“If the family would be so generous.” Wickham inclined his head. “I ask for very little, you understand. Merely a roof, a modest allowance, and the distinct pleasure of being near those I love. Surely that is not too much to ask, after all these years of… estrangement.”
“It sounds idyllic,” Elizabeth said. “A quiet life in the country. Tending your mother’s roses. Sunday dinners at the great house. Teaching Little Tom to sit a horse.”
“Exactly.” Wickham’s smile broadened. “You understand perfectly, Mrs. Darcy. I knew you would. We are, after all, rather alike—you and I. Outsiders who have found our way into the family circle through… fortunate circumstances.”
The implication hung delicately in the air, spun as fine as spider silk.
“Fortunate indeed,” Elizabeth murmured, her expression unchanged.
“And I wonder,” Wickham continued, his voice dropping intimately, “whether we might not assist one another. Old friends should support each other, should they not? Especially when they share certain… understandings.”
Darcy’s hand tensed, tempted to move to the fireplace poker. How dare his brother suggest. But Elizabeth merely yawned, patting her mouth. “Really? Mr. Wickham. I am unaware that we have anything in common, as I am a gentleman’s daughter and a gentleman’s wife.”
“And you are…” Darcy’s hand moved to his waistcoat pocket. His fingers closed around the brass ring—cheap metal masquerading as gold, false promises stamped into its surface. “A loser.”
The ring landed on the wood with a soft clink.
Wickham’s gaze dropped to the ring, and the color drained from his face.
“Your signature is required, Brother.” Darcy’s voice carried the chill of winter. “On all three documents. I suggest you begin.”
Wickham did not move, his gaze fixed on the cheap imitation of a signet ring: no crest, only a set of plebeian initials.
“Where did you—” He stopped, swallowed, and when his gaze lifted to Elizabeth, something ugly flickered behind the charm. “I see. How very… domestic of you both.”
“You appear to have lost this brass ring?” Elizabeth’s voice was infuriatingly calm. “As Pemberley’s mistress, I have access to the entire estate, but forgive me if I am mistaken and this child’s trinket belongs to another long-lost guest… Ah, I see you possess important intelligence. George, do go on, and tell my husband everything you wish him to know.”
Wickham’s jaw slackened, his face a study in surprise, disbelief, and, at last, the first glimmer of alarm. He had plainlyexpected Elizabeth to plead his cause, yet she had already dampened his powder.
“I have nothing to tell.” For once, his confident smile wavered.
“Then I have plenty.” Elizabeth tilted her head as if recalling details. “Perhaps you might share your ardent desire to make your own fortune? Did you not speak of guiding safaris in Africa? Of becoming an admiral in the Royal Navy? And, if I recall correctly, some mention of becoming a published author, following in the footsteps of our dear Tom Fielding?”
Blythewood’s pen scratched softly, as if taking notes in a court proceeding.
“Or perhaps,” Elizabeth continued, “you might tell Fitzwilliam of your more romantic aspirations. The countesses you would marry, or the many Almack’s invitations you would surely secure. A gentleman of such apparent ambition and charm, I imagine, would soon acquire sufficient fortune to capture the attention of every country mouse between Hampshire and Yorkshire. You also spoke at length of becoming a man of the world—independent, successful, worthy of the very social circles frequented by our esteemed relations, including the Earl of Matlock himself.”
Wickham’s composure cracked, just slightly. “I do not know what game you are playing, Mrs. Darcy, but?—”
“No game, George.” Elizabeth’s smile did not waver. “You spoke with such delightful candor last evening during dinner, regaling Miss Duntze, Lord Apethorpe, Sir William Cathcart, and even the good Colonel Powell, who took such particular interest in your prospects.”
“I was making pleasant conversation. Surely, everything is subject to invention at a dinner party.”
“Embellishment, yes,” Elizabeth agreed readily. “But your words were delivered with such passionate conviction regardingyour plans for improvement. I recall your discussion of entering the ministry, your inquiries after Mr. Duntze’s health, and your attentiveness to Miss Duntze with what seemed considerable interest in the Kympton living. However, I suspect Parson Duntze would find it difficult to accept expressions of repentance without your signatures formally admitting the false registry entry and your solemn vow to turn over a new and glorious leaf, to become a man the family can admire.”
A small tic twitched Wickham’s right eyelid. “I… may have spoken with some enthusiasm. The wine was excellent.”
“The claret was indeed excellent,” Elizabeth conceded readily. “But surely you wouldn’t wish to mislead our kind guests? Lady Apethorpe seemed quite moved by your determination to serve the Royal Navy. And Miss Duntze—she spoke of nothing else after you left the table. ‘What a remarkable young man,’ she said. ‘To venture so far from home, to seek his fortune in such exotic lands.’ She was utterly captivated.”
“Your kind words give me pleasure,” Wickham replied, though his composure seemed frayed at the edges.
“As they do me. Georgiana, too, was utterly enchanted by your stories. She has already begun making plans for what she might send with you—books, naturally, and a miniature of herself that you might place beside your bed and remember her face by. She expects correspondence at least weekly, though monthly will hardly suffice for such an important relationship. And she was most particular about a Kashmiri scarf—red and gold, she specified, to perfectly match her winter cloak.”
Darcy took a quiet satisfaction in Elizabeth’s deft handling of Wickham, whose expression now resembled a boy promised a plum and handed a sour grape. Wickham had always relied on charm and empty promises, never dreaming they might be tallied against him.
“You understand,” Wickham said carefully, “that my plans are not yet finalized. There are… considerations.”
“Naturally.” Elizabeth nodded sympathetically. “Financial considerations, I should imagine. Such a journey to India cannot be undertaken without considerable expense. The military commission alone must represent a not inconsiderable fortune, and then there are the necessary supplies to acquire, passage to secure, letters of introduction to procure…”
