The writing blurred at first because rage clouded his sight. He forced himself to read.
A betrothal agreement.
Georgiana Darcy, daughter of George Darcy of Pemberley, promised in marriage to George Wickham upon her sixteenth birthday. A consideration named. Language of settlement and obligation. Witness lines. A date from years earlier.
And at the bottom—
His father’s signature.
Darcy’s stomach dropped.
It looked legitimate.
He knew his father’s hand. He had seen it on letters, accounts, debts, orders, apologies that meant nothing, promises that meant less. This signature had the same sweep, the same careless confidence, the same infuriating flourish beneath the name. There were differences, perhaps. Or perhaps he only wished to see them.
Richard was reading over his shoulder. Darcy wordlessly passed him the paper.
Richard’s face darkened as his eyes moved down the page.
“This proves nothing until it is examined,” Richard said.
“It proves enough for a solicitor,” Wickham replied. “Or enough to begin a very interesting suit. Breach of contract, perhaps. Damages. Public discussion of Miss Darcy’s promised marriage. Her dowry as recompense if the family refuses to honor dear George Darcy’s intention.”
Georgiana burst into tears.
The sound cut through Darcy more sharply than any threat Wickham had made. He turned at once. Elizabeth had both arms around his sister now, Georgiana’s face pressed intoher shoulder, her slim frame shaking. Mrs. Bennet sat frozen, one hand at her throat. Jane had risen, pale with distress. Bingley looked horrified. Mr. Bennet’s indolence had vanished completely.
Darcy turned back to Wickham.
“There is no world in which I allow this marriage,” he said, his voice low.
Wickham’s eyes gleamed. “Then you had better prepare to pay dearly for preventing it.”
“You will get nothing.”
“I shall get either my bride or my compensation.”
Richard moved half a step forward. “You will leave this house.”
“In good time.” Wickham gave Georgiana a look that made Darcy’s vision darken at the edges. “I am a reasonable man. I shall give you seventy-two hours. Post the banns, and all may proceed honorably. Refuse, and I go to my solicitor.”
Darcy’s hands curled into fists.
Wickham looked around the room again, as if committing each shocked face to memory for later enjoyment. “You may send word to me at the inn in Meryton. A delightful village, I find. So full of interest.”
Then he bowed extravagantly, turned toward the door, and left as he had come: smiling, unhurried, and poisonous.
Lydia and Kitty passed him in the doorway, giggling as he exited around them.
“What a charming man,” Lydia exclaimed, then frowned when her declaration was met with stony silence.
Darcy stood in the middle of Bingley’s drawing room, the world around him altered past recognition. His own father’s signature lay across the bottom of a paper that, if valid, could destroy his sister’s peace, his family’s honor, and every fragile happiness that had begun to take root.
Georgiana wept in Elizabeth’s arms. Richard held the document as if it were something vile. Elizabeth looked up from Georgiana’s bowed head.
Her eyes met Darcy’s.
There was fear in them, yes, and shock, and anger enough to match his own. But there was something else too. Steadiness. Resolve. The silent promise of a woman who had once climbed into a hidden Roman chamber because truth lay below and would not be frightened from seeking it now.
