Page 82 of Near Pemberley

For the first time, genuine fatigue showed itself in Gardiner’s face. “We searched as best we could.” He took out the map of London and showed it to Darcy. All places they visited were marked.

“My brother Bennet came to town almost immediately. For a time, we conducted enquiries together. Lodgings, acquaintances, officers of the regiment, creditors – every avenue that suggested itself.”

“And with what result?”

“Very little.” The answer was delivered without bitterness, though disappointment remained.

“We found traces of him often enough. Men who had seen him. Men who had lent him money. Men who wished they had not. Yet whenever we followed one report, another proved false.”

Darcy was silent for a moment. “And Bow Street?”

Gardiner looked faintly surprised. “No.”

“You employed no runners?”

A slight colour rose in the older gentleman’s face.

“No.” The answer came quietly. “We considered it. But such measures are expensive, and there was never any certainty they would prove more successful than our own enquiries.”

Darcy said nothing. Yet something in his expression altered.

Gardiner noticed it immediately. “You think we ought to have done so.”

“I think,” said Darcy carefully, “that Mr. Wickham has spent many years perfecting the art of disappearing whenever his obligations become inconvenient.”

The restraint of the reply did little to conceal his opinion.

Gardiner studied him for a moment. “Perhaps you are right.”

A brief silence followed.

“My brother remained in town for somewhat more than a week,” he continued. “But the search produced little encouragement. Longbourn required his attention, and there seemed no immediate prospect of success. He returned home.”

“After a week?” Darcy’s gaze lowered briefly towards the papers between them. The answer sat uneasily with him.

A week. He would not have stopped until he found Georgiana. Yet the thought was perhaps unfair. Mr. Bennet had been searching for a missing daughter. He could hardly have been expected to understand the habits of a practised scoundrel.

“And since then?” Darcy asked.

“I remained.” Gardiner gave a faint smile. “Unlike Mr. Wickham, I possess a business which, unfortunately, continues to demand my attention. I could not devote every hour to the pursuit, however much I wished it. My wife did her own share. She, fearing abandonment, went to shelters, the church – but nothing… My niece knows where we live; surely, she would have come.”

Darcy inclined his head. That, at least, he understood. He leant forward.

“Mr. Gardiner.” He spoke after a brief pause. “I should like to relieve you of the burden of searching for Mr. Wickham.”

Gardiner looked at him in surprise.

“You have already done more than could reasonably be expected. Allow me to continue the search.”

“You are very generous, sir, but I cannot ask…”

“You are not asking.”

The firmness of the reply left Gardiner with no obvious answer.

Darcy continued more quietly. “I know Wickham better than anyone presently in London. I know the sort of establishments he frequents, the acquaintances he cultivates, and the men to whom he is likely to turn when his money is exhausted.”

Gardiner listened without interruption.