“A difficulty, Ned,” said Fitz, closing the library door.

Skinner made no reply, simply stood in front of the desk with body relaxed and hands by his sides loosely; not the pose of a minion. He was a very big man, five inches taller than Darcy’s six feet, and was built like an ape-massive shoulders and neck, a barrel of a chest, no superfluous fat. Rumour had it that his father had been a West Indian blackamoor, so dark were Skinner’s complexion, hair and narrow, watchful eyes.

“Sit, Ned, you make my neck ache looking up.”

“You have guests, I’ll not delay you. What is it?”

“Whereabouts is Mrs. George Wickham?” Darcy asked as he sat down, drawing a sheet of paper forward and dipping his steel-sheathed goose quill nib into the inkwell. He was already writing when Ned answered.

“At the Plough and Stars in Macclesfield. Her new flirt has just become her latest lover. They’ve taken over the best bedroom and a private parlour. ’Tis a new location for her.”

“Is she drinking?”

“Not above a bottle or two. Love’s on her mind, not wine. Give her a week and things might change.”

“They won’t have a chance.” Darcy glanced up briefly and grinned sourly. “Take my racing curricle and the bays, Ned. Deliver this note to Bingley Hall on your way to Macclesfield. I want Mrs. Wickham reasonably sober at the Crown and Garter by nine tomorrow morning. Pack her boxes and bring them with you.”

“She’ll kick up a fine old rumpus, Fitz.”

“Oh, come, Ned! Who in Macclesfield will gainsay you-or me, for that matter? I don’t care if you have to bind her hand and foot, just have her in Lambton on time.” The swift scrawl ceased, the pen went down; without bothering to seal his note, Darcy handed it to Ned Skinner. “I’ve told Bingley to ride. Mrs. Wickham can go in his coach with Mrs. Bingley. We are for the charms of Hertfordshire to bury Mrs. Bennet, not before time.”