“He was so convincing,” Lydia whispered. “He said that you were the real villain—that you had stolen his father’s affection and spread lies about him out of jealousy.”
Darcy closed his eyes, feeling the weight of Wickham’s manipulations settling over him like a shroud. “What else did he tell you?”
“That he had none left in his life, that you abandoned him, that is father did the same. He was so lonesome.”
“Did he ask you for coin?”
“Yes, but I only receive modest pin money. I have been bringing him food, books, and other assortments.” She looked up at Darcy with dawning horror in her eyes. “He promised he would take me away with him.”
There it was. She had fallen for the rogue. He closed his eyes. Lady Lydia was scarcely older than Georgiana. And unlike his sister, she was a naïve girl. Impressionable. Sheltered.
“Give him nothing. He will gamble it away in London’s rookeries or worse. Pray, this morning you were determined that I was horrid and wrong. Why come here now?”
Lydia’s face crumpled. “I suspected something was not right when I spoke with Elizabeth tonight. When I accused her of those terrible things, I could see the truth in her eyes. So I went to George and asked him to take me away with him, to prove his intentions were honourable.”
“What did he say?”
“He made grand promises, but something in his voice told me he was lying. He told him I could take things from the house and we could sell them. He said I should bring him anything I could. Jewellery, candle sticks—that he would go ahead to London and sell it all, then he would send for me.” She looked up at Darcy with desperate eyes. “He thinks me a fool.”
Perhaps she was not as naïve as he had thought.
“Show me where this cabin is.”
They made their way through the darkness, Lydia leading him along overgrown paths that wound deep into the estate’s wooded areas until they found a cabin. Netherfield could be seen in the distance, not five minutes away. How reckless of Wickham. And how typical.
“Wait here,” Darcy instructed.
Darcy pushed open the cabin door without ceremony, revealing a scene that confirmed his worst suspicions. Wickham reclined on a shabby chaise, surrounded by empty wine bottles and the remnants of elaborate meals. Books lay scattered about alongside a silver candlestick.
“Well, well,” Wickham drawled, not bothering to rise. “If it is not my dear almost brother come to visit.”
“I told you never to return here. That was the condition for my silence.”
“Ah, but circumstances change, do they not? The pittance you gave me barely lasted a month in London. A man must eat, after all.”
“And to achieve that you have been taking advantage of a seventeen-year-old girl’s naivety.”
Wickham laughed, the sound harsh and without warmth. “Taking advantage? I would hardly call it that. Young Lady Lydia has been most… generous with her assistance. Foolish, vapid girl. She thinks I will take her away and marry her, can you believe it? She does not have her sister’s wit or smarts, that is certain.”
Behind him, Darcy heard Lady Lydia gasp and her footsteps retreating rapidly into the night. Wickham, too deep in his cups to notice, continued his lazy smile. Darcy could only hope Lady Lydia would have the sense to rush to her father and bring him here.
“Why can you never act with decency?” Darcy demanded. “You had everything given to you—a living, an education, a comfortable future. Why was that never enough?”
“Because it was never truly mine,” Wickham snarled, his genial mask slipping away. “I had a father who loved me until you and Georgiana arrived and became the preferred children. Oh, I understood why he favoured her—a sweet little girl. But you? You were always surly and boring. Yet he always preferred you.”
“That is not true, and you know it.”
“Is it not? Every conversation became about your accomplishments, your future, your potential. I became an afterthought in my own father’s house.”
“Your father was disappointed in you because you consistently chose wrongly,” Darcy shot back. “It was as though two paths lay before you—one right, one wrong, both clearly marked—and you deliberately chose the wrong one every time.”
“How observant of you. Have you ever considered that when you are second best, every path is the wrong path?”
“Stop blaming others for your own decisions. The only thing your father wants before he dies is to know that his son has chosen the right path at last. That he can be proud of you.”
Wickham’s face went pale. “What do you mean, before he dies?”
“Your father is gravely ill. The physician believes he has only months left.”
