“I figured as much.” A new voice joined the fray. It was Darcy. “All of you believe Elizabeth is my baby cousin. Daughter of my uncle John. Or that is Mrs. Wickham’s story. You aim to defraud me of my estate, and Miss Elizabeth, I had believed you to be innocent, to be deceived, but now I see the real plan. You would aid the Wickhams in stealing Pemberley.”
“I have not agreed to marry Mr. Wickham,” Elizabeth protested. “I will not agree to marry anyone.”
“You stubborn girl,” Mrs. Wickham hissed. “I can provide the proof, but I need your good faith. Elizabeth, come, George is waiting for an answer from you.”
“No.” Elizabeth dug in her heels. “I would rather lose my inheritance than marry a man I do not regard.”
“Of course,” Bingley said gently. “You need time to think, to consider your options. In the meantime, you are under my protection until you return to Longbourn after the All Hallows’ Eve Assembly Caroline is planning. We shall invite local society and your family, won’t we, Darcy? And it would be capital fun, right, Caroline?”
“Oh, yes, dear Miss Eliza.” Caroline put an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Mrs. Wickham, I believe you were leaving? I shall ensure that Miss Eliza has every comfort the Bingleys can provide.”
“You are walking into their trap,” Mrs. Wickham hissed. “I was the one who saved you from the fire.”
“For that, I am grateful,” Elizabeth said. “But no one traps Elizabeth Rose Bennet. No man and no woman.”
With that, she allowed Caroline to lead her back into Pemberley—her own inheritance—where she would prove her right to claim it while staying alive. She would ignore one Fitzwilliam Darcy and spare herself any guilt when she became the mistress of Pemberley.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE RELUCTANT PROTECTOR
Darcy stoodat the drawing room window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, watching Martha Wickham’s retreat down the gravel drive. Behind him, Elizabeth Bennet sat rigidly on the settee, her eyes fixed on his back with an intensity he could feel without turning around. The confrontation had left the drawing room charged with tension.
His chest burned with the complexity of it all. How had his orderly world become entangled with claims of murder, inheritance disputes, and a young woman whose very presence upended every assumption he had held about his family’s history?
Elizabeth’s defense of Mrs. Wickham had been pointed, her sense of justice evident even as she challenged his authority in his own home. That willingness to stand up for someone she believed wronged spoke to a character he might have admired under different circumstances.
If only he could be certain she wasn’t being manipulated by the very people she sought to defend.
The aftermath had left the drawing room in a state of awkward disarray. Caroline paced near the window, herfingers working nervously at her handkerchief. Louisa Hurst had retreated to the far corner, whispering furiously to her husband, who for once appeared fully awake.
Darcy moved to the fireplace, needing the support of the marble mantelpiece as Elizabeth’s words echoed in his mind:You are everything I believed you to be at our first meeting, Mr. Darcy, and I thank you for removing any doubt on that score.
The comment had stung, as if she had hoped for better from him and found herself let down. The thought troubled him more than he cared to admit.
Charles Bingley, ever the peacemaker, hovered uncertainly. He cleared his throat twice before approaching Elizabeth with a cautious step. “Miss Bennet, perhaps a glass of water? Or tea? You must be… that is to say, after such… such a discussion…”
Elizabeth remained unmoved by his stammering solicitude, her posture rigid as marble. She might have been carved from stone, beautiful and terrible in her majestic fury. The only sign of inner turmoil was the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
The silence stretched between them all, heavy with unspoken accusations.Sons and daughters of murderers.The words echoed in his mind, cutting deeper with each repetition. The idea that his father—stern but scrupulously honorable—could have been involved in the deaths of John and Rose Darcy was preposterous—bordering on insane—slanderously so.
A fiction concocted by Mrs. Wickham to draw an impulsive young woman into posing as his long-dead infant cousin.
Darcy wheeled around, studying the woman who sat so straight-backed on his settee. Her chin was raised in defiance, but he caught a flicker of uncertainty in her dark eyes that suggested she was not entirely sure of her ground either.
“You truly believe Mrs. Wickham’s claims?” he asked, though his tone carried more curiosity than accusation.
Her answer was a flash of those fine eyes that seemed to pierce him through, though her voice when she spoke was steady. “I believemy father would not have confirmed them lightly. He is many things, Mr. Darcy, but not a liar.”
“Now, Darcy, perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding,” Charles bleated like a lost lamb, earning him narrowed eyes from the rest of the room’s occupants.
The soft creak of the drawing room door and Georgiana’s voice broke the tense silence.
“Brother? Mrs. Reynolds said we had visitors for tea, but I—” She stopped abruptly, her footsteps faltering as she took in the strained atmosphere.
“Georgiana. Yes, we have guests.” Darcy forced warmth into his voice. “Mr. Bingley and his sisters have arrived from Hertfordshire, along with Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Oh,” Georgiana said softly, her gaze moving from face to face. “Have I interrupted something important? You all look rather… serious.”
