“You have treated no woman with respect in your entire life,” Darcy replied coldly. “Your history of seductionand abandonment stretches from Derbyshire to London and, apparently, now to Hertfordshire.”
“Strong accusations from a man who would deny his child,” Wickham retorted, his voice rising with practiced indignation. “But fear not, my friends, I come to propose a solution that would benefit all parties involved.”
And here came the true purpose of Wickham’s slanderous accusations. Darcy bristled, charging at the scoundrel but held back by Sir William Lucas and Colonel Forster.
“What solution?” Bingley asked, his expression troubled.
Wickham straightened, assuming an air of noble sacrifice. “I am willing to marry Miss Elizabeth and claim the child as my own, sparing both her and Mr. Darcy the full scandal of their… indiscretion.”
“How noble of you, Mr. Wickham,” Caroline exclaimed with glee. “Saving the Darcy reputation.”
“Of course,” Wickham continued with calculated reluctance, “such a sacrifice would require certain considerations. The child will need proper provision, and I cannot be expected to assume responsibility for another man’s offspring without adequate compensation.”
“How much is just compensation?” Mrs. Long inquired. “For such an honorable deed?”
“Merely, five thousand pounds annually,” Wickham replied promptly, “to ensure the child’s proper upbringing and education as befitting his Darcy blood.”
The casual mention of such an enormous annual sum sent fresh ripples of shock through the assembled guests. Five thousand pounds per year represented a gentleman’s entire income, the kind of settlement that would keep Wickham in luxury for life.
“You bastard,” Darcy whispered.
“Perhaps,” Wickham agreed with apparent sadness, “but at least I am not a bastard who abandons women to face society’s judgment alone. I offer marriage, legitimacy, and a father’s protection to an innocent child. What do you offer beyond denials and character assassination?”
The image of Elizabeth bound to this man—bearing his children, enduring his cruelties, trapped in a marriage based on lies—sent a wave of protective fury through Darcy that dwarfed his anger at the slander.
“I will not pay a single shilling to propagate your lies,” Darcy declared.
“You may not acknowledge your child now,” Wickham said, “but when your son is born and bears those distinctive Darcy eyes, will you still deny him? Will you abandon your own blood to a life of shame when simple acknowledgment could secure its future?”
“Enough,” Darcy snapped authoritatively. “You will leave now, Wickham, or I will have you removed.”
“I will leave,” Wickham agreed. “But this matter is far from resolved. Miss Elizabeth’s condition will become known to all of Hertfordshire within weeks. What will you say then, when your denial is contradicted by the evidence of her expanding waistline?”
The crude reference to Elizabeth’s body—whether the pregnancy was real or imagined—was the final provocation.
“You will answer for this slander,” Darcy said, each word precise and cold as ice. “Choose your second. Tomorrow morning. Oakham Mount. Dawn.”
The challenge hung in the air, its meaning unmistakable. Dueling had been illegal for decades, yet the code of honor recognized it as the ultimate recourse when reputation was at stake. A shocked murmur ran through the assembled guests.
Wickham’s eyes widened slightly—he had clearly not anticipated this development—but he recovered quickly. “You challenge me over a matter of simple truth? Very well, Darcy. I accept. Though I wonder what Miss Elizabeth will think when she learns you would rather kill me than acknowledge your child.”
“My second will call on you this evening,” Darcy replied, ignoring the barb. “Now get out.”
With a stiff bow that managed to convey both defiance and mock respect, Wickham turned and strode from the terrace.
The silence that followed was absolute. Every guest stood frozen, torn between social propriety and human fascination with the drama they had witnessed.
“A duel?” Mrs. Long ejaculated. “How utterly barbaric!”
“And illegal,” Sir William added, finding his voice. “As a magistrate, I cannot condone such actions, Mr. Darcy.”
“Then I suggest you leave now, Sir William,” Darcy replied coldly. “So that your legal sensibilities will not be further offended.”
Bingley quickly intervened. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe the musicians are prepared in the drawing room. Shall we adjourn for some light entertainment before dinner?”
Sir William Lucas and Mr. Goulding immediately took charge and herded the stunned guests toward the house, leaving only Bingley and Darcy on the garden terrace.
“Darcy,” Bingley began, his voice low and urgent, “you cannot seriously intend to meet Wickham. Dueling is?—”
