Fitzwilliam sighed. “Wickham has always been greedy. Your father meant well, taking him under his wing, but I think it was the worst thing for him in the end. He always wished he could beyou, and never troubled to find a place for himself.”
Darcy closed his eyes, feeling his cousin’s words tear at an old wound, still not healed. His father had been blind to Wickham’s faults all the days of his life. He had not believed his son, nor had he been willing to hear his warnings. Like Georgiana, their father had seen only the best of Wickham, and ignored the darkness.
But that was a dangerous game, for Wickham’s mask always slipped in the end, and when it did, there was nothing he would not do. Georgiana ought to know that now, but she had not learned it yet, and Darcy would do whatever it took to keep her from finding out. As long as Wickham held out hope for her money, he could not hurt her. If the price of that protection was keeping Wickham under control, playing the role of the selfish, controlling older brother who wished to keep his sister’s dowry a little longer, Darcy would play it gladly.
Of course, there might be another price to pay, as there were other risks. Uneasily, Darcy thought of how Elizabeth looked at Wickham, with a mix of admiration and compassion. And had it not been her conversation with Georgiana that had led to this meeting? This, too, might have been part of Wickham’s plan. Invited into Pemberley, he would doubtless like nothing more than to sway Darcy’s own wife into his confidence, as he had once swayed his father. Wickham would likely find that highly satisfying — and Darcy found the thought almost unbearable. Wickham could not be allowed to manipulate Elizabeth.
That left him only one option: he had to warn her about Wickham’s true nature.
“I must go,” Darcy said at last. Fitzwilliam left him with only a nod of farewell. With that, Darcy went to find his wife.
He looked in the drawing room and her bedchamber, then went down the hall to the library when he could not find her. She was standing in front of the large windows, reading in the sunlight. She seemed to be surrounded by a sort of golden halo, encasing her in its warmth. His heart twisted at the thought of breaking that serenity, but his purpose did not waver.
“Elizabeth,” he said, clearing his throat to announce his presence when he was several paces from her.
She turned, her lips curving into a smile upon seeing him. “Hello, Mr Darcy,” she said. “I was just enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Is there something I can do?” she asked.
His heart clenched. She was always wishing to help others, so different from Wickham. And Wickham, if he could, would use that desire to manipulate her to his own ends. Fitzwilliam was right; he was an expert at twisting people’s words, at twisting the truth to fit his own selfish desires.
“I have just come from a meeting with Mr Wickham,” Darcy said at last, keeping his voice even with an effort. It would not do to let his own frustration and fear overshadow the seriousness of the matter. He raked a hand through his hair, hoping against hope that Elizabeth would understand.
“Oh? Is something amiss?” Elizabeth asked. Closing her book, she set it down on the windowsill. She folded her hands, obviously put on her guard.
“I’m afraid there is,” he said, haunted by doubt. Elizabeth must not be taken in by Wickham’s charm. She would wish to think the best of him, as she did of everyone, but she must know the truth.
Only, would she believe it?
Darcy summoned all his resolve and began. “I must put you on your guard. Mr Wickham is not the man you think he is. I know he is charming and eloquent, but these pleasant characteristics are little more than a mask constructed to hide a near-total lack of character.” He let out a frustrated growl. “You must remember the circumstances of his marriage to my sister. He eloped with a young girl, taking her away from her family. And there is more, too — a long, sorry history of avarice, sin, and deceit. I am very sorry to have to say this, but he is not to be trusted.”
Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with shock. “Mr Darcy, is it really —”
Elizabeth was unable to finish, for in the next instant, Lady Catherine walked into the library.
“It is high time we had another lesson, Mrs Darcy,” she declared. “Let us go to the drawing room straight away.”
Elizabeth paused a moment, glancing at him. But they could not continue such a topic in front of Lady Catherine, nor was she likely to accept a dismissal. “I will come,” Elizabeth said at last.
“Perhaps that is for the best,” Darcy said, willing her to understand the meaning behind his words. “We shall do better to continue this at another time.”
Elizabeth nodded, then went to join his aunt in the doorway. With one last backward glance, she left the room. Was it only wistful thinking that made him believe it apologetic? He could not help but wonder what she had been about to say, something that had sounded like a defence of Wickham. Had she been deceived by his pleasant mask?
Darcy found himself pacing back and forth through the library, as though walking aimlessly could make up for a lack of direction. Protecting Georgiana, protecting Elizabeth. His sister had already been fooled. Was his wife about to be fooled as well?
The idea was not impossible — only unbearable. Darcy might never have his wife’s heart, but he could not stand to lose her good opinion of him.
Chapter 22
To Elizabeth’s surprise, Lady Catherine had informed her that her next lesson would not be held in the conservatory or parlour, but in the suite of rooms belonging to the mistress of Pemberley: namely, in Elizabeth’s own bedchamber. More surprising still, Georgiana had also been included in the summons. She knocked on Elizabeth’s door shortly before the lesson was to begin.
“Good afternoon, Georgiana,” Elizabeth greeted Georgiana and promptly closed the door behind her. “Do you have any notion of what Lady Catherine would speak to us about today? I find it strange that she asked to meet with us here, instead of downstairs.”
“I have not the slightest idea. However, I find it telling that Miss de Bourgh is not present in the invitation,” Georgiana replied.
Elizabeth had not thought of that detail. “You are quite right,” she said. “What can it possibly be about?” she asked.
Georgiana gave an expressive, if rather unladylike, shrug. “Well, whatever it is, I am sure we can weather it together.”
They did not have long to wait. Promptly at the assigned hour, there was a curt knock on the door, and before Elizabeth could answer, Lady Catherine let herself in.
