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Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire, was very far from either Pemberley or Derbyshire. At the present moment, he was exiting a part of London that he hardly would have acknowledged to exist only a month before. And yet he had lately become a regular upon its streets.
His thoughts were fastened on a low, squalid boarding house some three or four streets behind him, upon the smirking man and the silly girl who refused to listen to reason.
(Some of his thoughts lingered upon a certain young lady, not the silly girl, in a country village known as Meryton … but he would not acknowledge that to himself, any more than he would once have acknowledged the streets he now walked.)
The rain started to come down harder, and he pulled his greatcoat around his shoulders, peering from beneath his hat to find the pub that had become a regular way-station between George Wickham’s abode and his own lodgings. Ah, there. He quickened his pace.
The Leverage Arms had nothing to recommend it on outward appearance. Just another corner public house, with the same beer and ale and solid, hearty food as any other pub. Yet there was a shine about it. The beer was a touch better quality, the food very good indeed. While it had been crowded both of the nights, the atmosphere had never been anything but cheerful and congenial. Indeed, he’d seen two would-be combatants settle down with a mere look from the barmaid.
He ducked into the doorway. It was crowded tonight, people taking shelter from the rain, so unseasonable for August.
He caught the eye of the barkeeper and ordered a pint and a steak-and-kidney pie. It had been the same one every night, a lean young man of African extraction.
“Right you are,” the man said. He leaned over. “The private parlor is available, sir, if you like a bit of quiet.”
“I would,” Mr. Darcy said, pleased. “Thank you.”
Like many old pubs, this one was a rabbit warren of smallish, dark-paneled rooms, and it was quite possible to have a private meal if you so chose. The room the barman had spoken of was smaller than most, but a merry fire crackled.
His food arrived and he was just starting to tuck in when the door opened. “I beg your pardon,” he said coldly. “This is a private parlor.”
The man looked around. “So it is, so it is,” he said in a strong Irish accent. “Fine place to have a private conversation.” He settled himself into the chair across the table from him.
“Sir,” Mr. Darcy said at his very coldest. “I -”
The door creaked again, and a hard-faced man stepped in, leaning up against the wall next to the door. He nodded but said nothing.
Mr. Darcy shifted his weight, wondering if he was about to be robbed. And he had thought this a decent establishment.
"The name’s Ford,“ the first man said, "Nathan Ford.” He took a deep draught of the drink he held.
The cheek of the man, introducing himself in this forward manner.
The door creaked again, and the barmaid stepped inside, followed immediately by the barkeep. Ah, excellent. “Sir, these men have intruded upon my private room. I must demand you remove them.”
But the barkeep merely smiled and leaned up against the wall, next to the barmaid and the hard-faced man.
One more creak of the door, and Mr. Darcy was ready to call for the constables. But the person who stepped through this time was clearly a lady of gentle birth, perhaps even noble. Instinctively, he rose to his feet.
"Do forgive us for intruding upon your solitude in such a forward manner,” she said, gliding forward and settling herself into the last chair. “We desired private speech with you, Mr. Darcy.”
Though her gentility was obvious, he had no notion who this person was. Although it now seemed clear some of these strange people were her servants.
“Forgive me, ma'am,” he said, taking his seat once more, “but I don’t seem to recall our introduction.”
“No,” she said without further explanation. “You may call me Mrs. Devereaux.”
Mr. Darcy blinked. Devereaux was the family name of the Viscount Hereford.
“Allow me to present Mr. Nathan Ford, late of the clergy, Mr. Alec Hardison, the proprietor of this establishment, Mr. Eliot Spencer, late of his Majesty’s army. And Parker.”
She was introducing her servants to his acquaintance? His head spun, trying to make sense of the situation. He grasped onto the only thing he knew for certain. “I am sorry to say, ma'am, that I find your man Ford impertinent in the extreme.”
“So he is,” she agreed, with remarkable placidity. “I beg you will forgive him. Not because he deserves it, mind you, but rather if we embark on the topic of Mr. Ford’s manifold flaws, we should be here all night.”
“Here now,” Ford murmured, and took another drink.
As if he had not spoken, Mrs. Devereaux continued, “And we have other topics at hand.”
“Such as?”
“Our sources tell us you are prevailing on a certain Mr. George Wickham to marry the young lady in his … care.”
He regarded her, stone faced.
She raised her brows. “Sir, you must know that in matters of reputation, time is of the essence. The longer this present state of affairs continues, the more likely that the lady - and her entire family - will be irrevocably ruined in polite society. Yet Mr. Wickham remains immovably obdurate, does he not?”
“I beg your pardon, ma'am, but it is a private matter."
