Consequences (11 page)

“Then we had best be about our business, Cuz,” offered Fitzwilliam. “Whatever that business is, of course.”

“I told you; it involves the sister of our mutual friend, Miss Bennet,” replied Darcy.

“So you said. And I still say, what business is it of ours? If it were Miss Bennet, I would certainly plan a rescue, but I know nothing of her sister.”

“You do remember that it was our friend Wickham who is responsible for the girl’s present plight,” said Darcy grimly.

Fitzwilliam mulled over this information as they knocked on the door, which was opened by a burly man whose gentleman’s attire could not disguise his resemblance to the loungers outside the house. He gave them a quick and experienced perusal before bowing them into the establishment, and Darcy heard Fitzwilliam ask about a new girl named “Lydia,” though he did not hear the response, if any.

By prearrangement, Fitzwilliam conducted the negotiations with the proprietress, Mrs. Grant, a hardened woman of middle years. Darcy played the part of an idle fop, feigning disinterest as he glanced about the main room. The walls, paintings, and furniture were supposed to look ornate, Darcy surmised, but nothing could hide the execrable taste of whoever furnished the room. If he had not known they were inside a brothel, that still would have been his first guess—without even looking at the half-dozen young women who lounged about the room in boudoir attire, displaying more female skin than Darcy had ever seen in his life. Though he tried to control his sense of mortification, he believed he must be flushing all the way to the tips of his ears, and the faint tittering from the females unfortunately confirmed his conjecture.

Fitzwilliam at least gave the appearance of being somewhat more inured to the scenery, and he scanned the room with a practiced eye, at least to Darcy’s estimation. When they planned this visit, Fitzwilliam told his cousin he had a passing familiarity with these nefarious establishments, owing to having been obliged to enter them in search of missing troopers when he was a young officer. For the purpose of today’s undertaking, which was to secure an interview with Lydia Bennet, Fitzwilliam advised against advertising the truth. Knowledge that one of her girls was being sought and might even be removed from her establishment would likely cause the proprietress to refuse the interview or even move the girl to another location. Instead, Fitzwilliam concocted a story, which mentioned neither Lydia Bennet nor an interview with her, in favour of a straight business proposition for a client with a preference for young ladies of tender years and minimal experience. Accordingly, Fitzwilliam was negotiating on behalf of his friend for an hour or more of the young lady’s time. If Darcy chose to spend his time talking rather than fornicating, that was his business. If Lydia were agreeable to returning home, then she would certainly keep the secret, and if she did not want to return, then maintaining secrecy would be of no significance.

As Darcy listened to Fitzwilliam, he was amazed at the change in manner of his cousin. Gone were the fashionable pleasantries that usually fell so easily from his lips. Instead, his speech coarsened to match the older woman’s, and their laughter was harsh as they shared the bawdiest of jests and gibes. It seemed to take them some time to even start their bargaining. Mrs. Grant wanted to match Darcy with one of her older and more experienced girls, but Fitzwilliam was adamant. He leaned close to Mrs. Grant, and in a “whisper” clearly audible to Darcy, told her his companion often had a certain difficulty . . . performing . . . unless the young lady met certain requirements . . . and his friend’s mind was fixed on the young girl recently added to the house about whom they were informed. Though the transaction took longer than Darcy expected, the negotiations were straightforward, and their ruse evidently generated no suspicion.

Soon, all was settled. Fitzwilliam held out his hand, and Darcy handed him his purse, out of which Fitzwilliam paid over the agreed sum and then put Darcy’s purse in his own pocket, all without any untoward jingling that might indicate fortune enough to warrant a robbery rather than the agreed transaction.

“Lucy!” called Mrs. Grant, and one of the women rose from the couch, disclosing a considerable swath of leg through her sheer wrapper, and walked across the room with a swaying motion that Darcy attempted to ignore. He was less successful at ignoring the way her barely restrained breasts moved under her filmy clothing. Swallowing to lubricate his suddenly dry throat, he cursed himself for his inability to control his unconscious urges.

