George Wickham Persuades Mrs. Younge
April 30, 1811
The whisky was not his favorite, but it was cheap, which suited George Wickham’s mood well enough. He slouched deeper into the battered armchair, boot propped on the opposite seat, cradling the cut glass like a relic of better days. A scorched log shifted in the grate, drawing a hiss from the coals and a flicker of gold across the advertisement lying open in his lap.
Wanted: A lady of discreet character and even temper, to serve as companion to a young gentlewoman of quiet habits. Preference will be given to candidates with experience in academic or artistic instruction. References required.
No names. A third-party location for inquiry. But he knew who it was.
Darcy had not left any sign of who was really making the inquiry, of course. Men like Darcy never touched their own dirty work. But Wickham had seen the original print block before it went to press, thanks to a clerk he had once bought a drink for and never stopped reminding. And he found out who had paid for the advertisement.
So. He was setting her up in her own establishment. Taking her out of school. A house, perhaps. A companion.
Georgiana.
The girl had always been weak to kindness. That soft underbelly—pampered and precious—had nearly landed her in his bed once already. Her school might have taught her Latin and pianoforte, but it had done nothing for sense.
Wickham took another sip, savoring the burn this time.
He could not decide if he was more furious or amused. Darcy had refused him the living with such pompous finality—as though moral outrage were a luxury men like him could afford. And yet here he was, the mighty Mr. Darcy, advertising for a stranger to mind his sister. Leaving her exposed.
How careless.
He tossed the advertisement onto the table and leaned forward, fingers steepled. What he needed, he thought, was a woman. He had been meaning to indulge for weeks—though his purse had not quite matched his appetite—and now, the ache had grown persistent.
Well. Perhaps it was time to see if old acquaintances could be persuaded to show some… generosity.
His mind drifted first to Marguerite. Golden hair, a laugh like a champagne cork, and the rare gift of never asking questions so long as the purse was full. But she was kept now—some sharp-nosed solicitor from Bloomsbury with a wife in Surrey and an appetite for lace. Wickham had seen them together last month, Marguerite in sapphires and the man looking smug enough to choke. No, she was out.
Then Clarice. She had done well for herself lately, if the emerald bracelet he last saw on her wrist was any proof. But Clarice had the memory of a viper. She would recall every unpaid debt, every excuse, every whispered promise he had made two winters ago when he had last coaxed his way into her rooms—and out of them with her coin purse. He had no hope there.
There was one new girl—sweet, small-eyed, and soft in the middle—but Wickham had heard she was being looked after by one of the men from Tattersall’s. Those horse dealers were brutal with rivals.
He took another drink and let it roll across his tongue.
He needed a woman. Not just for the evening—though he would not object—but for more than that. He needed someone who would trust him enough to take a risk. Who would extend him credit. Who could be persuaded that he had something worth waiting for.
And then the idea came.
Not only a woman he could take to bed.
A woman he could put in a post.
He reached again for the advertisement.
Delicate situation. Discreet character. Academic instruction…
A lady’s companion—so, she must appear to be a lady herself. Someone to guide, to guard, to shape. He needed someone who could pretend at gentility just long enough to fool a set of solicitors and housekeepers. Someone who could get inside.
And that was when he thought of her.
Mrs. Younge.
Widow, so she claimed. Not quite the refined type most employers sought in a companion, but she could carry herself well when she chose. She had a manner that could read as elegant or indulgent depending on the room, and more importantly—
She liked money more than morals.
Yes. That would do nicely.
He had not seen her in over a year. Not since the night she left his rooms wearing half the contents of his coin purse and none of her own dignity. But he still remembered her laugh—smoky and thick—and the way she always paused a second too long after the word gentleman.
He could not pay her today. Not in coin.
But tomorrow? Tomorrow, he might be the benefactor of a young lady’s household. And a man in that position could be… generous.
Wickham stood, brushing ash from his sleeve. The idea formulated like pieces on a chessboard, like whisky warming his belly. He would call on Mrs. Younge. Remind her of past favors. Dangle future ones.
And if she was still the sort of woman he remembered, she would know exactly what he meant.
***
The knock came just as Mrs. Younge was pinning up her hair—not for vanity, but preparation. She had an appointment in half an hour, and the gentleman who paid for that evening’s company always came with roses and never knocked twice.
She left the pins dangling and crossed the cramped room, stepping neatly over a floorboard that threatened to squeal. When she opened the door, the sight on the other side made her heart sink.
Wickham.
Devil take it, of all the doors in London.
She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, fingers tucked beneath the lace edge of her wrapper. “You.”
Wickham smiled, all teeth and charm with none of the polish. “Bella.”
“Do not call me that.” She glanced down the corridor. “What do you want?”
“To see you. To talk.”
“I doubt it is conversation you are after.” Her eyes flicked over him—his boots scuffed, his coat days past pressing, the cuffs of his gloves fraying. “And I know that look. You are skint, Wickham.”
His grin did not falter. “Come now. I am always good for it.”
She snorted. “You are always good at saying you will be. I have a gentleman who actually is. You think I am fool enough to risk him for a man who has not got enough coin for a hack?”
Wickham stepped closer. She caught a whiff of whisky and stale street air. “I just want five minutes. If you still want me gone after that, I will go.”
She hesitated. He had always been trouble. The clever, coaxing kind. The sort of man who could talk a girl into ruin and then borrow money for the carriage to take her there.
But five minutes cost nothing, and if she played it right, she might still be ready when the man with the roses came calling.
She stepped aside. “Five minutes.”
He entered without waiting. She closed the door behind him, arms still folded.
“Well?”
Wickham turned, eyes gleaming now, more sober than she expected. “I have a proposition. A good one.”
She frowned. “Go on.”
“There is a young lady—only fifteen. An heiress. I know her well. I nearly had her once, but the timing was wrong.”
Younge’s mouth twisted. “So, you came back to try again? Fifteen—I thought even you would not stoop so low. I suppose I should be shocked, but you were never the type to learn decency from disappointment.”
“I am not after her,” he said, raising a hand. “Not yet. Her brother is taking her out of school. Setting her up in a private house. He is looking for a companion. Someone quiet. Respectable. Capable.”
She tilted her head, suspicion sharpening. “And you thought of me.”
“You have the manners. The posture. The smile. And you can take orders when you see the profit in it.”
Her mouth formed a bow… not quite a smile, but certainly not a scowl. “Say I did take the post. What then?”
“You are placed inside the house. Trusted. You write to me. Tell me what she reads, what she likes, where she walks. If she talks about me. I will not ask you to do anything improper. Only to… encourage certain sympathies.”
She stared at him.
“This is a job,” he said, voice low now. “A respectable, well-paid one. And when it is done, you walk away with more than roses and promises.”
She studied his face—too eager, too bright—and thought of her rent due next week.
“How much?”
He gave her a number. Not small.
Mrs. Younge did not answer. Not yet. But she did not tell him to leave, either.
2 comments
I would have thought she would have been his first thought! Or had he stopped sending letters to Georgiana through her? Whatever, he’s a totally despicable character and she doesn’t appear to be much better! Poor Georgiana, ok so she’s not so nice at the moment but she’s only 15!
Loved this scenario! Ah that GW is smooth. Thanks for your post.