“Rights he has consistently shown no interest in exercising,” Blythewood pointed out reasonably.
“Except when coin is involved.” Darcy turned back to face his solicitor. “I want runners sent to every port, every gambling hell, and every establishment George has ever frequented. If he is in England somewhere, we need to find him.”
Blythewood made a note. “And if the Apethorpes have already found him? If they are… negotiating?”
“Then we need to know what they are offering.” Darcy’s jaw tightened. “And whether he has accepted.”
Edward Apethorpe arrived at ten minutes past one. He stepped into the study alone, without a solicitor, not even a clerk. His expression was stolid, suggesting that pleasantries would be neither offered nor received.
“Mr. Darcy.” He did not extend his hand. “I thought it would be more private to meet here in Derbyshire than in London. The journey was tolerable, at least.”
“Please, sit.” Darcy gestured to the chair opposite his desk and pointed to the brandy decanter, which Edward ignored. “Mr. Blythewood will take notes, with your permission.”
“As you wish.” Edward remained standing. “I shall not waste your time with preliminaries. You know why I am here.”
“Your letter suggested several possibilities.”
“Then allow me to clarify.” Edward’s voice carried the flat authority of a man accustomed to command. “Thomas is your son.”
The words detonated like a misfired cannon. Blythewood’s gasp was hastily suppressed, and his hand jerked, wobbling the inkwell.
Darcy held Edward’s gaze steadily, refusing to flinch. The Darcy stare—the one his father had perfected and he had inherited—served him now as it had served him a thousand times before.
“My sister chose not to name you,” Edward continued, as though he had not just upended the room. “She protected you in her own way.”
“Lady Amelia made her own choices,” Darcy deflected. “Interpreted them in her own manner.”
“To protect you, Fitzwilliam Darcy. She knew how much that vaunted name meant to you—going back to William the Conqueror, but what we do not comprehend is why you paid Wickham—your bastard brother—to sign the christening registry, rather than admit my nephew as the natural son of Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley.”
“I offered marriage. Repeatedly.”
“And she refused, because she knew what marriage to you would mean.” Edward turned to face him. “Duty. Obligation. The slow suffocation of everything that made her Amelia. She chose freedom, Darcy. She chose to raise Thomas on her ownterms, with you as friend and patron rather than husband and master. I honored that choice while she lived.”
“And now? Why not continue to honor her memory?” Darcy asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.
Edward’s hands clenched at his sides, and beneath the anger, Darcy glimpsed something rawer—grief, unprocessed and unhealed.
“She is dead now,” Edward stated dryly. “And that bastard Wickham’s name on the registry is an insult to her memory. Every time a pamphleteering busybody visits the rectory at Kympton, they see my sister reduced to the cast-off of a nobody. A woman so desperate that she bedded a steward’s illegitimate son. This is destroying my family. Every whisper, every raised eyebrow, every invitation that fails to arrive—my mother endures it with a stoicism that pains me to witness. My father has not attended his club in weeks. And my own marital prospects…” He stopped, visibly collecting himself. “I have children to think of. Future children. I will not have them enter the world bearing the stigma of their aunt’s degradation.”
“When did you last speak to Wickham?”
The question caught Edward off guard. “Wickham? I have not, but my parents have been in touch. Apparently, he was quite willing to adjust the circumstances provided the incentive was favorable.” Edward’s eyes narrowed. “I assumed you would know where to find him. He is your half-brother, after all.”
“I have had no contact with George since he boarded that ship.” Darcy glanced at Blythewood. The solicitor’s expression was carefully blank, but his pen had resumed its movement.
“Then we have a problem,” Edward said flatly. “I want you to claim your son immediately, with or without your half-brother’s involvement. Publicly. Acknowledge him as Thomas Darcy, your natural child by Lady Amelia Apethorpe. Let the scandal fall where it may. You should bear the cost to your reputation withyour name in the gossip sheets, but Thomas will be a Darcy. He will have a father who stands behind him, and my family will be free of George Wickham’s shadow.”
“And in return?”
Edward blinked. “In return?”
“You ask me to invite scandal upon myself and my household. To submit my son to the scrutiny of courts and the cruelty of society.” Darcy rose from his chair, meeting Edward’s eyes directly. They were nearly the same height—two men of equal standing and equal pride. “That is a considerable request. What do you offer in exchange?”
“The support of the Apethorpe family.” Edward’s chin lifted. “When you make your claim, we will stand behind you. My parents will acknowledge Thomas as their grandson. We will provide whatever evidence is needed—letters, journals, anything that establishes your relationship with my sister. The courts will not be able to doubt your claim.”
“Evidence from Amelia’s papers.” Darcy’s voice cooled. “Which brings us to her private papers, correspondence, and manuscripts.”
“My mother wishes to examine them and destroy anything that could damage the family further.”