“Take the gentleman to Lydia’s room,” Mrs. Grant ordered, and Lucy smiled at Darcy, motioning him to follow her. She told him that Lydia’s room was on the top floor of the three-story house.

“Lydia is still new, dearie,” confided Lucy over her shoulder. “Mrs. Grant is working her in slowly, so she only gets select customers.”

The look on Lucy’s face indicated that she considered Darcy a “select” customer and would gladly entertain him instead of Lydia. Darcy’s skin crawled at the thought, but he again cursed his faithless body and the arousal he was feeling as he followed Lucy’s swaying hips up the stairs.

“Here you are, love,” Lucy told Darcy with another lusty smile as she knocked on a door and then opened it. “Lydia, Mrs. Grant has sent up a special gentleman for you. Be sure to show him a very good time.”

As Lucy turned to leave the room, she managed to rub her breasts against his arm as she turned, and the leer on her face allowed only one interpretation. Suppressing a shudder and giving the best smile he could manage, Darcy entered the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

Even if she had not been the only other occupant of the room, Darcy would have instantly known Lydia Bennet. And yet, at the same time, he did
not
know her, for he had never seen her in such an aspect. She was lying back against the pillows in the bed, which was rumpled and none too clean. Her cheeks were rouged pink and her lips tinted a bright red, and the low-cut garment she wore was a very short nightgown that ended at mid-thigh. Horrified, Darcy realized too late that her position allowed him full view of her offerings.

Although Darcy recognized Lydia, it was obvious Lydia had not recognized him, even after fully perusing his person when he entered the room.

“Ooh, ain’t you a fancy one?” she crooned in a voice she obviously believed enticing. “Come to Lydia, honey—let me take some of those fancy clothes off so you can lay down here beside me.”

Darcy shook his head to clear it, and said, more sharply than he intended, “Miss Lydia! Do you not remember me?”

Lydia glanced up in surprise, and then her eyes opened wide in shock. She pointed her finger at him as she whispered, “I remember you . . . Bingley’s friend, that’s right! Bingley’s friend, Mr. Darcy!”

Darcy made a slight bow and then pulled the single chair in the room over to a position where he could avert his eyes from her vulgar display. “That is correct, Miss Lydia. I have been searching for you . . .”

Lydia instantly jumped to the wrong conclusion and squealed, “Me? You have been searching for me?” Darcy saw the sudden calculation in her eyes as she arched herself upward, again believing it was an alluring movement. “Well, now that you have found me, Mr. Darcy,” she simpered, “come sit down beside me.”

Darcy shook his head. “You mistake my purpose, Miss Lydia. I have been searching for you for your family. They are worried sick about you and want you to come home. I am prepared to take you back to Longbourn this very day.”

“Home!” Lydia said in disgust. “La! I do not want to go home! The country is nothing to town. And Papa would lock me up and Mama would wail. And Jane and Lizzy would lecture me like they always do. Fah! I never want to go home to Hertfordshire!”

Darcy was startled by such a confession by this young girl and leaned forward intensely. Did she not realize that what she had done was not only wrong but had placed her whole family in a most desperate position?

“Miss Lydia,” Darcy said firmly, “You are only sixteen years old. Your place is with your family, not here in this house where flesh is bought and sold. Think on what your continued absence has done to your family. Your actions are not only hurting you, for this is no place for a young girl like yourself, but they are also placing your family and especially your sisters in a most damaging position. Come with me today, and I will return you to your friends at home.”

“Fah!” Lydia repeated. “That is how little I care for my bloody, so-called friends! I have made new friends, better friends! They like me, and they do not lecture me, and they are showing me how to make real money! My own money! And my sisters? Why should I care a farthing about them? When did they ever care about me? They were all against me, all of them, except for maybe Kitty! And she was against me sometimes, too!”

