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Along the journey to London, Darcy had ample time to think over his plan to find Wickham and Lydia Bennet. Certain that Wickham had kept up his relations with Mrs Younge, Georgiana's former companion, Darcy resolved upon contacting her.
The moment he had stepped into his London townhouse, he headed for his study. Being a man who preferred a neat, ordered method of keeping records, it was not long before he had located the information on Mrs Younge when she had been in his service.
And so it was, that evening found Darcy in a relatively bad part of London.
The streets were crowded, dirty and noisy. Children ran along the road, heedless of the carts and horses. Here and there a drunk lounged in the gutter, women drying clothes at the window shouted across the street regardless of who heard them.
Darcy did his best to ignore the sounds as well as the stares people aimed at him, obviously unused to seeing a gentlemen in their midst. He looked at each house, searching for the one rented by Mrs Younge.
Finally he came across it. He rapped on the door. The door opened slightly and a man opened it. Darcy could not see much of his face, but the man's eyes had the look of one who was hunted. Not recognising Darcy as anyone he knew, the man opened the door wider.
"Can I 'elp you sir?" he asked.
"Yes. Is there a Mrs Younge here?"
"Mrs Younge? You'd be talking 'bout the lady who rented this place afore me." He made as if to shut the door. Darcy held it open.
"Do you know where she has moved to?"
The man looked Darcy up and down.
"I might . . . "
Darcy reached into his pocket and took out a few coins of relatively high denomination.
The money was taken. The man glanced at it and shoved somewhere into the recesses of is grimy apron.
"She's moved to Edward Street. Left this place 'cause some of the dealings she held 'ere were less than legal." He scowled. "The runners keep coming here now and again."
But you have not informed them about her. No doubt you also have shady dealings to hide.
"And where is Edward Street?" asked Darcy coldly.
The man grumbled but said, "It's somewhere over thataway."
Darcy held up two more coins.
The man closed the door behind him and walked down the street, pointing directions.
"Alright sir. Walk down to the end of the street and turn right. Then across the square and turn left. Then go to the third street on the left, under the arch, and it's either the fourth or fifth road on your right."
Darcy repeated this to the man, making sure he remembered it all.
"You're good. Get a drink for the gentlemen!" he yelled to a someone.
A boy appeared with a cup of water. Darcy drank it gratefully and gave the boy a shilling.
"I thank you sir for the information," said he to the anonymous man.
"Always ready to help you gentle-folk," replied he. He grinned toothily. "What you be wanting Mrs Younge for anyway, eh?"
"I need to settle an account," replied Darcy, his face hard.
Determined, he set off again, leaving the unknown member of the populace standing, wondering.
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He walked along, repeating the directions over and over again under his breath. He followed them to the letter, pushig past people as he went along.
Night had fallen by this time, and he was both thankful and tense because of it. Thankful because the darkness made it harder for him to see the beggars, the miserable and those who were better left unknown. Tense, because the darkness made it easier for some desperate man to try his luck with Darcy.
If anyone is foolhardy enough to try and attack, they will soon regret it . . . thought Darcy darkly. But some part of him welcomed such an exchange of blows. The last few days had left him eager to vent his frustration, anger and despair on soome unfortunate wretch. As it was, the only evidence of his dark mood was one broken glass at his townhouse.
But no one tried to stop him. He walked carefully, trying his best to avoid the filth that covered the roads. Painfully aware that his fine clothes made him stand out amongst the local populace, he kept his head down, only looking up to check for the next road.
He turned left. The roads were crowded at this time of night. He passed a disruptable looking inn. Bawdy singing floated out the window. Grubby, hungry children scrounged the street for anything of value or to be eaten, while beggars whined and held out their hands.
A man pushed past him, and hurried on his way. Disorientated, Darcy looked around. Seeing a beggar-child standing in the shadows, he approached her. At first, the girl cringed at the sight of him, but he spoke kindly.
"Hello little one," he said softly.
The girl looked up at him with hungry eyes.
And how many others like her are there? Darcy thought.
"Do you know where Mrs Younge lives?"
The girl nodded.
"Can you tell me?"
"Yessir. She's in a house, down this road - " she pointed behind her, " - and Edward Street on your right. It's the big house, one the corner."
"Thank you child."
He pressed some coins into her dirty hand. She stared at them for a moment, then ran off.
Darcy continued down the dark road.
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He found the house. Compared to the ones close by, it was large and clean.
Darcy rapped smartly on the door with his cane. It was opened to reveal two women. One he assumed was the housekeeper. The other was Mrs Younge.
His expression was hard and cold. Almost exactly the way she must have seen him last, when he dismissed her from his service.
She tried to shut the door, but Darcy forced it open. He entered the house, bending slightly to account for his hat.
"Mrs Younge . . . "
The lady in question looked at him as if seeing her judge for all her past actions. The door was closed behind him.
"What do you want with me?" she asked, fear tinging her voice. Darcy knew that she knew that he had the power to have any unpleasant retribution he wished.
Darcy did not answer immedietly. He took off his hat and gloves and proceeded into the next room. It was simple yet orderly furnished. He motioned for Mrs Younge to be seated. When she had done so, he glanced at the other woman. She understood his meaning and left the room, closing the only door in or out of it behind her.
