“Your intentions are irrelevant,” Lady Hartford snapped. “What matters is how events appeared to those who witnessed them. And they appeared scandalous.”
“Our only hope was to apprehend the true culprit and see him brought to trial,” Lord Hartford continued. “Then you would have been hailed as a hero rather than suspected as a villain. But without that…” he spread his hands in a gesture of defeat.
“Then what do you propose?” Darcy asked, though something in Lord Hartford’s expression suggested he already knew. Was he about to lose his place? Be cast out like a villain in a poorly written play?
“Marriage,” Lord Hartford said simply. “Between you and Elizabeth. It is the only way to salvage both your reputations.”
“Marriage? My lord, surely you cannot be serious.” Darcy’s ears rang.
“Papa,” Lady Elizabeth called, aghast.
“Entirely serious. You were found in a compromising position with my daughter. Whether by your design orcircumstances beyond your control matters little. Society demands resolution.”
“But I compromised no one,” Darcy said desperately. “I acted to protect Lady Elizabeth, nothing more.”
“Then you should have thought of that before allowing yourself to be discovered alone with her in such circumstances,” Lady Hartford said coldly. “Innocent or not, you have ruined her reputation as surely as if you had planned it.”
Darcy turned to Elizabeth, seeking some sign of her thoughts, but her face had gone rigid with fury. When she spoke, her voice shook with barely controlled rage.
“You stood there and watched him attack me. You saw him. I know it. Yet you choose to protect him rather than speak the truth.” She rose from her chair, her hands clenched at her sides. “You would rather see me blamed than identify my attacker with certainty.”
“Lady Elizabeth, that is not—”
“Is it not?” Her eyes blazed with anger and hurt. “Then tell them now. Tell them you saw George Wickham. Tell them you are certain of his identity.”
The room fell silent except for the tick of the mantel clock. Darcy stood frozen, caught between Elizabeth’s demand for justice and the image of Mr Wickham’s gentle face crumpling with shame.
“I cannot,” he said finally.
Elizabeth’s face went white, then red, then white again. “Then you are a coward and a liar.” She turned to her father. “Iwill not marry him. Not a man who lies to my face. Not a man who has no honour.”
“Elizabeth!” Lord Hartford’s voice cracked like a whip. “That is quite enough. The situation is what it is, and we must deal with it practically.”
“Practically?” Elizabeth whirled to face her father. “You want me to marry a man who would rather protect a scoundrel who tried to compromise me than my honour?”
“I want you to marry the man whose actions, however misguided, have nonetheless compromised your reputation beyond repair,” Lord Hartford said. “The alternative is social ruin for you and disgrace for our entire family.”
“Then I choose ruin,” Elizabeth declared.
“You do not have that luxury. Your sisters’ futures depend upon how we resolve this matter.” Her father looked at her with a hard expression Darcy has never seen before.
“And what of Jane?” her mother added. “Her misguided attachment to Mr Bingley is bad enough, but a disgraced sister? She will never recover. They will all end up old maids with only Mr Collins to look after them once your papa is dead. Would you wish that on anyone?”
Elizabeth’s shoulders sagged slightly as the weight of family obligation settled upon them.
Darcy watched this exchange with growing horror. Marriage to Lady Elizabeth—a woman who now looked at him with undisguised contempt, who believed him a coward and a betrayer. How could any happiness be built upon such a foundation?
“There must be another way,” he said desperately.
“There is not,” Lord Hartford replied with finality. “You will marry Elizabeth within the fortnight, or you will find employment elsewhere whilst she bears the scandal of your actions alone. Those are your choices, Mr Darcy. Choose wisely.”
Chapter Fourteen
Darcy
Darcy folded the official notice with deliberate care, though his hands trembled slightly with the weight of what it contained. The paper bore Lord Hartford’s seal and formal script, requesting that Mr Charles Bingley vacate Longbourn by month’s end to accommodate the incoming residence of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy and his bride. He knew its content because Lord Hartford had told him what it contained before he’d sent him to deliver it. He hadn’t had the heart to give it to Bingley just yet. The jovial young man had invited him for tea and spent some time chatting about his day. It had been such a nice distraction he hadn’t been able to bring himself to say it out loud from the start. Now, as he sat with his tea, he knew he could procrastinate no further.
“I am truly sorry, Bingley,” Darcy said, pushing the letter over to his friend. “This was never my intention when I accepted Lord Hartford’s arrangement.”
