“I must be there,” she had said, pale but composed, with Elizabeth seated beside her and holding her hand. “He came before me to make his claim. I wish to be present when it is answered.”
Darcy had nearly refused. Then Elizabeth had looked at him—not pleading, not commanding, but reminding—and he had understood. If they hid Georgiana away entirely, Wickhamwould remain a terror from the shadows. If she saw him defeated, then perhaps the wound he had inflicted might begin to close.
So, Georgiana sat now in Bingley’s study beside Elizabeth, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Elizabeth was calm, though Darcy knew her well enough to see the force beneath it. Richard stood near the mantel, all lazy soldierly ease to the untrained eye and coiled readiness to anyone who knew him. Mr. Philips sat at the desk with the papers arranged in precise order. Sir William occupied the chair opposite, sober and official. Darcy stood behind Georgiana’s chair, close enough that she could know he was there without feeling guarded like a prisoner.
The clock struck the hour.
A few minutes later, the sound of footsteps came in the hall.
Wickham entered as if he had been expected at a card party.
He sauntered in with his usual careless elegance, hat beneath his arm, smile ready, eyes moving at once to Georgiana. She stiffened, but she did not look away. Elizabeth’s hand moved silently over hers.
“Well,” Wickham said, glancing around the room, “what a solemn assembly. Have we gathered witnesses for the happy agreement?”
“No,” Darcy said coldly. “Sir William is here to inquire into the validity of the marriage agreement you presented, as there is strong reason to suspect it is a forgery.”
Wickham’s smile faltered.
Only for an instant.
Then he laughed. “A forgery? Come, Darcy. You always did dislike when your father favored me, but even you must see this is a desperate charge.”
“I see many desperate things in this room,” Darcy said. “The charge is not one of them.”
Sir William cleared his throat. “Mr. Wickham, you will understand that a document of such consequence, when challenged by the lady’s guardian and family, must be examined.”
“By all means.” Wickham spread one hand, though the motion lacked some of its earlier grace. “Examine whatever you wish. I have nothing to fear from truth.”
Richard made a sound too quiet to be called a laugh.
Darcy stepped forward and took the disputed paper from the desk. He did not hand it to Wickham. He merely looked at the signature, then at the man who had tormented his childhood, flattered his father, squandered every advantage, and finally tried to claim Georgiana as payment for his own failures.
“Do you remember, Wickham, when we learned our letters?”
Wickham blinked. “What?”
“Our letters. In the nursery, before Eton, before tutors had the sense to despair of you. You never could get some of them quite right. Lowercase b, p, q, and g were particular enemies of yours. They all seemed to turn themselves about on the page.”
Color rose in Wickham’s face. “What the devil has that to do with anything?”
“It made reading difficult for you,” Darcy continued. “And you never had much taste for anything difficult.”
Wickham’s eyes flashed. “If you mean to insult me—”
“I mean to ask you a question.”
“Then ask it.”
Darcy held the paper lightly between both hands. “What was my father’s full name?”
Wickham looked almost relieved. “George Rupert Darcy.”
Darcy smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile. He felt no pleasure in it, only the cold satisfaction of a door closing at last.
“No.”
