Elizabeth was in no mood for flowery speculation. “I do need to get on my way, Lieutenant Wickham. My family will expect me.”
“And yet… I note your reluctance to return to Longbourn.” He paused, watching her carefully. “These are not the actions of a woman with an ordinary problem.”
“My problems are my own concern, Lieutenant,” Elizabeth said coldly. “I fail to see what interest they could hold for you.”
“Perhaps more than you realize.” Wickham’s voice dropped even lower. “You visited your uncle with questions about inheritance disputes, particularly regarding a female heir previously believed dead. A rather specific legal inquiry for a young lady, wouldn’t you agree?”
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. “As I explained to my uncle, I am contemplating writing a novel.”
“Of course,” Wickham grinned. “A novel about a young woman who discovers she is not who she believed herself to be. A young woman whose birthright has been stolen through deception and murder.”
Elizabeth backed away a step, her back pressing against the damp brick wall. “How could you know that?”
“I know many things, Miss Elizabeth. Or should I say, Miss Darcy?”
“You’re mad,” she whispered, though her reaction had already betrayed her.
“Am I?” Wickham’s expression softened. “I suspected when we were introduced at Meryton. Something about your eyes… They’re so like your father’s. John Darcy had the same intelligent gaze. And then at Lucas Lodge, when you revealed your middle name was Rose—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I knew then that you must be Elizabeth Rose Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The sounds of the street seemed to fade away. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I knew your parents,” Wickham replied. “My father was steward at Pemberley, and I grew up on the estate. John Darcy was a good man—kind, fair, beloved by all who knew him. His murder was a terrible injustice.”
Elizabeth’s heart quickened at the mention of her father. “You knew my father?”
“I was very young when he died, but yes, I remember him,” Wickham said, his expression softening. “And your mother was a beauty—spirited and clever, much like yourself.”
“If you knew them, then you must know who killed them,” Elizabeth pressed, her heartbeat skipping erratically.
Wickham hesitated, his expression troubled. “There were many who benefited from their deaths, primarily William Darcy, Fitzwilliam’s father. But proving it after all these years…” He shook his head. “That would require evidence.”
“What evidence?” Elizabeth asked eagerly, stepping closer despite herself.
Wickham appeared to wrestle with some inner conflict. “I shouldn’t say. It’s not my place to interfere.”
“Please,” Elizabeth implored. “I have nowhere else to turn.”
Wickham sighed heavily, as if reluctant to disclose this information. “There’s someone who might know more. Someone who was there the night of the fire.”
“Who?”
“My mother,” Wickham admitted, as if the words were being dragged from him unwillingly. “Martha Wickham. She lives at Rose Cottage on the Pemberley estate—the very place where your parents died.”
“Your mother?” Elizabeth breathed, pieces falling into place. “She was there?”
“Yes, she was the one who wrote you,” he replied, watching her reaction closely. “She was there the night of the fire at Rose Cottage. She’s been waiting twenty years to fulfill her promise to your parents.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath Elizabeth’s feet. She steadied herself against the brick wall, heedless of its rough surface. “Your mother saved me?”
“Yes, she did, at great personal risk,” Wickham confirmed, his voice low with intensity. “She delivered you to your uncle Bennet. She’s kept certain items secure all these years.”
“What items?” Elizabeth demanded, her pulse racing.
Wickham glanced nervously toward the mouth of the alley. “Documents, a small portrait, a letter from your mother to you—things that could prove your identity beyond question.” He looked back at her, his expression grave. “She sent me to find you, to ensure you received her letter, to help you claim what is rightfully yours.”
“I received a letter,” Elizabeth admitted, “but it was unsigned.”
“A necessary precaution,” Wickham explained. “If it had been intercepted… well, there are still those who would prefer the world believe Elizabeth Rose Darcy died in that fire.”
