George Wickham didn’t come to Ramsgate with the intention of seducing Georgiana Darcy. Fate, however, had other plans, and when the Darcy carriage rolled past him on the street, he followed it all the way to their lodgings like a tom cat returning home to be fed.

The following day, he went to scout the property, trying to see Darcy’s movements. Maybe if I catch him alone, he’ll cough up some coin to make me disappear. His fingers picked at the lining of his coat pocket, the hollow empty of food or currency. That’s how Darcy solved his problems, right? Throw enough money at it and it all goes away.

Wickham ground his teeth together at the idea of running into his old schoolmate. His fist clenched in his waistcoat pocket, curled around nothing but his own flesh, the last of his money gone in a card game the night before. He took a breath, relaxed his muscles, and let his usual grin settle into place. Confident in his appearance, he strolled up the drive to the fashionable manor. Bitterness filled him as he gazed at the extravagant architecture of the building. Damn, Darcy never could be subtle.

Darcy was always the favorite. The school masters praised him, the servants adored him; the bourgeoisie envied him, and every single one of them prostrated themselves, in hopes of earning his favor. He never goes anywhere without showing off his wealth, whether that be the fine horse he rode, the extravagant lodging he stays in, or the high quality cloth that makes up his wardrobe. Darcy had everything handed to him from the day he was born just because he of his family name. Others may disagree with me, but I know I’m right about Darcy. He’s a selfish prig who couldn’t bother to share his wealth with me, all because old man Darcy liked me best! It’s time I earn back what’s rightfully mine.

As he lifted his cane to rap on the door, it opened to reveal a woman. She wore a plain brown dress, a white mobcap on her head, and a dark armband circled her upper arm, signifying her status as a widow. Wickham sucked in a breath when he gazed at her face.

“Wilhelmina? What are you doing here?”

The lady pushed past him and did not even bother to turn around when she muttered, “The Ram’s Head.”

 Wickham followed suit and vacated the property without further investigation. His past experience with Wilhelmina told him she had a scheme, and he was always up for easy coin. Darcy could wait.

As he strolled down the cobblestone street, he thought about the first time he met Wilhemina Younge. It’s been six years since I first met her up in Younge’s apartment. We just finished cleaning out a bunch of soldiers in a shell game and wanted a place to count our winnings. Younge entered the room first with me following closely behind him. There among the dingy gray furniture sat Wilhelmina, sewing on some cloth. I sat down near her and attempted to pet her arm as a romantic invitation. I’ll never forget the stab of pain from her sewing needle entering my thumb. From then on, I knew Wilhelmina was Younge’s woman and his alone. I respect her loyalty and never approached her again in that way.

The sound of shouting broke Wickham from his reminiscing. He was close to the wharf where men offloaded cargo from docked ships. Just up ahead was a hanging sign with mounted ram horns, a clear advertisement for the establishment.

He was already familiar with The Ram’s Head. It was a seedy tavern where the visiting sailors would congregate on their shore days. Not a place he envisioned meeting Wilhelmina. For all her criminality, she thought herself above the common dredges and always forced her husband, Younge, to meet him in more reputable locations. Wickham entered the pub and spotted the lady at a corner table, hidden from the rest of the patrons. The room was filled with smoke. Plumes swirled from the tips of cheap cigars and pipes. A dancing girl swirled her skirt on stage, accompanied by a violinist playing a raucous tune. It truly wasn’t her usual spot for a tête-à-tête.

Wickham slid into the chair across from her and tipped his head at the barmaid when she set down a tankard of ale in front of him.

“Not the finest establishment I’ve seen you in.” His lips curled.

She cuts right to the chase. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, that’s not a lovely way to greet an old friend, Wilhelmina.”

“How dare you address me so informally. It’s Mrs. Younge to you.”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget your dear husband?” he sneered. “Where is Younge? He usually always skulks close to you.”

“Younge’s dead.”

The tankard he’d brought to his lips clattered to the table.

“What? What do you mean he’s dead! Can’t be over five months when I last saw the two of you gallivanting around London, running that ‘school’ of yours.”

The Younge’s had started a school for young boys and girls, grooming them to be perfect little servants for grand lords and ladies. What nobody knew was that the pair had the brats out playing pickpocket among the gentry in the wealthier neighborhoods. They chose the most innocent looking of the lot and cleaned up their appearance to fit the standard house servant. After all, who would suspect a young maid or manservant running an errand for their master as a thief?

Her voice broke him out of his reverie. “Younge died two months back. He caught winter fever and never recovered. I had to give up the school because it was too much to run on my own.”

“My condolences. Younge was a good man of his trade, and he always took care of his own.” Wickham swished his drink before tipping it back. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat.

“But that still doesn’t explain why you’re carousing with the Darcys.” He leveled a look at her, waiting to hear her answer.

Mrs. Younge laid her hands flat on the table, leaning closer in a conspiratorial way.

“It’s one of the best jobs I’ve had yet. Darcy gives his sister several hundred pounds of pin money every month. It’s easy to skim a little off the top before portioning it out to her. What’s a young girl like her know what to do with that many funds? I’ll take much better care of investing it.”

“Mrs. Younge, see you haven’t lost your clever ways. I could use some pin money myself.” Wickham caressed her wrist while gazing into her eyes. With Younge gone, perhaps she’ll be in want of gentlemanly company.

She yanked her arm back and hid it under the table. “None of your tricks. I know your game all too well, Wickham, but there is someone who doesn’t. Miss Georgiana Darcy.”

At her name, Wickham bolted upright, scraping his chair along the wooden floor.

“Georgie? You want me to seduce a child?! What…”

“Sh! Lower you voice, everyone will hear you.” She muttered through clenched teeth.

“What,” he whispered, “in the bloody hell do you expect me to do with that child? Last time I saw Georgie, she was playing with her dollies and wanting sweets from town. I can’t do that to her.” Visions of a blond girl in braids begging him to play hide and seek raced through his mind. He recalled how sad she looked after her father, George Darcy, passed. As much as he loathed her brother, he held no ill will towards her.

“Don’t let fond memories cloud your judgment. She’s fifteen and hardly a child. In two years, she’ll officially be out and will have every eligible suitor throwing themselves at her feet. You just have to be the first one to do it. Think of it, Wickham! Thirty thousand pounds! More than either of us will ever make in a lifetime. It could be yours. You wouldn’t even have to seduce her. A few sweet words and you’ll be off to Gretna Green.”

Silence filled the air between them. Wickham thumbed the material in his empty coat pocket, envisioning it full of pound notes. I can be good to Georgiana. Being married to me wouldn’t be so bad. I’ll be away as much as possible, and we can lead separate lives after it’s all said and done. Darcy may even pay me to go away. A gleeful smile lit his face as he imagined Darcy’s reaction to the news. I’ll even call him brother. Satisfied with the scheme, he leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

“When do we start?”

Editor: Michelle Naragon