Wickham’s face changed.
“Almost everyone believed that,” Darcy said. “The mistake was common enough. But my father’s middle name was Rubert. With a b. It was an old family spelling, peculiar and inconvenient, but he was particular about it. He signed it so on his will, his codicils, his letters, and every legal instrument we have obtained from his solicitor’s office.”
Mr. Philips quietly laid the copies out in order: George Rubert Darcy. George Rubert Darcy. George Rubert Darcy.
Then, last, Wickham’s agreement.
George Rupert Darcy.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Darcy looked directly at Wickham. “My father might have done many wicked, selfish, foolish things. I am sorry to say that I could not, at first, dismiss the possibility that he had done this one. But he would have known how to spell his own name when signing away his daughter’s future.”
Wickham’s complexion had gone gray.
“The letter upon your paper,” Darcy continued, “is either a p made by someone who believed his name to be Rupert, or an inverted b made by someone whose hand betrayed him. Either way, it proves the same thing. My father did not sign it.”
Wickham’s mouth opened, then closed. His gaze darted to the papers, to Sir William, to Richard, then to Georgiana. He looked for weakness and found none. Georgiana was trembling, but she sat upright, her face white and resolute, Elizabeth’s hand firm around hers.
“This is absurd,” Wickham said hoarsely. “A spelling mistake cannot—”
“An unusual name misspelled in a signature is not a mere spelling mistake,” Mr. Philips said. “Not when every verified signature tells against it.”
Sir William’s expression had grown grave. “Mr. Wickham, do you maintain that this document is genuine?”
Wickham swallowed.
Darcy watched the calculation move across his face. Lies lined up and failed. Outrage failed. Charm failed. There was nowhere left for him to stand.
“I was owed,” Wickham said.
Georgiana flinched.
Darcy’s hands tightened at his sides.
“I was owed,” Wickham repeated, louder now, as if volume could make grievance into justice. “He promised me everything. He said I was as dear to him as a son. He said I should not be left dependent upon your pride and coldness. He meant for me to have a place in the family.”
“So you forged his name to steal my sister,” Darcy said.
Wickham’s eyes glittered with panic and fury. “You would not have given me what was mine.”
“What was yours,” Richard said coldly, “was ten thousand pounds, an estate, an education, and more indulgence than any scoundrel deserved.”
“It was not enough.”
“No,” Darcy said. “It never was.”
Sir William stood. “Mr. Wickham, in light of your admission and the evidence before us, I must take you into custody pending formal proceedings.”
The words seemed to strike Wickham like a blow.
“No.” His arrogance collapsed at once. “No, that is not necessary. Come, Sir William, there is no need for such severity. Darcy, tell him. This is a family matter. It can be settled privately.”
“You made it public when you entered this house and claimed my sister before witnesses.”
“I was angry. Desperate. You know I never meant—”
“You meant every word.”