"Where is he." he said without any preamble.
"Who?"
"Mrs Younge, you know exactly the man I am speaking of. Where is he?"
"I do not know who you are speaking of," said the woman, not looking at him.
Darcy did not answer to this immedietly. He sighed and spoke.
"I know perfectly well that you have kept your relations with Wickham since last year," he said as unemotionally as possible. "I know that you know his current whereabouts. For the third time, Mrs Younge, where is he?"
"How should I know where Mr Wickham is? I have not spoken or seen him since last year," said she stubbornly. She still did not look at him.
Her body language was the same that she had displayed when he spoke to her at Ramsgate. I am sure she knows where he is.
"Madam," said he coldly. "You know who I am. I know that you are aware of Wickham's location. Is he here in this house? Or somewhere else?"
"As I have said before, sir, I do not know where Wickham is!"
"I must know, madam. You will tell me."
"I will not."
There was a cloock on the wall. Darcy glanced at it. It was very late. Though his mind was still active, his body was exhausted. He had not rested ever since he had left Pemberley. How could he rest, knowing Elizabeth was in such trouble?
"The night is too far advanced for us to talk in any depth, Mrs Younge," said Darcy, opening the door. "But believe me, I will return tomorrow." He plut on his gloves and hat, then said, "And if you are thinking of being absent from the house tommorrow, I would would hate to have to alert the Bow Street Runners of this place."
At this threat, Mrs Younge blanched and drew a quick breath.
"You cannot prove anything!"
Darcy looked down at her for a long moment.
"You know me, Mrs Younge. You know that I am sincere. I will know Wickham's location sooner or later."
He left her and the disruptable part of London for his home.
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He lay awake for most of the night. Elizabeth's tear-streaked face haunted him. In his mind, he saw himself in the Lambton Inn, putting his arms around her and whispering into her ear, "It will be right, it will be right. I will help you. I love you."
Then she would look up at him, saying that she trusted him, that she believed in him to set the wrong right.
But it was all a dream. Elizabeth was far away, trying to comfort her family when she herself was in need of comfort. Her family's good name, which had been stained with Lydia's folly, which could have been prevented had Darcy chose to tell the world of his dealings with Wickham.
So it was that the present circumstances found Darcy in London, trying to find the man he hated above all others, a girl who he could not respect, going so far as to threaten and most probably, bribe the woman who had orchestrated Georgiana's near-downfall - all because of his love for a woman who did not love him.
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True to his word, Darcy returned to Mrs Younge. This day found her no more willing than the night before. She refused to tell him of Wickham's whereabouts, though with every passing minute, Darcy became even more sure that she knew where he was.
He was certain she was not hiding Wickham herself. Miss Lydia, he was sure, was not the type of girl who would submit herself to any prolonged inaction. He had not heard or seen any trace of Lydia in the house.
He left the house that day no more successful than last night.
For a third time, he visited Mrs Younge. He had cajoled her, threatened her but still she refused to tell him, though her resolution he knew was beginning to waver. She had finally admitted to knowing that Wickham was in London and hinted that she did indeed know where he resided and that he had a girl with him, but she would not reveal his location.
On this visit, he had taken a modest amount of money with him. If threats would not loosen her tongue, he was sure that an offer of thirty guineas would.
"You are wasting your time, sir, coming here again. I will not tell you where Wickham is," said Mrs Younge upon his first entering the room. But Darcy saw that the defiance in her eyes had diminished to be replaced with fear. Darcy made no answer. He paced the room and looked out the window at the figures passing by.
"How does your present situation go, Mrs Younge?" he asked conversationally. "Letting lodgings, I believe, is not so profitable as being a paid companion or governess."
"I beg your pardon? What do you mean?"
"But I suppose that your pay while in my employ was inflated. If I remember correctly, a few objects from my house disappeared last year, never to be found."
"I know nothing of that!"
"The magistrate might not believe you."
Mrs Younge paled.
"You have no proof."
Tired of all this beating about the bush, Darcy turned to her and placed the thrity guineas on the table between him and Mrs Younge. She stared st the money hungrily.
Darcy spoke softly. "Mrs Younge, I am willing to forget our past dealings, and will say no word of them to anyone. But I willknow where Wickham is. I am willing to give you this sum - if you will tell me."
For a long moment, Mrs Younge stared at the substantial amount of money. Finally, she spoke.
"He and the girl came to my house first. I would have taken them in but had no room for them. They have rented a small room not far from here, in Watling Street."
Finding some paper and ink, Darcy put these in front of Mrs Younge.
"Write down the address and directions from here."
She complied. Darcy read it and put it safely in his pocket. As he did so, he noticed a small smile of triumph. He paused and said darkly,
"If you have played me false, madam, I can assure you that tommorrow will see you in a magistrate's court."
Mrs Younge violently snatched another piece of paper and wrote down another address and directions. She slammed the writing implement down and glared at Darcy.
"I thank you madam, for your generosity," said Darcy, dripping sarcasm. He took the paper and placed the false one on the table next to the money.
He left the house, never to return again.