Hello!

Thanks as always for your support. In this chapter we're checking in with Wickham. How likely do you think it is that he will make it out of the country as planned?

Enjoy!

Water lapped up against the quayside and out in the harbour ships swayed rhythmically in time. Thomas Davis strode along the docks, eager to leave the bustling port now that his business for the day was complete. Unbeknownst to him, there was a man observing him from the shadows. That same man had been following him all day, easily blending into the crowd of workmen and sailors and staying just close enough to overhear his conversations. The man continued to follow as Davis made his way back through the city, only stopping when he entered the inn where he was staying with Wickham.

Davis sighed wearily as he trudged up the stairs to the small room he and Wickham were currently occupying. Just a few more days and he would be free to return to London. They had arrived in Liverpool a few nights before after almost a week of travel and today he had been able to secure Wickham's place on an outbound ship that would be leaving for the Americas soon, using the papers and money that Colonel Fitzwilliam had given him. He did not trust Wickham enough to give him a room of his own, but today he had let the man out of his sight for the first time since they left Hertfordshire, leaving him in their room while he was out.

Davis opened the door to their room, half expecting Wickham to be gone. To his pleasant surprise, he was not, though he had leapt to his feet armed with a candlestick when the door opened.

'Oh. It is just you.' Wickham said, relaxing and replacing his weapon of choice. Davis shook his head. He had quickly learnt that Wickham was not cut out for the army. He might be charming in social situations, but he was one of the most nervous men imaginable when he was in danger. It had begun to make Davis wonder what kind of people he thought were chasing after him. Maybe he was just worried that the Colonel would change his mind and instead of sending him to America he would simply be made to disappear.

Deciding that his energy was wasted on such a topic, Davis informed Wickham that their meal would be brought up to them this evening and returned to ignoring his irritating companion as he had been trying to do for the past week. Pulling out his writing supplies, he began to scribble down a note to send to Colonel Fitzwilliam. He had been writing with updates so that the Colonel knew everything was in order, though even sent express this letter would probably take more than three days to reach London.

Davis thought back over his acquaintance with the Colonel. When Richard Fitzwilliam was first given the command of their regiment, the twenty-five-year-old son of an Earl, the troops beneath him were sceptical, to say the least. They had assumed that he would be like officers with connections in high places that they had all known in the past, lazy, ignorant and overall more of a hindrance than a help when faced with life or death decisions, happy to let those beneath them go to their deaths while they remained in safety.

More than six years had passed since then, though, and he had proved himself time and again in the field of battle. Now any of the men under his command would take a bullet for him without a second thought. Davis, who had captained one of the ten companies in the battalion the Colonel commanded, also considered him a personal friend.

Edging into the later part of his forties, living in the regiment had started to become harder for Davis and after sustaining an injury which he had struggled to recover from the previous year his family had persuaded him to take the honourable discharge the Colonel offered him. Now, he was working behind a desk in his father-in-law's business, preparing to take it over one day. Though he was grateful to see his wife and children every day, it was difficult knowing that most of the men he had served with were still out fighting on the continent and that the Colonel would be returning to join them soon.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and he rose to answer it. It was the maid with their meal. He stepped aside to allow her entry then retreated back to his chair while she arranged the plates and cups. Wickham struck up a conversation with her, apparently deploying his famed charms as she blushed and giggled. Davis shook his head and ignored them, releasing a thankful breath when she left the room and silence was restored.

Reaching over, he examined the meal they had been given. It was nothing particularly remarkable, but it seemed edible. He began to eat, making it halfway through the plate before the world began to spin. Davis realised in horror that he must have been drugged. He turned to look at Wickham in accusation, suddenly suspicious of his rapport with the maid, but found him already unconscious. Fear coursed through him. If this was not Wickham's doing then they were both in serious trouble. He tried to call for help but was not able to make a sound. A few moments more and the darkness claimed him.

When Davis woke the world was moving around him and there was a terrible pounding in his head. After a few seconds, he regained enough of his senses to realise that the world didn't just seem to be moving, it actually was. The rocking motion was because he was in some kind of cart and the pounding was the sound of it rattling along.

'You're alive!' Someone cried from nearby. Turning his head, he saw that it was Wickham. He was propped against the side of the cart they were in, hands tied behind him. Davis tried to move his arms and found that he was tied in the same way. Well, at least he could safely say that Wickham wasn't behind this.

'What happened?' He asked Wickham, hoping that he might have seen something about their captors which could help to identify them.

'I would assume that we have been kidnapped.' Wickham replied dryly. 'Although for what purpose, I cannot say. Since our dear friend Colonel Fitzwilliam destroyed all of the blackmail material I had accumulated, it is not unlikely that this may be the work of a disgruntled acquaintance of mine. Which one, I could not say. There are just so many to choose from.'

'Hazard a guess.' Davis prompted, irritated by Wickham's blasé attitude.

'Well, we may rule out some of my less savoury acquaintances, they would have killed us immediately. Kidnapping smells more of a money-related issue. If it was a disgruntled father or relation, death once again would have been the more likely scenario. Whoever it is has the resources to track us to Liverpool and plan our kidnapping as well, this does not seem to have been a spur of the moment action. Someone I owe money… well, you do hear rumours. Most likely if they know I cannot pay my debts then they will expect me to work it off – or to die trying. Since you were in my company they probably saw the opportunity to get more free labour and eliminate anyone who has an idea of where I am at the same time.' Wickham rattled off without missing a beat. 'So, I would say we can narrow it down to a nice round fifteen main candidates. Unless you have any enemies we should add to the list?'

'Good God man! Is there anyone left in the country that you haven't made an enemy of?' Davis exclaimed.

'Several people actually. I never got north of Derbyshire. Just think, I still had half of the country left.' Wickham's humour continued. Davis was beginning to think that the man was having a stress-induced meltdown.

'Oh, I think you undersell yourself. We are several days north of Derbyshire and someone still felt strongly enough to pursue you. Did you happen to meet any northerners in London who might hold a grudge?'

'Let us hope not, for both our sakes. If we have a long journey south it will give us more time to find a means of escape.' Wickham replied.

'I don't suppose you still have that candlestick on you?' Davis quirked an eyebrow at his companion, only partly in jest.

'No.' Wickham replied seriously. 'But there is a letter opener in my left boot.'

'Of course there is.' Davis almost laughed. 'You know, sometimes I almost think I could like you, Wickham.'

©Isabelle Lowe, 2018