“So much for Miss Lizzy’s virtue.”
Their words pricked like nettles, but Elizabeth steeled herself while her momentary triumph soured on her tongue.
CHAPTER TWO
A MALICIOUS MISSIVE
Darcy crushedthe letter in his fist, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. Such base cunning, such vicious manipulation—and yet he was not surprised. Wickham had always possessed an uncanny talent for exploiting weakness, and Darcy had provided him with the perfect opportunity.
The London morning that had begun with such promise now lay in ruins around him. He forced his fingers to relax, smoothing the wrinkled paper to read the damning words once more. Not responding was not an option.
My dear Darcy,
What delightful news has reached me from Hertfordshire! It seems congratulations are in order for your recent proposal to the charming Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Though I confess myself somewhat surprised that a gentleman of your exacting standards would lower himself to court a lady whose family connections you find so regrettably inferior.
Miss Bennet was most eloquent in describing your romantic declaration, particularly your struggles against your better judgment and your noble sacrificein overlooking her disadvantageous circumstances. How magnanimous of you to inform her that accepting her would require you to overlook numerous social obstacles. Such tender words of love, I’m sure.
It seems, however, that your manner of proposal left much to be desired. Speaking of her family’s inferiority and the degradation of aligning yourself with them? Declaring your love “against your will, your reason, and even your character?” Such sentiments are hardly calculated to win a lady’s affections.
Most concerning, perhaps, is your decision to seek Miss Elizabeth alone, unchaperoned, for nearly an hour. Such behavior from a man of your standing might be easily misinterpreted by society, particularly given the lady’s subsequent distress.
I write as a friend to both parties. Miss Elizabeth has naturally sought comfort from those who hold her in genuine esteem, and I have been privileged to offer her my support during this difficult time. How widely her confidence may extend beyond me, I cannot say, though the Bennet family seems quite aware of the particulars.
Recent financial difficulties have left me unable to maintain the lifestyle appropriate to a gentleman, and I believe it only fair that you provide what your late father would have wished. A sum of two thousand pounds should suffice to settle past grievances, along with a comfortable living—perhaps Kympton, which stands vacant—to ensure my continued discretion regarding certain private matters.
I trust you understand my meaning. Such a pity Miss Bennet was left unprotected during your proposal. An hour alone can give rise to the most unfortunate rumors,particularly when a lady’s refusal might be construed as wounded pride rather than genuine sentiment.
I await your response with the sincere hope that we may put this unpleasantness behind us.
Your servant,
George Wickham
The paper crackled beneath Darcy’s tightening grip as a wave of cold fury swept through him. Wickham knew everything—not merely that he had proposed, but the precise words he had spoken in what should have been a private moment. The hour alone, the rejection, the insults Wickham claimed Darcy had delivered to the Bennet family.
And there could be only one source for such detailed information.
Elizabeth.
Her name, once a source of secret pleasure even amid the pain of rejection, now tasted like poison. How quickly she must have run to Wickham upon her return to Hertfordshire. How eagerly she must have shared every mortifying detail of his failed proposal, laughing together over his humiliation.
His mind conjured unwelcome images: Elizabeth and Wickham, heads bent close together as she recounted his most private emotions. Perhaps she had mimicked his voice, his expressions. Perhaps Wickham had taken her hand in false sympathy while they laughed at his expense. The thought of Wickham’s fingers touching hers, of his practiced charm directed at Elizabeth while she shared the intimate details of the ill-fated proposal sparked a jealous rage he had never before experienced.
And a sinking sense of dire betrayal.
A knock at the study door interrupted his brooding. “Enter,” he called, his voice harsher than intended.
His valet, Barany, appeared, bearing a silver tray. “Your correspondence, sir. And dinner is ready to be served.”
“I am not dining tonight.” Darcy took the letters without looking at them. “Barany, what do you know of the local magistrates in Hertfordshire?”
The valet’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Very little, sir. Though I believe Sir William Lucas holds some position in Meryton.”
“And their procedures for investigating questionable claims?”
“I could not say, sir. Shall I make inquiries?”
“No.” Darcy waved him away. “That will be all.”
