“Precisely.” Wickham seized on the opening. “A gentleman of my standing, embarking upon such a venture, would require substantial financial resources—resources that unfortunately I do not currently possess.”
“How fortunate, then,” Elizabeth observed, her gaze shifting toward Darcy with an expression that held a warmth Darcy could only describe as pride, or even better, admiration, “that my husband has already anticipated such needs. You spoke of some arrangement with Colonel Powell?”
Darcy permitted himself the barest smile. “Indeed. The Colonel departs for Bombay in three weeks. He has agreed to sponsor George’s commission and oversee his establishment in India. The funds have been arranged through my bank in London.”
Wickham’s expression brightened. “Funds? What manner of funds?”
“A letter of credit,” Darcy said, “to be drawn upon the East India Company’s agents in Bombay. Additionally, a quarterly allowance sufficient to maintain a gentleman’s standard of living, continuing for five years or until you have established yourself independently.”
“That is… generous.” Wickham leaned forward, calculating. “Though I wonder if some portion might be made available before departure. There are debts to settle, after all. Obligations that cannot wait?—”
“The funds are available only in India,” Darcy stated flatly. “Colonel Powell will present the letter of credit upon your arrival. Until then, your immediate expenses will be covered by the estate—passage, supplies, appropriate clothing for the climate. Mr. Blythewood can provide details.”
Blythewood inclined his head. “The arrangements are quite thorough, Mr. Wickham. You will find yourself well provided for.”
Wickham’s smile had now become fixed and rigid, the forced congeniality barely masking his underlying frustration. “Nevertheless, some advance?—”
“No advance whatsoever,” Darcy countered, meeting his half-brother’s gaze with unwavering directness. “The funds exist only in Bombay. If you wish to claim them, you must board the ship.”
Darcy watched understanding dawn on Wickham’s face—the realization that he had been outmaneuvered, that the glittering promise of funds was a cage rather than a gift.
“And if I decline this generous offer?” Wickham’s voice had lost its warmth entirely. “If I prefer, after all, to remain in England? To pursue… other opportunities?”
“Then you will find yourself facing charges of fraud in Chancery Court,” Mr. Blythewood interjected calmly, his eyes fixed sternly upon Wickham over the tops of his spectacles.
“But it was Darcy who specifically requested that I make that false statement!” Wickham protested, his voice rising to the pitch of a fishmonger’s wife.
“No evidence exists beyond your word against his,” Blythewood countered, idly twirling the quill between his fingers. “And I venture to suggest that the banknotes you received have already been frittered away. Your signature upon the registry document, however, was witnessed by both Pastorand Mrs. Duntze, who remain quite prepared to testify should the matter require.”
“Brother!” Wickham turned those puppy-dog eyes on him, the pleading gaze that always worked on their father. “Will there be no place for me at Pemberley? My home? Where your own mother tended me and our father doted on me?”
“Not when you have spent your life trading on my father’s affections and my family’s good name. You have taken every opportunity offered to you and squandered it.” He leaned forward, an iciness taking hold in his chest. “I offer you India because it is what my father would have wished—a chance, one final chance, to become the man you have always claimed to be.”
“And if I cannot become that man?”
“Then you will have the satisfaction of knowing you failed on your own merits, in a place far enough away that your failure will not embarrass your family.”
Wickham’s face had grown pale, leaving his features strangely naked. His gaze flitted between Darcy, Elizabeth, and the impassive Blythewood, searching for weakness and finding none.
“All has been arranged.” Darcy pushed the letter of credit forward. “Read the terms, if you will.”
Wickham snatched up the document, scanning it rapidly. His expression shifted as he read—hope, confusion, then the dawning realization of the trap.
“The funds are released upon arrival,” he said flatly. “Not before.”
“Correct.”
Wickham paged through all of the documents, as if still able to find a clause that he could slip out of. But the velvet noose had already closed, and the silence stretched. Wickham’s gaze moved to the ring still lying on the desk—the cheap brass circle that had once purchased a country girl’s trust.
“She told you everything,” he said.
“She told me the truth.” Darcy’s hand found Elizabeth’s beneath the desk and held it. “Which is more than you have ever done.”
Elizabeth squeezed his fingers, and something warm unfurled in his chest: gratitude, pride, and the fierce certainty of a man who had at last discovered what was worth defending.
“The papers, Mr. Wickham.” Blythewood’s dry voice cut through the tension. “Three signatures are required. Here, here, and here.” He indicated the marked lines. “Unless you wish me to read the documents aloud for your… clarification?”
Wickham’s lip curled. “That will not be necessary.”
