquaint me with his plans, so I was as surprised as anyone when they departed.” He looked at Richard. “I have the greatest respect for Mrs. Wickham and wish both of them long life and happiness.”
Richard thought the man protested too much. He suspected that Denny’s acquaintance with Wickham—and Mrs. Wickham—was far more complicated than the major let on. Deciding not to push the issue, Richard gave Denny a lopsided grin.
“Well, I guess I can shake the hand of the man who kept me out of the guardhouse.” He offered Denny his hand; he took it readily. “Every last mother’s son, is that it, Major?”
Denny smiled. “Of course, Colonel—why else?”
Richard laughed. “Come on, Denny, let us rejoin the party.”
“Will you not stay to finish your brandy?”
Richard laughed. “That swill? No, that will kill you, my man. Now, let us see if we can find some really good claret, eh?”
Wickham finally poked his head out of the kitchen, where he had fled after the near-encounter with Colonel Fitzwilliam. Wickham disliked Darcy, but he truly feared Fitzwilliam. Both were better than he was with the sword, and Fitzwilliam was more likely to use it.
Wickham still managed to enjoy the ball; he ate his fill in the kitchen and dallied a bit with a comely housemaid. His mission now was to “liberate” a bottle of cognac. Looking around, he saw people preparing for the final dances of the evening—and no Fitzwilliam in sight. Luck was with him, he was sure, and he strode directly towards the library, where he was certain the liquid treasure was stored. He reached for the doorknob.
“Boo!”
Instantly, Wickham’s mind flashed back to an incident when he was but a mere lad. He had challenged Darcy to enter a dark cave near Pemberley, claiming that there was pirate treasure within. Darcy did so, and a few minutes later, he cried out for Wickham to come and see the treasure. Wickham dashed in—to find near total darkness. Feeling his way around, he was startled by the selfsame noise—uttered by…
“Good evening, George,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Looking for something?”
Wickham gasped and leapt back. Fitzwilliam did not look as if he possessed a sword, but there was no reason to take chances.
Fitzwilliam grinned. “I have been looking forward to this.”
“You… you would not dare… here?” stuttered the captain, back against the wall.
Fitzwilliam approached him, hands behind his back, Wickham’s eyes growing larger with every step he took. When he was mere inches from his trembling quarry, he leaned in and said, “Go.”
Wickham was not one to miss an opportunity when it was presented. Without a sound, he squeezed past his tormentor and ran unsteadily down the hall. Not completely trusting his old childhood companion, he kept looking over his shoulder for the expected pursuit. A mistake—for the next moment he collided with someone.
“Watch it, you damn fool!” snarled Wickham as he picked himself off the floor.
“Wickham?” cried his commanding colonel as he sat upright on the floor. “What are you doing here?”
“Sir!” Wickham was able to cry before his mouth went completely dry. “I… I… excuse me, sir. I regret—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I… I was at liberty. Hewitt has the post tonight. Oh, let me help you, sir.”
After being assisted to his feet, the colonel rudely showed no sense of appreciation. “An oversight, I assure you! Get back to camp, Wickham—now!”
Wickham blinked twice and ran out the door.
Fitzwilliam leaned against the door of the library and laughed his head off.