"About three miles."
"And how long has he been in the neighbourhood?"
"A month or so," Elizabeth said lightly.
Wickham’s brow arched, and he leaned in, just enough to feign interest without impropriety. “You must find him a most charming houseguest.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a touch of mischief. “Charming is not quite the word I would use.”
He chuckled knowingly. “You surprise me, Miss Bennet. Most are too dazzled by his fortune to say anything but what is flattering. But then—I heard you were subjected to his... opinions at the assembly.”
She raised a brow. “News does seem to gallop in Meryton.”
“Faster still when the insult is so poorly cloaked.”
A beat passed. Wickham’s smile faded just slightly, his features shifting into a mask of solemnity. Elizabeth could almost see the transformation—so practiced, so smooth.
“You see, Miss Bennet,” he began, voice heavy with false sincerity, “I have known Mr. Darcy all my life.”
“Indeed?” she said, as though the notion had never occurred to her.
“Yes. His late father was a second father to me. A man of unmatched generosity and principle. I was promised a living—a comfortable post at Kympton. But when the old master died, young Darcy refused to honour the pledge.”
He delivered the final blow with an air of injured nobility. Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, eyes steady on his face.
“How dreadful,” she murmured. But there was little warmth in the words, and he noticed.
Still, he pressed on. “The promise was well-known. The late Mr. Darcy was a man of his word. Everyone expected his son to act accordingly.”
“I see,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “So it was a verbal agreement?”
Wickham hesitated for just a blink too long. “Yes. Of course. The gentleman’s word was as binding as any contract.”
“Except to Mr. Darcy, apparently,” Elizabeth said, her smile faint and cool.
The remark landed. Wickham's expression faltered, but only briefly. He recovered with a soft, regretful sigh, as though the very memory pained him.
“I bear no malice, of course. Only the weight of disappointment. One does not expect betrayal from a brother in all but name.”
Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she regarded him thoughtfully.
“And in all the years since—what have you done?”
“Various pursuits,” he said quickly. “The law, for a time. Though it did not suit.”
“And now the militia,” she said, letting her tone remain light. “A most varied path. And yet, none quite as comfortable as Kympton, I imagine?”
Wickham smiled thinly. “Well, life rarely unfolds as we plan.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “But Mr. Darcy, as proud and dutiful as you paint him—would he not feel bound to uphold such a promise, especially if it was tied to his father's dying wishes?”
The flicker in Wickham’s eyes was almost imperceptible. “You are generous in your estimation. Far more than he deserves.”
Her fan turned lazily in her hand. “And you are generous in your condemnation. Remarkable, really, how one man can be so entirely villainous, while another—so coincidentally the victim—remains so thoroughly good.”
He studied her, the smile beginning to strain. “You doubt my account?”
“Oh, I believe that you believe it,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “Which is, in a way, even more fascinating.”
