Excentryke's Musings

Title: Gambling Debts
Author: Excentrykemuse
Fandoms: Pride & Prejudice / Twilight Saga
Pairing(s): Bella/Darcy, Wickham/Lydia
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3k
Warnings: Elizabeth is forgotten (do we care?), mistresses, affairs, gambling, poverty, vampires, time travel
Summary: Marcus Volturi promised her the lines would lead her to “The Master of Pemberley,” whatever that meant.

Gambling Debts

Wickham played the Ace of Hearts.  It was the lowest card in the deck bar diamonds and clubs.  Bella smiled.  Playing the Three of Hearts, she waited for Mr. Small.  She knew he had a bad hand.  He sighed and played the Eight of Diamonds.  Bella took the hand.

Slapping down the Nine of Spades, she watched as Mr. Small threw down the Four of Clubs.  Wickham wasn’t much better.  She took the hand again.

By the time Bella had won four pounds and two shillings for the night, a young lady had come down the steps from the upper rooms and grasped Wickham around the neck.  “Wickham!” she sighed.  “Come to bed!”

Wickham merely finished his wine, going back to his cards.

“Have yerself a swee’hear’?” Small asked, leering at the young lady.

Bella glanced over at her, curiosity in her gaze, but said nothing.  She picked up her winnings and put them in her pelisse.  “If the night is over, gentlemen.”

“The night is not over!” Wickham cried, dislodging the young lady from his shoulders.

Bella raised her eyebrow at him.  “How can you say that, Wickham?  You don’t have two pennies to rub together.”

He deflated at that and threw a card at her.  She didn’t even notice when it got caught in her skirts.  “A lady would play me again in a game of cards,” he whined.

“Neither Mr. Small nor I are a lady,” she reminded him, going to the bar and tipping the innkeeper.

The young lady huffed and whispered into Wickham’s ear, but he just shoved her off again.

Small was nursing his wine and his losings, paying attention to no one.

“Madam—” Wickham tried, lunging for the bar.

Bella turned to him when he tripped.  She watched him go down and wondered how much exactly he had had to drink.  “Till tomorrow then,” she said to the room at large.  Stepping over Wickham, she nodded to the young lady, who was clearly put out, and left the inn.

The July air was warm and she breathed in the summer night before turning to go back to her lodgings. 

A man called out to her, but she didn’t pay attention.  She just went on her way.

When she arrived at her comfortable rooms, she took out her pelisse and turned over her day’s winnings.  Five pounds, thirteen shillings, and six pence.  This would pay the rent for the next three months.  Storing it away, she went to go get ready for bed.  It was well past two in the morning and she was tired from her night out.

Bella had been in London for over two years since Marcus Volturi had interrupted Aro’s interview of her that fateful day in Italy three years before.  Edward and Alice had been dragged from the room, Alice screaming to “trust the lines” while Edward was fighting the guards the entire time.  Then Aro came up to her and touched her hand.  He could see nothing.  He then told her that Marcus could see her “soulmate line” to the “Master of Pemberley,” and Aro had decided to send her to him “as a present.”

A tall, black vampire, with gold rings running up her ears, came forward.  She took Bella’s face between her hands, her fingernails so long Bella thought they would impale her.  Next, she kissed a bewildered Bella and Bella fell asleep.

When she woke up, she was on the streets of 1803 London with only the clothes on her back.  Since then, she had made a small life for herself gambling and now had a comfortable home and—acquaintances.  She still had not found this ‘Master of Pemberley,’ whatever Pemberley was.  She assumed it was somewhere in London.  Where he had gone to, and when he would find her, she could only guess.  Now, at the age of twenty-one, she was waiting on a promise of a vampire king in an adopted world, in an adopted country, in an adopted life.

Bella was not expecting, when she got up the next morning, that Marcus Volturi’s promises were about to be kept.  She brushed her hair and let it hang down her back, putting on her blue gown, her feet bare in the heat, and went to make herself toast.  She knew she could afford a servant, but Bella liked living by herself.  She owed explanations to no one and she was her own mistress.

