It seemed Pemberley could now only be saved by a sizeable dowry. “Lord Ainsworth’s girl brings thirty thousand pounds,” his father remarked bluntly one evening while adjusting his cuffs before supper at the Darcy townhouse in Grosvenor Square. “Try not to look as though you are attending your own execution tonight.”
Fitz looked out the window, careful to keep his face without expression. “You would have me sell my position for money.”
George Darcy snorted. “Every sensible man marries for money.”
“Did you?”
For one dangerous instant, silence filled the room, then George Darcy laughed shortly without humor. “I married for beauty. It was an educational mistake.”
Fitz said nothing further.
Wickham lounged nearby upon a sofa, grinning lazily over a glass of wine.
“Do not look so tragic, Fitz,” he drawled. “Half the young ladies in London would gladly tolerate your dreadful seriousness for the privilege of becoming mistress of Pemberley.”
“And the other half?” Fitz asked coolly.
Wickham’s grin widened. “Prefer me.”
Infuriatingly, it was often true. Young women laughed easily with him. Mothers adored his charm. Even seasoned society hostesses forgave behavior in Wickham they would condemn instantly in another man.
Fitz watched it all with increasing distance. Especially once he began seeing the women his father kept openly.
George Darcy no longer even attempted discretion. Mistresses appeared draped in jewels at operas and private suppers, their gowns cut scandalously low while older gentlemen laughed too loudly over cards and brandy.
Whenever Fitz felt he could stay silent no more, he would receive a letter from Georgiana, and sink into silence again. His humiliation meant nothing, if it meant she had a hope of escape.
The only reprieve was his cousin, Richard. He’d come to town several weeks prior, and made the time almost bearable.
One evening Richard convinced Fitz to attend a performance at Drury Lane in hopes of improving his perpetual gloom.
The play itself scarcely held Fitz’s attention.
Instead, midway through the second act, Richard leaned subtly closer.
“Do not look immediately,” he murmured, “but your father’s box…”
Naturally, Fitz did.
George Darcy occupied a box across the theatre with Wickham and several women whose reputations were plainly visible in the cut of their gowns alone. One reclined against George Darcy’s shoulder while another laughed too loudly at something Wickham whispered into her ear. Wine bottles cluttered the railing beside them, and even across the theatre Fitz could hear bursts of coarse laughter drifting above the orchestra between acts.
Fitz felt sudden cold disgust settle through him.
Richard muttered beneath his breath, “Good God.”
At that exact moment, Wickham looked across the theatre and noticed them.
His grin widened instantly.
Then, with deliberate insolence, he raised his glass toward Fitz in mocking salute before returning his attention to the jeweled blonde beside him.
Fitz turned away.
The remainder of the performance passed in miserable silence. Afterward, Richard attempted light conversation during the carriage ride home, but Fitz scarcely heard him.
Because he could not stop thinking: this is what my father has become. Or rather, what he truly was all along.
Not dignified. Not admirable. Merely vulgar beneath expensive tailoring.
