“Your actions since then have lessened you in my eyes.”
Wickham smiled. “I would have thought my value to you increased, given the result,Mrs Darcy.”
He had realised the truth of what happened in Scotland. “What do you intend to say about my marriage?”
“About how you were forced to marry to save your good names?” he said with a dark look. “And how your supposed love match is a farce? Not a thing!” he cried brightly. “Your marriage benefits me, too, as shown from your kindness to your sister-in-law.”
He wanted more money. Darcy had been right. Any kindness of money or gifts through her hands only made Wickham greedier. “There will be no more money from me. You may take your chances with the court and sue Mr Darcy for Georgiana’s share of Lady Anne’s marriage articles.”
“The attorneys say I am not likely to win, I am afraid. But I am likely to gain something from you.”
“From me?” she said, surprised. “I have given your wife about five pounds and a trinket box. Hardly a fortune, but you ought to have finer rooms and a servant by now. You will get nothing more; I have done quite enough.”
She turned away, but he put out a hand. “Wait. I want to return your letters.”
“My letters?” she repeated.
He held out a few folded pages. “Georgiana took them when she retrieved her belongings.”
Elizabeth took them back in confusion. They were only a few invitations and a letter to her aunt that she meant to finish. “Why? Did she mistake them for hers?”
“No,” he said cheerfully. “I asked her to take what correspondence she could find. And also to see if she could steal anything of value that would fit in her reticule.”
An item to sell made sense, but why her letters? “You are adespicable man, and you have incited your wife into thievery. What could you have hoped to find in my letters?”
“I was certain to find a letter to a friend or sister that shared your true thoughts on your husband. I expected a few humiliating words about how tiresome you found Mr Darcy or perhaps how you deeply regretted your marriage. Or if you tolerated your marriage because he was rich. Anything along those lines.”
She shoved the letters into her reticule, eager to be away from him. “You must have been dreadfully disappointed, for I am exceedingly fond of him.”
“Oh, yes.” He laughed. “That is abundantly clear. Much to my surprise, I might add.”
His tone kept her by his side. He was delighted, but there was a sharp look in his eyes. Nothing at all made sense. Wickham then drew out her small journal, and the sight of it took her back. The letters had been on the table with it; Georgiana must have taken them all. She had been preoccupied with activities—and missing Darcy—and had not noticed.
Wickham thumbed to the last page, grinning, and she knew what he would find there. “This is very frank, Mrs Darcy. ‘Who knew such raptures awaited me? His embrace in the library left me eager and unsatisfied, and when he returns I fully expect to?—’”
“Stop,” she hissed, feeling tears in her eyes. “If you came here to humiliate me, consider it done.”
“I do not wish to shame you, Mrs Darcy,” he said earnestly. “No, no, reading it aloud was only a little amusement for me. I am here to demand fifty pounds for the return of this journal.”
Elizabeth exhaled shakily and dashed away her tears. “There is nothing there that is indecent. Embarrassing, certainly, but Mr Darcy is my husband and?—”
“Is that whom you are speaking of in this lewd entry?”
Everything about this encounter piled confusion upon confusion. “Of course it is. I use his name!”
Wickham peered closer at the journal. “Hmm, you do on the previous page.” She saw his eyes move to the top of the next, and hepointed. “But here it is all ‘his’ lips, ‘his’ arms and what you want ‘him’ to do. Why, you might have been writing about anyone, like me.”
Her heart sank, and her stomach clenched. “Why would I write about you when I am married to him?”
“Because you are unfulfilled. You do not love your husband. You prefer me to all other men.”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Oh no? I think this would be enough to convince anyone otherwise. No date on this page, no name, and it is in my possession. Why, if I tore out this page, it might be taken as an expression of longing for your secret lover. A billet-doux. My word and society’s appreciation of a scandal could do you a great deal of damage.”
“And I will say I was writing about my new husband and that will be the end of it—and you will look like the resentful fool that you are,” she said with affected unconcern.
Wickham glanced at her with smug confidence. “I think it will look like you and I have had a long-standing affair.”