There was the sound of knocking at the door.  Bella was at the kitchen window, so she leaned forward to get a better look.  A man, dressed well and with a tall hat, was standing on her doorstep.  That was odd.  He turned to the side and his verdant eyes caught her gaze through the window.  She gasped.

Quickly putting down her toast and brushing the crumbs from her face, Bella hurried to the door and opened it.  The man was still standing there in a cravat and holding a walking stick.  He was incredibly tall, Bella noticed, and she was still barefoot. 

“May I help you?”

“Are you Miss Isabella Swan?” the man inquired sternly.

“I am,” she answered carefully.

“I am Darcy of Pemberley.” 

She gasped at the name.  He was here.  He had finally come. 

He paused as if to let the information sink in.  She looked up at him again and told him, “You are standing on my step.”  It seemed a stupid thing to say, but she wasn’t sure what else could do but point out the obvious.

“May I have the honor of stepping inside, Miss Swan?”

She looked over her shoulder to her small set of rooms, and decided it was more preferable than having the man standing on her doorstep.  She moved aside, a silent invitation, and led Darcy into the living room, not bothering to take his hat or walking stick.  Standing by the mantle, she watched him as he deposited the items on the small coffee table and was glad he looked less imposing without them.  Bella still wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Miss Swan,” Mr. Darcy began, “I understand you are a professional gambler.”

She nodded.  It was the truth after all.

“Do you perhaps gamble with a Lieutenant Wickham?  I seek information on the whereabouts of this individual.”

Bella looked up at Wickham’s name.  She decidedly did not like the man.  However, gamblers were insular.  They kept the locations of their games secret and the players’ identities were protected as well.  If a gentleman got a reputation, it was only for not paying his debts, not for actually playing.  If he flashed his winnings about, that was his fault.  There was a code, and Bella respected that code.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she replied carefully.

A hint of annoyance passed over Darcy’s features.  “Miss Swan, I have been up all night—”

“I am sorry for it.  Perhaps you should go back to your house in Grosvenor Square and have a hearty breakfast before retiring for the day.”

“That is not,” Darcy told her carefully.  “How much will this information cost?”

“Cost?”  She looked up with her large violet eyes, confused.

“Would three pounds be sufficient, Miss Swan?”  He went to his pocket and withdrew the sum.

“Mr. Darcy,” she told him as politely as she could, “I cannot be bribed!”

“Five pounds?” he countered.

Bella blushed scarlet.  She hated when she did that.  “Mr. Darcy, I think it would be best if you leave—”

“Six pounds,” he tried. 

Walking away from the mantle, she picked up his hat and walking stick and made to usher him out the door.

Darcy removed his hand from his pocket.  “Miss Swan,” he took a deep breath.  “You are a young woman of about nineteen?  Twenty?”

“What of it?” she asked him, standing by the door.

He turned and carefully walked around the settee toward her.  “Wickham is a rake.  He ran off with a girl of no more than fifteen.  I am certain you can remember when you were that tender age.  He was supposed to elope with the girl to Scotland, but instead he took her to London and never married her.  Her reputation is in tatters and her family misses her.”

Bella instantly thought of the young woman and the fine muslin she was wearing.  She took a deep breath.  “She did look young,” Bella admitted carefully.

“You have seen her then,” Darcy entreated.  “She is well.”

“She is well,” Bella agreed.  “If it is the fine young lady of whom you speak, she is here with Wickham in London.”  She handed back his cane and hat and moved back into the room, going back to the mantle, picking up a small figurine of a wolf she had on it.  “I daresay she is already ruined.”

“It is as I feared,” Darcy returned.  “Can you bring me to them?  Wickham must be made to marry her for the sake of her reputation.”

Bella looked over at him, their gazes holding for several long moments.  “Do you really want her to have a husband such as that?” she asked carefully.

“There are no other options.”

“None?”  She sighed.  “Let me get my hat.”

Withdrawing from the room, she closed the door behind her and leaned against it.  The inn was in a decidedly bad area of Town.  Finding her boots, she made herself ready, and presented herself to Darcy, who was patiently waiting for her.  She had a piece of toast with jam in her hand and indicated that he should follow.

