Lord Hartford settled behind his desk whilst Lady Hartford took the remaining chair, leaving Darcy to stand like a schoolboy awaiting punishment.
“Lady Elizabeth has given us her account of last evening’s events,” Lord Hartford began without preamble. “She maintains that Mr Wickham forced his attentions upon her, and that you intervened to drive him off.”
“That is correct, my lord. It is what she stated last night.”
“Then you can confirm it was indeed Mr Wickham who attacked my daughter?”
The moment Darcy had dreaded was upon him. Lady Elizabeth’s eyes finally met his, and he saw trust there—expectation that he would speak truth and ensure justice was served. The weight of Mr Wickham’s broken heart pressed against his chest like a stone.
“I…” Darcy began, then stopped. “The circumstances were confusing, my lord. It was very dark.”
Lady Elizabeth’s head snapped up. “Dark? Mr Darcy, you were close enough to strike him. You cannot claim you did not see clearly.”
“The lighting was poor. Shadows from the garden, moonlight obscured by clouds. I reacted to your distress, but I cannot swear with certainty to the man’s identity. I saw a figure which fitted him, but it might have also been someone else. Remember, I saw him from behind only.”
Silence fell like a curtain. Elizabeth stared at him with growing horror, whilst Lady Hartford’s expression shifted from irritation to incredulity.
“You cannot be certain?” Lord Hartford repeated slowly. “You chased a man you could not properly identify?”
“I heard Lady Elizabeth cry out and saw a figure fleeing. I acted on instinct.” The lies tasted like ash in his mouth. “From a distance, in poor light, many gentlemen appear similar—dark evening coats, white cravats.”
“You were face to face,” Lady Elizabeth said. “You looked directly at him before you struck him down. How can you claim uncertainty?” She rose.
“Elizabeth.” Lord Hartford’s voice cut through her protest. “Sit down.” His weathered face had grown grave as the implications sank in. “Mr Darcy, do you believe Mr Wickham capable of such behaviour?”
Another trap, another choice between truth and mercy. “I have known George Wickham since childhood, my lord. Whilst he has his faults, I cannot imagine him forcing his attentions upon any lady. Such conduct would be entirely contrary to his character.”
The words seemed to strike Elizabeth like hard as she pushed her back against the chair. Her face cycling through disbelief, anger, and something approaching despair.
“Then you suggest my daughter is mistaken about her attacker’s identity?” Lady Hartford’s voice had grown dangerously quiet.
“I suggest that I cannot reliable say one way or the other who the person was.”
“Stop.” Elizabeth’s voice cut through his explanation like a blade. “Just stop. I spoke to Mr Wickham at length beforehand. He attacked me. You are calling me a liar.”
Lord Hartford leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. “Elizabeth, the man who came after you in the garden, did you see his face?”
She paused, looking around the room before shaking her head. “No. I did not. But I smelled his cologne. It was the sameas Mr Wickham’s and who would it have been if not him? It makes no sense.”
She rubbed her lips together and Darcy could see doubt creeping in. She was unsure of herself. He hated himself for making her doubt herself in such a way.
“This places us in an impossible position. Without your corroboration, we cannot pursue charges against Mr Wickham or anyone else. The matter becomes he-said, she-said, with no resolution possible.”
“Could we not contact Mr Wickham’s father at Matlock?” Lady Hartford suggested. “Surely he might know his son’s whereabouts.”
“Even if we found him,” Lord Hartford replied, “what then? Without Mr Darcy’s certain identification, any accusations would be easily denied. A clergyman’s word against a hysterical young woman’s claims.”
“I am not hysterical,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth.
“Of course not. But that is how society will view it.” Lord Hartford’s expression grew increasingly grim. “Which brings us to our current predicament. Half the neighbourhood witnessed you in what appeared to be a compromising position with our steward. Without a clear villain to blame, speculation will run rampant.”
Lady Hartford’s face had gone white. “The gossip is already spreading like wildfire. Mrs Long called this morning, supposedly to enquire after Elizabeth’s health, but really to fish for details.”
“What precisely are they saying?” Darcy asked, though he dreaded the answer.
“That you compromised my daughter,” Lord Hartford said bluntly. “That you took advantage of your position and her isolation to force your attentions upon her. The romantic notion that you were protecting her from some mysterious attacker grows less credible by the hour.”
“But I did nothing wrong,” Darcy protested.