As if he hadn't spoken, she continued, “In a word, sir, you require leverage.” She smiled beatifically. “Fortunately for you, we are in the business of providing - leverage.”
A little over a fortnight later, Darcy stood in a church and watched Mr. George Wickham marry Miss Lydia Bennet, and felt relief ease through his body. When they were pronounced man and wife, and Lydia had giggled her way back down the aisle on the arm of her reluctant groom, he let out his breath. It was done.
For better or for worse, indeed, they were married, and the scandal would begin to blow itself out with the influence of a wedding ring.
He began to follow them out, then saw the group of five unusual persons who had been of so much assistance in effecting the marriage. He stopped at the end of the pew. “I must thank you for your assistance,” he said. “I make no doubt I should still be arguing with Wickham were it not for you.”
“It was a small thing, I assure you,” Mrs. Devereaux said, rising to her feet.
As he offered his arm to escort her from the church, Mr. Darcy had his doubts about that. After their first meeting, he had taken their advice and stayed away from the squalid boarding-house for two days. On the third day, George Wickham had all but thrown himself into Mr. Darcy’s arms and begged to accept his offer.
“Perhaps I was too hasty, old boy,” he’d said carelessly. “Be nice to have these little matters cleared up, and I’m sure I shan’t mind being married. Might be a laugh.”
This had been such a marked departure from his previous position that Mr. Darcy had very nearly tested him for fever. But he had put matters in motion immediately.
Now, curiosity overcame him. “Do you mind if I ask - I beg your pardon. But how did you effect such a change in Mr. Wickham’s mind?”
“Easy enough,” Mr. Ford said. “He owes - owed, I should say - a great deal of money to a Mr. Moreau."
Mr. Spencer smiled wolfishly and said in his broad Yorkshire accent, "All it took was a little reminder that such a man would not forget such a debt.”
Mrs. Devereaux nodded. “The temptation of immediately extricating himself from that tangle overrode his plans of marrying rich down the road. You see that nothing could be easier.”
“Mr. Damian Moreau?” Mr. Darcy recognized the name, for it had been prominent on the list of the debts of honor Mr. Wickham owed, listed first, boldly, and underlined. Clearly a very pressing debt indeed. Or a very pressing man.
“The very one,” Mr. Ford said. “By the bye, Mr. Darcy, might you have Mr. Moreau’s direction?”
“Certainly.” He took out his commonplace book and retrieved the sheet of foolscap, handing it over.
“We’ve been tracking him for our own purposes for some time now. Mr. Wickham was something of a breadcrumb.” He checked the list and his brows contracted.
“It seemed to be a office of business,” Mr. Darcy said. “I’m not sure Mr. Moreau was on the premises.”
“It’s a further breadcrumb,” Mrs. Devereaux said. “We thank you.”
“Is this why you offered assistance?”
“It certainly helped. But Mr. Darcy, you must indulge my curiosity in turn. This was a great deal of effort on your part for a man that you appear to despise.”
“He is known to be connected to my family. It was a matter of honor.”
“Mmm.” Her smile looked more knowing than he was comfortable with. “Are you sure it wasn’t anything to do with the lady in question? Perhaps her family?”
He looked down at his gloves, readjusting their fit. “No, madam, I am unconnected to the Bennets in any way.”
“Well, connection or no, I am sure they will be most grateful for your service. Particularly her sisters, for their chances at respectable marriages would have very much jeopardized by their sister’s heedless action.”
“I do not mean that they should know anything about it,” he said firmly. “Mrs. Devereaux, Mr. Ford, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Hardison, Miss Parker - ”
“Just Parker,” the girl muttered, as she had every time he addressed her in the short time they had been acquainted.
“I am in your debt. If I can render any small assistance in any affair of yours, please do not hesitate to call upon me.” He gave them his card.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Devereaux said, tucking it away in her reticule. “But you can help us most by passing our name along to anyone who might need it.”
“I would be pleased to, but I am yet uncertain of the exact nature of your business.”
She slipped her arm from his and turned to face him. “It cannot have escaped your notice, Mr. Darcy, that this country is full of people with no defense against the rich and powerful, if they should choose to impose upon them.”
Mr. Darcy shifted uneasily. “I have always considered it the duty of wealth and power to look after those less fortunate.”
“Very high-minded. I will say, our sources tell us that you live up to that ideal yourself. And yet, does everyone?”
He could not refute this. “So you consider yourselves the defenders of the downtrodden?”
“Let us say we have a particular set of skills among us that allow us to sometimes, in some ways, make things right. So if you ever hear of someone who has been shamefully imposed upon, and has no hope of justice from friends or the law, do send them our way.” She put up her parasol and took Mr. Ford’s arm. “Good day, Mr. Darcy.”
FINIS