Wickham studied his cards. He did not like what he saw. His luck had been getting worse ever since he had joined the militia. Letting Denny talk him into doing that had been the worst mistake of his life. Denny's watch sitting in the pocket of his waistcoat was little recompense for the trouble his erstwhile friend had gotten him into. It was all Denny's fault.

Having Lydia standing next to his chair, rubbing his neck, pressing her bosom into the side of his head was a distraction from his card play he did not need. He had tried to get her to flirt with his opponents, to distract them. But no, she had to rub up against him like a cat in heat. Bring him luck, she said. He snorted to himself. Last night he tried to teach her small subtle signals she could send him as she stood behind his opponents, distracting them, letting him know what their cards were. But she was so stupid, she would not, could not learn anything. No, that was wrong – she acquired carnal knowledge quite readily, albeit at the level of a rutting animal. Higher level thought, say that required to play loo with any success, was where she had a problem. If she ever had had a rational thought, it had died of loneliness a long time ago. And there was her desire for bright, shiny objects, the gaudier and tawdrier, the better. She was bent on emptying his coffers faster than he could fill them. She was definitely a liability to a gambler such as he; he would never achieve his rightful place at the tables in those all so exclusive clubs where they play very high indeed; not dragging her along.

Lydia whispered in Wickham's ear "Let's go up to bed, you can show me some more tricks."

He shuddered. Had she stuck her tongue in his ear? She must have taken his shudder for some frisson of delight as she did it again. That was another thing, he was running out of tricks, and her endless repetitions of 'that was fun, do it again' were wearing on him. His body, twice as old as hers, could not keep up with her insatiable demands. It was time she was gone. He wondered what a madam would pay for her. A gentlewoman should be worth a guinea or two but no one would believe that she was one once she opened her mouth. Perhaps her enthusiasm for the act in all its manifestations, at least he had not found any she was not game for, would bring a premium.

Lydia whined at him and he growled and was about to elbow her away when he heard his name called out.

"Wickham, George Wickham, that's him."

Wickham's head snapped up and he saw Denny pointing him out to a soldier. Wickham was out of there; this was not his first cockfight. He pushed Lydia away, stood up, grabbed the pile of coins on the table, turned, and was headed for the back entrance of the tavern with all due speed. His face met a fist travelling at some speed itself and he fell down, releasing the coins he held in his hand to spray over the floor along with the blood pouring out of his nose.

Lying on his back, not so dazed that he could not make out Lydia smashing a tankard over a soldier's head, screaming "Leave my Wickie alone", Wickham thought 'so the wench is good for something other than romping', but then he was spun around, his hands tied together behind his back, and his forehead smashed against the floor, knocking him out.

-}{-

Wickham was pushed into a small office by the guard. A captain was sitting behind a desk, he did not stand.

The guard cuffed Wickham on the back of the head and hissed 'salute'.

Wickham saluted and the captain pointed at a chair in front of the desk. The guard pushed Wickham down in the chair.

"What did you want to see me for?" asked the captain. He did not introduce himself.

"What's going to happen to me?" asked Wickham.

The captain looked at the file in front of him and then laughed, a short, nasty laugh. "Not that much actually." He shook his head and stared at Wickham. "Ordinarily a deserter would be reduced in rank, flogged, transferred to the regulars, and then shipped to Spain to act as fodder to the French cannons. We're just going to hang you."

"What? Why?"

The captain held up his left hand and starting ticking fingers off. "You lied on your application for a commission; you defrauded the merchants of Meryton; you left at least two girls in Meryton with child; you failed to pay your debts of honour; you stole the officers' mess funds" the captain switched to his right hand, "you stole from your fellow officers; you debauched a gentlewoman; you deserted; and, you resisted arrest." The captain dropped his hands but he was not finished. "Worst of all, your actions caused the good people of Meryton to petition the Crown, which caused questions to be asked to which there were no good answers, and thereby you embarrassed the powers to be. So, you will be given a fair and just court martial and then you will be hanged. 'Pour encourager les autres,' you understand."

Wickham reeled. This could not be happening. Not to him. There was only one chance open to him. "Would you please let me write a letter to my god-brother, he'll take care of everything, make everything good. Please, I beg of you."

The captain stared at him, so long that Wickham thought he wouldn't, but then he opened up a drawer, took out a sheet of paper, an inkwell and a quill pen and slid them across the table to Wickham.

It took ten minutes for Wickham to write the most important letter of his life to Darcy; in it he promised that if Darcy helped this last time, he would take one way passage to where ever on the earth Darcy wanted him to go, and he would never bother Darcy again. Please for the sake of the memory of Darcy's father, he begged.

As the guard was escorting Wickham out of the office the captain stopped them. "I'm surprised that you haven't asked after your wife."

"Wife? I'm not married" said Wickham.

"I speak of Mrs. Lydia Wickham."

Wickham gave a bitter laugh. "We're not married. Not really. I told her that if I bedded her then we were married and she believed me."

"Well anyway, she's been charged with assault, being an accessory to theft, and aiding and abetting a deserter. It's likely she'll be sentenced to seven years transportation."

Wickham shrugged "She's nothing to me" and then the guard pushed him out of the office.

-}{-

On Saturday Wickham, chained to a dozen other deserters, marched into Brighton after a hot, dusty march of five days from London. In every town, village and hamlet they had marched through they had been pelted with horse apples by young boys. More than one chamber pot had been emptied on them.

On Monday Wickham was court martialed. The conclusion being foretold, he was sentenced to hang.

On Tuesday Wickham was to be hanged.

Throughout it all, the march, the court martial, the waiting in the cell, Wickham asked after Darcy. Have you heard from Darcy? Is Darcy coming? Is Darcy here? "No, no, no, a thousand times no, shut up why don't you' were the replies, often accompanied by a blow or two.

On Monday night Colonel Forster came to visit Wickham.

"Is Darcy here? Has he taken care of things? Can I leave?" asked Wickham.

Colonel Forster scowled at Wickham and shook his head. "Mr. Darcy is not coming."

"What?"

Colonel Forster reached inside his tunic and took out a letter. He unfolded it and held it up so Wickham could see it. It was the letter Wickham had written Darcy begging for help. It had not been sent. Colonel Forster started tearing the letter into small pieces.

"Why?" cried Wickham.

"You shouldn't have dallied with my wife" said Colonel Forster. He dropped the pieces of paper and left the cell.

Wickham watched the pieces of the last chance of his life flutter to the floor.