Caroline Bingley rose earlier than she was inclined, a woman on a mission and no time to fail. If her calculations were correct from Eliza's last letter to her sister, Mr. Darcy would be leaving Kent at any moment after his cousin married the sickly de Bourgh girl. Then, he would be free to see Caroline for the dutiful spouse she was educated to be, and the first part of that plan involved learning why all of the furnishings and décor were mysteriously disappearing.
She had already plied that simpering Georgiana for details, but any mention of potential financial challenges and the girl began to cry buckets! Sentimentality was an asset in many a lady, but not possessed by the mercenary Caroline Bingley. She had no time for such useless, futile emotions. Feelings warped one's perspective of their goals.
Aggravated to conduct her own toilette, the necessary denigration would keep her plan a secret. Being a guest at Darcy House for over a week she watched the Wickhams most carefully. They were never in the same room together, aside from the occasional meal. And twice now Caroline had tried to seek Georgiana's weaker state after retiring for the evening to find her suite of rooms locked. All was certainly not as it seemed, this was no love match.
Tiptoeing into the Master's study, Caroline froze when a loud snore startled her progress. She whipped her face towards the sofa along the far wall to spy a lounging George Wickham, splayed in half dress along the length. Cursing her bad luck, she moved gingerly, wondering why the man had not stayed out all night like all others, but decided there was no time like the present to settle one's destiny. Darcy might arrive any day, and without the truth, he would cast her aside as an afterthought like so many times before.
Carefully, Caroline shifted the papers on the desk, moving the ink pots and letter opener to the very edge of the desk. A missive about mines in Derby, signed with the seal of Lord Strange piqued her interest immediately. The wedding of Thomas Stanley to that milquetoast Sarah Milbanke was the event of the season, the wedding of the year! But the Viscount was hardly in control of such sums of money, something was amiss.
Scrambling to find more information, Caroline forgot her need to be quiet and it was only when she realized the snoring had stopped that a pit in her stomach dropped to somewhere around her knees. Looking up from her shady endeavors she found herself staring directly into the blue eyes of none other than George Wickham.
“Miss Bingley, I had no idea you had such a head for business.” George Wickham's normal debonair style fell flat as a sobering belch interrupted his sentiments.
Repulsed, Caroline wrinkled her nose and waved the offending airs away. “As a longtime friend of the Darcy family, I felt strongly that my interest for Mr. Darcy and Georgiana were paramount in looking into these affairs. You've pared down this home a great deal and I'm curious as to what you expect to happen to replace your theft before Mr. Darcy returns?”
George Wickham's jawline tensed and a lesser woman would have cowered. Not Caroline. The half-drunk man stumbled around the desk to come closer to her person, and Caroline watched as he used the edge to steady himself ever so often with mild amusement.
“It is very dangerous to come along and accuse a man such of myself of criminal activity. I believe you have miscalculated Miss Bingley in the extent of my gentility.”
His hand reached out for the woman, his mind anxious for violence, his body's coordination less capable. In a thrice, Caroline snatched the letter opener in front of her and slashed his hand, just above the wrist, making him cry out and recoil.
“You cut me! How dare you!”
Caroline pursed her lips and gave a swift push on the already teetering man so he fell backwards, knocking his head most satisfying on the globe behind him. Dazed and laying contentedly on the floor, Caroline collected the most damning pieces of parchment before looking one last time over the listless body of George Wickham. The drink would wear off, no doubt, but for a time, he was harmless.
“Please, I've parried more vicious attacks in a ballroom,” she scoffed, taking great pleasure to plant a determined stomp at the crux of his legs. His cries and moans bothered her none as she left the study, satisfied she exacted some revenge for the miserable baggage sobbing herself to sleep each night above stairs.