Darcy was appalled at her casual acceptance of her fallen state and of the manner in which she had destroyed the respectability of her family.
Could she really not understand?
he thought.
She must! She could not be so lost to all decency!

“Miss Lydia,” Darcy said, deciding to change tack and come back to it by another path. “What happened to George Wickham? You left Brighton with him to marry, but it is clear that such a marriage never took place. Did he simply abandon you?”

The expression that came over Lydia’s face at the mention of Wickham’s name was so frightful that Darcy immediately realized she was, indeed, totally lost. Her youthful, pretty face twisted into an ugly mask of venom and vengeful hatred, an expression so extreme and unnerving that Darcy moved backward away from the small girl as she swung her feet out of bed and reached under her pillow. Her small fist emerged with a short knife in it, and Darcy recoiled, thinking she intended to use it on him.

Lydia laughed harshly. “Oh, you need not fear, Mr. High-and-Mighty Darcy. This is not for you! Oh, no,” she said, her voice dropping down to a croon again. “This little darling blade is just the thing for George. I know I will see him again, some time or some place, and then he will be sorry he left me in that inn! My friends have been showing me how to use it, you know. They told me how to start down here,” she gestured with her free hand towards Darcy’s groin, “and then move up to here,” and she moved her hand from Darcy’s groin up his belly to his sternum. “And then when George is trying to pull his insides back into himself, why, then I shall start to have some real fun—yes, I will.”

Darcy carefully stood up, moving slowly so as not to startle her. The look on her face as she explained how she planned to avenge herself on George Wickham held little of sanity in it. He knew now his quest had come to nothing. Even if she were agreeable, he could not take such a creature back to live among genteel people. Lydia Bennet had crossed a line somewhere in the past months, a line demarcating the bounds of civilized behaviour and of sanity itself, and she was now completely lost to her family and to polite society.

It also answered the question he had not dared ask himself, which was how could a gently born, young lady like Lydia Bennet have allowed herself to be manoeuvred or trapped into a situation such as this?

The answer, of course
, he thought in shock,
is that there is no rational reason since this girl is no longer rational. Somewhere, somehow, after being abandoned into a jungle of human predators, the gentleman’s daughter, dazed and confused, accustomed to a measure of leisure and luxury, of being attended by servants and treated with respect and cordiality, disappeared and was replaced by this
. . .
this guttersnipe.

He also knew that whatever slim hope he had cherished of being able to sometime, somehow redeem himself with Elizabeth had now vanished. The very worst had indeed come to pass, and he could not consider the damage to Georgiana that would be done if he married the sister of a common London prostitute.

As Lydia still crooned to her knife, turning it in her hands and enjoying the way the light reflected off what appeared to be a razor sharp edge, Darcy was shocked still further as he saw a small insect crawl out from her hair and down her neck. Suddenly, it jumped off her neck, and Darcy sprang back with a cry.

A flea!
he thought in disgust.
The accursed wench has fleas!

Lydia realized what had startled Darcy, and her eyes flashed with deviltry. “Why, it is just a little flea, Mr. Darcy!” she said, her painted lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Why so scared? The little buggers do not really eat much! Besides, here is how you take care of them!”

Putting her knife back on the bed, she felt through the hair at the base of her neck and gave a short cry of triumph. “Here is one, Mr. Darcy! Fleas do not care whether they make a meal of the poor or the rich—they are very even-handed that way. And this is how to deal with them . . .”

Her fingers twisted as she expertly transferred the flea from between her fingers to between her fingernails. She quickly pinched her fingernails together, and Darcy heard the sound made as the flea was crushed between her nails.

“You just crack them, Mr. Darcy,” Lydia said with a pleased smile. “Just crack them.”

Lydia was still looking on the crushed flea with satisfaction when Darcy let himself out the door.

***

“And perhaps now you can tell me what this was all about? How does our old friend Wickham fit into all this?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam as the coach rumbled along more familiar streets on the way back to Darcy’s house.