“No.”
The refusal hung in the air. Edward’s face flushed.
“Those papers may contain private matters?—”
“They belong to Thomas.” Darcy did not raise his voice, but the steel in it was unmistakable. “They are his mother’s legacy. The only connection he will ever have to her mind, her thoughts, and her brilliance. I will not permit them to be examined, censored, or destroyed to spare your mother’s comfort.”
“Darcy—”
“This is not negotiable.” He held Edward’s gaze. “I will claim my son and take the scandal upon myself. But Thomas will knowhis mother through her words, unedited and uncensored. That is my condition.”
For a long moment, Edward said nothing. His jaw worked, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. And then—slowly, reluctantly, his expression shifted, and he nodded.
“Amelia would have appreciated that,” he conceded. “She always said you understood her better than anyone. That you truly loved her. She knew that, and I’d like to believe it was a great comfort to her as she lay on the cobblestones staring at the sun before that great mind of hers was…”
Darcy swallowed, the familiar ache twisting his heart. His love had not been enough for a woman wearing wings of wax in their limited society—one which gave women few options, which used reputation as a bludgeon and made submission a virtue.
“When?” Edward demanded. “When will you make the claim?”
“When I am prepared to manage the consequences.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I am prepared to give.” Darcy moved to the window, looking out at the grounds that Thomas might—if the law could be bent—one day inherit. “I have recently married. There are considerations.”
“Your wife.” Edward’s voice sharpened. “Does she know?”
Darcy turned. “My wife is not part of this negotiation.”
“She will be, the moment you acknowledge Thomas. Every gossip sheet in London will speculate about what Mrs. Darcy knew and when she knew it. Every drawing room will wonder whether she was complicit in the fraud or merely deceived.”
“Then I shall ensure she is prepared.” Darcy’s tone brooked no argument. “But how I prepare my wife, and when, is my concern. Not yours.”
The clock on the mantel chimed the half hour. The sound seemed to break something loose in Edward.
“And if you stall,” he said. “You will have forced me to petition Chancery for a formal inquiry into Thomas’s paternity.”
“And in that petition, you shall be required to submit evidence.” Darcy turned to face him. “Her correspondence with me. Her thoughts on marriage, on motherhood, on the society that disowned her for bearing a child out of wedlock.”
Edward’s face went pale, and Darcy pressed his advantage.
“Chancery proceedings are a matter of public record, Apethorpe. Every letter Amelia wrote, every observation she made about your family, including the ones your mother wishes to burn, would be available to every scandal sheet in town.” He held Edward’s gaze. “Ask yourself, Apethorpe: which outcome serves your family better? A private acknowledgment, managed between gentlemen, with Wickham’s confession to close the matter cleanly? Or a public brawl in the courts, with every word Amelia ever wrote available for purchase at the penny press?”
Edward’s hands clenched at his sides. For a long moment, Darcy thought he might strike him—or storm out, or do something equally dramatic and useless.
But Edward Apethorpe was not a fool. He was angry, grieving, desperate to protect his family’s honor.
“What do you propose?” The words came out flat, stripped of their earlier fury.
“We find Wickham.” Darcy moved away from the window, his posture easing. “Together. Your runners and mine. We locate him, we secure his confession, and we compel him to renounce any claim to Thomas. Formally. In writing. Witnessed and filed where it cannot be disputed.”
“And if he will not confess?”
“He will. George has never met a principle he would not sell. The only question is the price.” Darcy paused. “But we must agree to no separate dealings. No private arrangements with Wickham that exclude the other. If your agents find himfirst, I will be informed immediately. If I find him, you are to be informed. We approach him together, present a united front, and leave him no room to play us against each other.”
Edward considered this. His expression was guarded now, calculating rather than furious.
“And the acknowledgment?”
