The door was ajar, and she saw him through the gap—seated at his desk, his back to the garden window, a letter open before him. His coat was the grey one, not the blue.
She knocked on the open door, and he looked up. His face told her everything before his mouth could compose a suitable greeting—surprise in the raising of his eyebrows, pleasure at the widening of his eyes, but the tightness of his mouth suggested the letter in front of him held unpleasant news.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“Miss Bennet.” He rose because he always rose when she entered a room. “I did not expect you so early. Is everything well?”
“Mary is practicing with Georgiana. And I…” She looked at the letter on his desk. “My mother arrived with Lydia. Full of news and none of it good.”
“Please do sit. Seems we have both met with undesirable news.”
She took the offered seat in front of his desk. “I apologize for the intrusion, but the news could not wait.”
“Elizabeth, we are beyond these formalities. What troubles you?” His gaze on hers was as sincere as when he had joked about her tracking mud and rolling her eyes, but today the look was grave.
“It’s Wickham.” She observed the sharpening of his attention. Taking a deep breath, she proceeded, “Mrs. Bennet left Kitty at Longbourn with my father, who does not leave the library. She informed me that Wickham has been paying particular attention to Kitty.”
She watched the information reorganize his face. The alarm that had been general became specific. The pallor deepened. His hand, which had been resting on the desk, closed into a fist.
“The letter I received pertains to Wickham.” He handed it to her. “The results of my investigation. When I last met with youruncle, he had trouble obtaining the information. Apparently, Mr. Wickham had his name entered into the Black Book at Lincoln’s Inn.”
Elizabeth’s eyes raced over the page. “But how could that be? You told me he never sat in for any of the classes. That he squandered the three thousand pounds on cards and wine.”
“He paid enough to enter the Admissions Registry and then paid another student to sit in for examinations. The documentation had been presented to Mr. Edward Philips of Meryton, who had taken Wickham on as a clerk in good faith.”
“Then how did you discover this?”
Darcy’s left eyelid twitched. “My uncle, Lord Matlock, had him investigated following… the incident in Ramsgate. He does not take threats to his family lightly.”
“So as far as my uncles are concerned, Wickham appears to be a solicitor. Then how do we stop him? He is pursuing Kitty for her fortune. My mother says he has introduced her to a wine merchant who has extended credit based on the Consul income.”
“This is unconscionable.” Darcy’s brows lowered. “And your father? Has he not been warned by Mr. Gardiner?”
“Mamma would have convinced him it was overwrought—slander from you, perhaps. And my father? He considers Kitty the least troublesome of his daughters because she is the quietest. He does not pay her any attention, and Wickham apparently has given her the attention she craves.”
The words were bitter on her lips, and Elizabeth understood Darcy’s pained expression. The music from the next room—a duet of Mary and Georgiana—drifted through the walls, dissonant and agonizingly beautiful.
“I must go to Hertfordshire,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Jane will come. I need her.”
“And I shall arrange for the carriage and whatever else you require.”
She longed to ask if he would come with her, but the question tangled itself in her throat. Naturally, he would remain in London, managing the trust, dispatching letters to Meryton’s merchants, settling her mother’s debts, and issuing stern warnings that no further extravagance would be indulged. That was the sensible course.
“My mother believes Wickham is in London,” she added. “I cannot imagine the reason.”
“Perhaps, he has heard your mother’s loud plans. That she won the lottery and brought your youngest sister. He will, no doubt, pay a call.”
“Then I shall inform Lady Sophia that George Wickham is unwelcome and to turn him away.”
“Yes.” He looked at the clock. “We depart early on the morrow.”
The knot in her chest eased. He was coming. So this was trust: not demanding, not bargaining, simply waiting and knowing he would be there.
“My mother expects to speak with you,” she added, a faint, wry smile touching her lips. “She is… displeased with the trust arrangement.”
