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Rising just after dawn, Elizabeth knocked on the door to Mr. Hill’s room. When the elderly gentleman answered the door and she got a good look at how frail he appeared, she wondered if she had been wise to bring him along. He seemed to have aged ten years since the death of her father and brother.

She smiled tenderly at the servant she had known all her life. “Mr. Hill, if you do not feel up to it, I will be happy to hire someone to drive me to Sheffield, and you may rest here whilst I am gone. I know how gruelling our trip from Meryton was, for I have not yet recovered completely myself.”

Mr. Hill, tall, lanky and wrinkled, raked a gnarled hand through his unruly silver hair. “There is no need, Miss Elizabeth. I am up for it. Just give me a quarter of an hour and I will be ready.”

“Excellent! I shall wait downstairs in the parlour. After you come down, we can eat and then be on our way. It is only two hours or thereabouts to Sheffield, and I hope to get there early enough to call on Constable Stone today.”

“I shall be down shortly, ma’am,” Mr. Hill replied before shutting the door.

George Wickham was confused and disheartened since arriving in Lambton after following the two men he thought he might make a few coins off. Drago and Sully had not taken rooms upstairs in the local livery—a huge structure where those without funds for a room at the inn could rent unused grooms’ accommodations—for he was staying there and had not seen either of them about the area. Afraid he might have wasted his time and money following those villains, he was about to give up and return to London when he happened to notice them leaving the local bakery carrying a purchase.

Even though he wore a red wig to disguise his features, he pulled his hat lower on his forehead and stepped back to let them pass as he waited in a nearby doorway. Talking to each other, neither Drago nor Sully appeared to notice him as they crossed the street to enter a small restaurant.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “What would they find of interest in a bakery? I cannot imagine them being fond of pastries unless they were made with whiskey. Perhaps I should pay a visit to this bakery.”

Thus, Wickham proceeded to walk to that establishment. Watching as the locals stood in line to buy bread, he was not impressed with the lady in charge—a plump, short, white-haired woman who remarked loudly on every purchase being made and all the gossip being shared. He remembered Mrs. Potter from his younger years. She had never seemed to like him much. About to turn and leave, his interest was caught by a remark she made to one of the patrons.

“Do not worry about getting your regular supply of rolls, Margaret. If I sell the shop to Miss Bennet—” She instantly covered her mouth. “Oh, I should not have mentioned her name until we have an agreement.” Then she laughed before continuing, “In any case, I suppose everyone will know her name soon enough if she manages to buy my shop. Thus far, the only other offer I have had has not worked out. In any case, I am certain if Miss Bennet gets my shop, she would continue to supply your restaurant with rolls just as regularly as I have done all these years.”

Miss Bennet? Wickham repeated to himself. With Lydia still living at the charity—thank God I was able to rid myself of that harridan—and Jane’s marriage to some lord has secured her parents and younger sisters’ futures, surely the only one she could be speaking of is Elizabeth. Last he had heard, she went out ‘on her own’ to make a living after rejecting Darcy’s offer of marriage. Wickham chuckled quietly at the memory. I would love to have seen that prick’s face when she turned him down.

Just then, the owner addressed him. He turned to see that he was the only person left in the shop when she said, “May I help you, young man?”

Wickham hoped the lady would not recognise him, now that he had her notice. He had not seen her in many years, and the red wig might just do the trick. “I … actually, I was looking for sweet buns, Mrs.—” He hesitated, giving her the opportunity to reveal her name.

“I am Mrs. Potter,” she replied.

“Well, Mrs. Potter, do you by chance have any cinnamon buns?”

“I most certainly do,” she answered, walking to the other end of a counter to open a sliding glass door. “How many do you want?”

“Eight. I understand there are eight maids who work at the inn, and I would like to gift one to each of them. I have found that it never hurts to ply servants with favours in order to get better service.”

“From what I hear, the service there is good even without any favours; however, I do agree that being kind to people often encourages them to go the extra mile.”

As she proceeded to place the buns in a bag, Wickham said casually, “I could not help but overhear your conversation with the lady who just left. You mentioned that a Miss Bennet was looking to buy this establishment.”

The old woman looked apologetic. “I did, although I should not have mentioned her name until, or I should say unless, she manages to purchase it. It is just that I was impressed with her reason for wanting the bakery: She intends to provide her sister an occupation. It appears she has a heart of gold.”

Could that sister be Lydia? If so, that would be an advantage for me.

“Would it appear improper to ask if the Miss Bennet you mentioned is Elizabeth Bennet, who hails from Hertfordshire? I am well-acquainted with her, and your description of the lady fits her closely.”

“It is,” Mrs Potter said, smiling. Then her expression became sombre. “Please do not tell Miss Bennet that I told you about her. I am too apt to speak about things I should keep to myself.”

“I shall be the soul of discretion,” Wickham replied, trying to look remorseful. “I know that horrible things happened to her family in the last year and realise she would be mortified to know we discussed it. She hates being pitied.”

He hoped Mrs. Potter would think he blamed himself for their conversation which might, in her opinion, absolve her of the blame and make her even more talkative.

“I would never mention any of this to Miss Bennet,” he replied, “but I do hope she is able to purchase your shop if that is what she desires. She certainly deserves some good luck.”

“You are so kind, sir. Would you mind telling me your name?”

Wickham smiled brightly. “I had rather not; in that way you will never accidently reveal it to her, and we are both secure in our conversation.”

The old woman laughed heartily. “You are certainly correct! If I do not know your name, I cannot reveal it.”

Wickham pushed some coins across the counter to pay according to the prices listed on the wall. “If you do not mind, I may call on you again before I leave Lambton. I would like to know how our mutual friend is coming along with her plan. Confidentially, of course.”