“It is within walking distance,” she told him when she saw the carriage at the end of the street. 

“Then we shall walk,” he agreed, falling into step behind her.

They walked down the road and then took a series of alleys into a worse part of London until they finally came to the rough inn where Bella had been playing cards last night.  She looked at Darcy to gage his reaction, but he merely indicated that she should lead on.  Entering the establishment, she went up the innkeeper and told him, “Wickham owes me two shillings from last night.”

“Does ‘e now?”  The innkeeper didn’t look impressed.

“I brought muscle,” Bella elaborated, indicating Darcy.  “Wickham told me he would pay this morning.”

“Wickham won’ be up this mornin’.”

“Well, he’ll be up for me,” Bella demanded, setting a fist down on the wooden bar.  “He owes me a gambling debt and he will pay me, or do I have to go upstairs and bang on every door until I find his?”

“Awrigh’ Awrigh,” the innkeeper sighed, producing a key.  “Room number se’en.”

Bella made to tip the man, but Darcy did it for her.  She shared a look with him before taking the key and going up the stairs.  When they got to the door, Darcy put his ear to it and listened.  Then, banging on it with his walking stick, he announced, “Wickham.  Your sojourn in London is over.  I am coming in.”  Then, taking the key, he opened the door and walked through.

Hovering in the hallway, Bella wasn’t entirely certain what to do.  Angry voices came through the door and she peaked through, seeing Darcy looming in the room over a decidedly naked Wickham and girl covered in sheets.  She wasn’t needed here.

Turning from the door, she walked back down the stairs, tried to smile at the innkeeper, and went back out of doors.  She had finished her toast by now, but she needed a spot of tea.  Making her way back to her rooms, she thought she would never see Darcy again.  He had gotten what he wanted.  He had found Wickham and the young lady.  They would be forced to marry and Bella would go back to her gambling ways. 

She would go back to waiting.

The lines would appear—when the lines would appear.  It had already been three years—

Three days later when she was reading the latest Mrs. Radcliffe novel, there was a knock on her door again.  Puzzled, Bella put her book aside and went to the door again.  She opened it and saw Mr. Darcy.

“Are they married?” she inquired.

“Today at St. Alban’s church.”

“Oh.”  She shifted on her feet, uncertain what to say.  At least she was wearing slippers today, even though her hair was in a braid. 

“I was wondering if you should like to come.”  Darcy seemed uncomfortable with the request, but his verdant eyes shone so earnestly, that Bella felt her breath catch.

“Do I have time to put up my hair?  I can’t arrive like this.”  She opened the door wider for him and showed him through to the living room.

“I came in plenty of time,” he assured her.

Nodding, she left him in the living room with the Mrs. Radcliffe novel and went to go get ready.  Putting up her hair in a chignon and being sure it was neat, Bella took a bit of rose water and placed it behind her ears.  She did possess nice lace gloves that went well with her yellow dress, and her stockings were fresh.

Coming out, she presented herself to Mr. Darcy.

When he saw her, his breath caught.  “Miss Swan, you look quite the lady of society,” he complimented.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He led her out to the carriage that was waiting at the corner and escorted her to the church. 

There was a small assemblage present, including Wickham, the groom, who looked up in interest when they entered.  “What’s this?” he asked.  “Will I finally get your name, Madam?”  There was a gleam in his eye.

“You have not been introduced,” Darcy posited.

“No,” Wickham agreed.  “This lady refuses to give her name.  She just takes my money off of me.  How fitting that you should be at my wedding.”

“You may tell your children for years to come,” Bella surmised.

“Shall I tell them you were on the great Darcy’s arm?”

Bella looked at him coolly.  “They will deduce I was a flower girl or a bridesmaid.”

The vicar cleared his throat and Bella and Wickham looked forward.  Darcy had been unusually quiet during the exchange.  He pulled Bella into a pew and she sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap.  Looking up at him out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was staring down Wickham.

When the bride arrived, they stood and Bella listened attentively to the vows.  The girl—Lydia Bennet—simpered and smiled, and Wickham looked like he was being delivered to his own hanging.

