“Go inside,” Darcy commanded. “Find Mrs. Annesley and remain with her until I say otherwise.”
“But, what is he doing here? Bingley would never have invited him.”
“Go now, please.”
“Be careful, Brother. He can be up to no good.”
And then she was gone, hurrying toward the safety of the house.
Wickham strode through the garden like a general surveying his troops. His militia uniform was immaculate, and he smiled, greeting the assembled guests as if he were the host.
Bingley approached, stopping him in his tracks. “Mr. Wickham, I don’t believe you’ve been invited.”
“Oh, but I have urgent news that cannot wait for proper social niceties,” Wickham replied, speaking louder than warranted.
“Perhaps we can speak in private?” Bingley suggested. “In my study?”
“What I have to say touches upon the very foundations of decent society,” Wickham announced, pausing theatrically until he had the full attention of the gathered guests. “Indeed, it concerns the protection of innocent young women from those who would take advantage of their trust.”
A terrible premonition settled over Darcy. Something in Wickham’s manner—the calculated publicity of this confrontation, the gleam of anticipated victory in his eyes—spoke of a trap about to be sprung.
“This sounds dire,” Caroline Bingley said. “Pray, tell us more.”
Wickham’s eye gleamed as he noted the audience. “I come to right a serious injury. I come on behalf of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whose condition can no longer be concealed.”
“What condition?” Bingley asked, his voice tight with growing alarm.
Wickham pointed directly at Darcy. “Ask him.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SERPENT IN THE GARDEN
Darcy’s heartcrawled to his throat as all eyes drilled into him. This wasn’t real. The garden party at Netherfield. The invasion by George Wickham, unwelcome as a plague.
“Ask him about Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Wickham accused, his voice dripping with false concern. “Ask him about her condition, which can no longer be concealed.”
Darcy’s heart nearly stopped. Elizabeth’s condition? Was she ill? Injured? The sudden thought that some misfortune had befallen her sent a rush of cold dread through his body that no amount of resentment could suppress.
“What has happened to Miss Bennet?” he demanded, advancing on Wickham with such ferocity that several ladies gasped. “If you have harmed her in any way?—”
The naked concern in his voice silenced the party. Even Caroline Bingley’s perpetual smirk faltered at the raw emotion in Darcy’s normally controlled demeanor.
“Tis so trite to accuse me, who am her protector.” Wickham’s eyes gleamed with triumph at this unguarded reaction. “Your concern is touching, if somewhat belated. For justice demands that certain consequences be acknowledged. Certain responsibilities accepted.”
“What are you talking about?” Bingley demanded as around them, guests exchanged glances of confusion.
“I speak of the natural result of clandestine meetings between a gentleman and a lady,” Wickham said with theatrical solemnity. “The inevitable consequence of compromising encounters that certain parties have been so eager to deny.”
The words hung in the air like poison gas, and Darcy felt the earth shake beneath his feet. Surely Wickham could not mean?—
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is with child,” Wickham announced to the stunned silence. “A child conceived during Mr. Darcy’s visit to Hunsford Parsonage, when he called upon her alone and unchaperoned.”
A collective gasp rippled through the gathering. Bingley coughed, spilling his drink. Sir William Lucas turned an alarming shade of purple, while Mrs. Goulding clutched her daughter’s arm as though to physically shield her from the scandalous revelation.
Darcy raised a fist, surging with white-hot fury. “You dare come here with such a vile fabrication.”
“Is it a fabrication, Mr. Darcy?” Wickham countered, his expression one of pained nobility. “You have already denied proposing to Miss Elizabeth—a claim contradicted by multiple witnesses. Would you now deny all contact with her as well?”
