Wickham stiffened just slightly, and then—carelessly, confidently—pushed further. “I suppose you’ve heard of his sister? Georgiana. A delicate creature. Shy. He's terribly protective.”
The shift in Elizabeth’s demeanor was immediate. The teasing faded, her fan stilling.
“I would not speak of her, Mr. Wickham,” she said, her voice low and firm. “If you value your ease here, you will keep such names from your lips. And if you value your place among the people of this town, you will not turn your attention toward any young woman with notions of fortune.”
His brows lifted in mock innocence. “Miss Bennet, I protest—”
“See that you do not,” she said, her gaze cutting. “For I promise you, there are others less patient than I.”
Wickham let out a short, brittle laugh. “You wound me, Miss Bennet. I had no idea you held such a poor opinion of me.”
“I wonder why that is,” she said lightly, the edge returning to her voice.
Before the tension could mount further, Lydia leaned over, her voice bright and blithe. “Mr. Wickham, do tell—do you think Mr. Denny fancies Miss King? I’m sure he was looking at her the whole time they passed!”
Wickham, clearly grateful for the interruption, turned to Lydia with a gracious smile—though it did not quite reach his eyes.
“Miss Lydia, I would not dare speculate on Mr. Denny’s affections,” he said gallantly. “Though I fear I must excuse myself shortly. Duty waits for no man.”
“Already?” Lydia pouted. “But you’ve only just come!”
He gave a polished shrug. “Alas. A short reprieve. The military keeps a fellow quite occupied.”
Elizabeth watched him rise with an easy grace, his retreat as rehearsed as his approach. She folded her fan and settled back, her smile unreadable.
He had told his story, worn his mask, played his part. But she, now, knew the lines better than he did.
Chapter 17
Elizabeth related to Mary the following morning all that had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. They sat beneath the boughs of the old cedar in the rear garden, the early sun just beginning to burn through the haze of dawn. Mary listened in silence at first, her expression thoughtful, her fingers lightly clasped upon the cover of her closed prayer book.
"And so you see," Elizabeth concluded, with a sigh that bespoke both weariness and vexation, "he has not changed a word of it. Not one! The same tale, as I remember it, though it stung more cruelly then. Now I find myself dismayed by how very easily I once accepted it."
Mary frowned, tilting her head. "You did not reveal to him that you knew the truth?"
"No. He spun his web as eagerly as ever, and I let him do it. I did question him, lightly, and pressed upon the inconsistencies—but I dare not go too far. Not yet."
Mary nodded, and after a pause said quietly, "Then what shall you do? Shall you inform Mr. Darcy of his presence here? He would surely wish to know."
Elizabeth turned away, her gaze fixed upon the soft path that wound between the garden beds. "He already knows. I sent word the moment I suspected—but I dared not ask for his involvement. Not directly. If Mr. Wickham were to learn that Mr. Darcy was involved, or even catch wind that he might be, he could... he might expose things better left buried. He is vengeful when thwarted, and cunning. My fear is what he might yet do to cast a shadow on Mr. Darcy, or his sister. I cannot bear to see either of them wounded again on his account."
Mary’s brow furrowed further. "Then we must act ourselves, if we are not to enlist his aid. But how are we to thwart a man so practiced in manipulation?"
"I scarcely know. I think—perhaps—we might rely on the gossip of the town."
Mary blinked. "Gossip?"
Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Yes. Sometimes, Mary, the foolishness of the multitude is a great tool for those who know how to wield it. The right word in the right ear, perhaps what his bar tap is to the tea shop, or his tailor bill to the inn keeper, the right turn a phrase can leave a trail, if one but knows to follow it."
Mary’s eyes lit with cautious interest. "If such things were made more widely known... his charms might lose some of their lustre."
"Precisely. And Lydia—"
Mary sighed, her fingers tightening slightly. "Lydia is a greater challenge than the man himself."
Elizabeth laughed, though there was little mirth in the sound. "Indeed. We might hang his character upon every tree in Meryton and she would still find his regimentals dashing."
"Then we must approach it from another angle," Mary said, her tone measured. "She prides herself on being admired, on gaining attentions others do not. What if she were made to understand that her fortune—or rather, lack thereof—will not entice a man such as Mr. Wickham for long?"