“How did you get him to marry her?” Bella asked on the carriage ride back to her rooms.  There had been no wedding breakfast as the wedding had been so hastily put together.  “Wickham seemed more interested in me than his bride.”

“That is because you are a beautiful woman, and Mrs. Wickham is nothing but a child.”

“He should not have eloped with her then.”

“No, he should not have, but Wickham is foolish. Surely you know he is unlucky at cards.  Always has been.”

Bella caught his eye.  “Very unlucky,” she agreed.

“Just as he is unlucky in love.”  There seemed to be layering to his words.  Bella caught it.

Changing the subject, she asked.  “What shall you do now?  You have found Wickham.  You have facilitated the wedding.  The day is saved.”

“I suppose I should go back to Derbyshire,” he admitted, sitting back in his seat, but still regarding her.  “My sister is there entertaining guests.”

Bella hummed.  “I take it the country is beautiful this time of year.”

“Quite, Miss Swan.”

“London is hot,” she told him, “but you know this already.”

Darcy considered for a minute.  “I take it you will still be here for the Little Season.”

“I do not leave,” she confirmed.  Her violet eyes looked at him carefully.  She looked out the window and saw that they were in Bloomsbury.  “We’re here.”

He wrenched his eyes away from her and turned to the window. 

Darcy insisted on walking her to the door.  They stood on the step for several long moments, Darcy just holding her hand as he played with her fingers.  Bella took in a steady breath and looked up into his eyes, wondering at this strange man.

“I am not good for you,” she finally whispered. 

“I am well aware, Miss Swan.  I know the company you keep.”

“I am one game away from abject poverty.”

“If I should support you—” Darcy offered carefully.

Her eyes widened.  “What are you saying?”

“You would never have to gamble again.  You could go to the finest modistes, to museums, concerts.  You would hold some respectability.  I would come see you during the Season and Little Season.”

“Come see me,” she repeated carefully.  Her head was in a whirl.  “You would have a wife.”  The idea of being the woman on the side did not sit well with her.

“For my heirs,” he agreed carefully.

She grimaced.  Turning to the door, she gave no answer, but shutting the door in his face was hopefully answer enough. 

Darcy dithered on the doorstep for several moments longer before he turned and went back to the carriage.

He sent roses the next day and every day after that for a month.

Bella wondered if she had read the signs wrong.  If Darcy wasn’t her big chance.  If the lines didn’t connect her to him.  Who, then, was she waiting for?

Still, time passed and no one came.

The flowers were delivered every Wednesday morning, and Bella strangely became used to the idea.  They continued into September and through October.  By November, Bella didn’t even blink when she found a boy on her doorstep, this time with pink roses.  How odd.  Bella didn’t know floriography.  She should probably learn.

With November came the winds and the cold.

It rarely snowed in London, but Bella could almost smell it in the air.

Darcy appeared one Tuesday morning, finely dressed, and she didn’t hesitate to let him in.

“Bingley invited me to Hertfordshire,” Darcy told her when she served him a cup of tepid tea.  “I would much rather be here with you, Miss Swan.”

“What is in Hertfordshire?” Bella asked.

“Nothing.  Country society.”  Darcy said this off-hand.

“If I should do this—” Bella began, and Darcy’s dark gaze instantly lit up. 

“I shall be true,” he promised, setting his tea aside and standing to grasp her hands.  “We can move you out of here immediately. Madam Delacroix knows to expect you.”  Bella didn’t know who Madam Delacroix even was.  “We can go to the opera—”

“The opera?” Bella wondered aloud.  She had never been to the opera.

“You shall adore the opera, Miss Swan,” Darcy promised her, never once letting go of her hands.  “All of London would be before.”

Bella, however, didn’t want all of London.  She wanted security, a home.  These rooms were only paid through the end of the month, and Bella’s luck had run out.  She could barely afford to pay the butcher and was living off of toast.  She didn’t even have marmalade to spread on it.

“Then yes,” Bella whispered, glancing up at into his gaze.  “I shall—be with you.”

And with that, Darcy leaned down and kissed her, and Bella had never tasted anything so sweet, so warm before, and she knew she had made the right decision.

The End.