He stood and reached for his discarded coat. “You say Miss Elizabeth is protective of the boy. Let us appeal to that. Every little boy loves soldiers. I was one once, remember? Perhaps he would like to meet a lieutenant colonel. If we gain the family's trust, perhaps we shall learn more. Though I think there is nothing to find.”
Darcy nodded slowly. It was a sound plan, gentle enough not to alarm Miss Elizabeth, yet effective enough to reveal the truth. And yet, even as he agreed, a knot tightened in his chest.
If his suspicions proved true—if Miss Elizabeth had hidden something so monumental—could he still love her? Could he forgive the deception? Could he marry into a web of secrets and scandal?
He did not know.
But hehadto know the truth.
And perhaps, if Providence were kind, the truth would prove him wrong.
Wickham tugged at the sleeves of his scarlet regimentals and admired himself in the mirror of the inn’s private room. The uniform clung handsomely to his shoulders, accentuating the breadth of his chest and the strength of his arms. A gleaming brass button winked at him, as if to sayYes, you are still the most charming rogue in any room.
He smirked. The ladies of Meryton would be falling over themselves tonight, just as they ought to. The militia's arrival had stirred considerableexcitement in the sleepy country town. And what better way to capitalize on it than an invitation to a card party hosted by one of the locals?
Mrs Philips was the name. Wife to a solicitor, aunt to the Bennet girls. It was almost too perfect. Denny, ever the helpful idiot, had provided the details over pints at the inn that afternoon. Wickham had listened closely, filing away each bit of gossip and family relation as neatly as cards in a deck.
He arrived fashionably late, just enough to make an impression. Denny took it upon himself to parade him about the room, and Wickham made a point of offering a charming word to every matron and daughter alike. He could flatter with a sincerity he did not feel—an art he had perfected over the years. Most of the women simpered or giggled, their cheeks pink with pleasure. Even the Long sisters, horse-toothed and watery-eyed, tittered like schoolgirls as he bowed low and complimented their gowns.
It was all for show, of course. A performance. He was good at that.
But the moment the Bennets entered the room, all artifice fell away. Mr Collins lumbered through the door first like an overstuffed turkey in ill-fitting plumage. He escorted two ladies—Miss Bennet on his right and Miss Mary on his left. Wickham’s breath caught, and a thread of disappointment tugged at his smile. He had hoped Miss Elizabeth would be by Collins’ side. But no—there she was, entering a step behind, her arm linked with a Miss Lucas.
So that is her.
Wickham’s eyes lingered. Elizabeth Bennet. The pieces had not quite fit when he had seen her up close earlier in Meryton, but now he was certain. She was the girl—no, the young woman—who had pulled the child from the wreckage all those years ago, the child he had left in the carriage, whilst he, inebriated and wholly unconcerned with the consequences of his actions, ran. She had taken the baby. What had become of it, he stilldid not know. But Elizabeth Bennet now stood before him, bright-eyed and confident, with no trace of the frightened girl he barely remembered.
Miss Bennet—the eldest—was a vision. Golden-haired, graceful, and genteel. He could appreciate her beauty, even admire it. But she was, according to Denny, as good as spoken for. The chap he had not recognized was Mr Charles Bingley, tenant of Netherfield Park. He had already laid claim to that particular prize. A pity. She would have made a fine mistress of his affections, even if only for a season.
Miss Mary appeared to be setting her sights on the parson. That suited him fine; one less distraction.
But it was Miss Elizabeth who intrigued him. Not just because she was handsome, but because she hadDarcy’sattention. As he stalked the Netherfield party during their stroll through Meryton, Darcy's gaze had been unwavering. Focused. Possessive, even.
That alone made Elizabeth Bennet worth pursuing.
Wickham had signed up for the militia that very evening. Denny had laughed and welcomed him heartily, unaware that revenge, not patriotism, fueled his decision. A red coat provided more than employment—it offered access. It allowed him proximity to people, homes, gossip, andopportunity. If he played this well, he could unseat Darcy’s affections, humiliate him, and perhaps—perhaps—even unearth whatever secret lay buried in the past. The chance of revenge was too tempting. Even Fitzwilliam's imposing presence could not frighten him away.
Now, inside Mrs Philips’ warm, candlelit parlour, Wickham circled the room like a hawk. He overheard Mr Collins blathering on to his hostess about his parsonage at Hunsford, and Wickham nearly laughed aloud when he caught the phrase"Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s living."Another delicious coincidence. Oh, how fate loved him tonight.
He drifted closer to Elizabeth, careful to time his approach just as her previous companion turned away.
“Miss Elizabeth!” he said, with the warmest smile he could summon. He bowed deeply, letting admiration gleam in his eyes. “You look lovely tonight.”
Her expression did not soften, though she curtsied politely. “How do you do, Mr Wickham? Are you enjoying my aunt’s party?”
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if to include her in a private jest. “Mrs Philips is everything hospitable. I did not expect such warmth upon joining the militia. And I certainly did not expect to meet so many… beautiful ladies.”
She smiled, but the smile did not quite reach her eyes. Wickham’s experienced instincts flared. She was wary.
Still, Wickham pressed on. “You are too kind,” she said. “I am certain the militia is fortunate to have you.”
“Certainly. I am as able-bodied as they come.” He chuckled lightly, folding his hands behind his back in a mockery of modesty. “And I intend to serve with all diligence.”
That earned a polite laugh from her. A small victory. Not all was lost.
“Oh! Forgive me, Mr Wickham. My sister is beckoning.” She turned her head slightly, and sure enough, Miss Bennet waved discreetly.
He noted with some satisfaction that the excuse was not fabricated. She could have lied, invented some escape, but she had not.
