She inclined her head politely, but her instincts stirred. Something in his gaze was too intent, too knowing.
“And how do you find your time here in Hertfordshire?” she asked lightly.
“Pleasant. The society is generous. And the women…” He paused. “Enchanting.”
She did not answer.
“I have watched you,” he said. “You are cleverer than most, Miss Bennet. And certainly, more beautiful.”
“I am flattered, Mr Wickham, but you must know I am engaged in a courtship.”
“Are you?” he asked, undeterred. “Who is the fortunate gentleman?”
“Mr Darcy. He has been very kind. It is a recent occurrence—our courtship becoming official.” She smiled thinly.
“I should have guessed.” Wickham’s smile faded into something quieter. “Wealthy men always have the gift of acquiring things that others—less fortunate men—could only dream of.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Are you implying something, sir?”
He sighed. “Only that I should have spoken to you sooner. But even now, I cannot be silent. You are the kind of woman a man remembers.”
“I am honoured, Mr Wickham, but I must again remind you—”
“—thatyou are courting another.” He gave a theatrical shrug. “But what is courtship, Miss Bennet, if not the testing of hearts? Until vows are spoken, there is always a chance.”
Her discomfort sharpened. “You presume a great deal.”
“Only that which I feel,” he said. “And I am a man who follows his instincts.”
She stepped back. “The rain is returning. I must go.”
He bowed low. “Then allow me to say—until we meet again.”
Elizabeth walked away quickly, the first drops falling as she turned the corner. Her mind swirled. What had Mr Wickham truly meant by his words? Was it simply misplaced attraction—or something more?
By the time she reached Longbourn, her boots were muddy and her shawl damp at the edges. She slipped through the back door and climbed the stairs, pausing only when Hill, the housekeeper, called out.
“Miss Elizabeth—this was left for you.” She handed over a folded piece of paper.
“No messenger?”
Hill shook her head. “It was slipped under the front door.”
A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the rain.Slipped. Quietly. Deliberately.Frowning, Elizabeth took it to her room and closed the door. The paper was plain, with no seal or signature. She unfolded it slowly, her fingers stiff, as though already bracing for harm.
A single sentence greeted her:
“I know your secret.”There was no greeting. No name. No threat—because none was needed.
Below it was a sketch in charcoal—a child, small and smiling, with his hair flopped across his forehead in a familiar golden wave.
Her breath caught. The paper trembled in her hands. Her knees went weak, and she sank to the edge of her bed. Tommy. Someone knew.Not suspected. Not guessed. Knew.
Elizabeth stood frozen, the note still trembling in her fingers. Her pulse thundered in her ears, each beat a rising drum of panic. Someone knew.And if one person knows, how long before others did?
Without thought, she bolted from her room, the paper clenched in her hand. Her feet carried her down the hall and towards the one place she instinctively turned in moments of crisis—her father’s study. If this was real—if this was the beginning of exposure—then it could not be borne alone.
She rapped once—sharply—and then opened the door before he could respond.
