After three daysspent haunting London’s less reputable corners, Darcy at last discovered George Wickham ensconced at a shadowed table in the Dorian Club, solitary but for a bottle of claret whose price would have scandalized the entire Pemberley staff.
The Dorian Club resided in a narrow St. James’s townhouse, its exterior offering a veneer of respectability that the interior promptly disavowed. Green baize tables crowded the room, encircled by young men whose fortunes had already departed, though their laughter—too raucous, their eyes—too feverish, suggested hope had not yet followed. The air was a dense fog of cigar smoke and the optimism of men who believed ruin could be reversed with a single turn of the cards.
Wickham, of course, belonged to such a scene as naturally as a fox to a henhouse, reclining with the indolence of one for whom honest employment was a nasty rumor. His cravat drooped artfully, his coat the very latest cut—though Darcy doubted the tailor had seen a penny. At Darcy’s approach, Wickham’s features arranged themselves, not in contrition, but in that infuriating smile which had always promised mischief.
The smile that said:Ah, brother. I wondered when you would find me.
“Fitzwilliam.” Wickham gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Do sit. You look as though you have been tramping through every gaming hell in London searching for someone. I cannot imagine who.”
Darcy did not take the seat. He stood at the table’s edge, looking down at the man who had wreaked more destruction in his twenty-odd years than most villains managed in a lifetime.
“You did not go to India.”
“Perceptive as always.” Wickham poured himself another glass of claret with the languid ease of a man who had no pressing concerns. “India seemed dreadfully hot and inconvenient. I made it as far as Portsmouth, hired a skiff to take me back to shore, and found more agreeable accommodations elsewhere.”
“With the commission money I gave you.”
“A gift, as I recall. No conditions attached, merely suggested.” Wickham’s eyes glinted with amusement. “You really ought to be more careful with your generosity, brother. People will take advantage.”
The fury rising in Darcy’s chest was familiar—he had been managing it since boyhood, since the first time he understood that this charming, reckless creature shared his father’s blood and would forever be entangled in his life. He suppressed it now, as he always did, and lowered himself into the chair opposite.
“I am not here to discuss your theft.”
“Theft is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as redistributive justice.” Wickham signaled to a passing waiter. “Another bottle, if you please. My brother is paying.”
Darcy did not contradict him. The cost of the wine was insignificant compared to what he needed from this meeting.
“You signed Thomas’s christening registry,” he said when the waiter had departed. “You claimed paternity of a child who was not yours.”
“Did I?” Wickham affected an expression of innocent confusion. “I recall signing something. Amelia was very persuasive. And you were very generous with your gratitude, as I recall—five hundred pounds to secure my cooperation. A fair price for a signature.”
“A fraudulent signature.”
“Fraudulent implies certainty about the alternative.” Wickham swirled his wine, watching the candlelight play through the crimson liquid. “How can you be so sure Thomas is yours?”
“Because I was the only man who proposed—again, when it became apparent she was increasing.”
Wickham smiled—that slow, knowing smile that had charmed serving maids and society ladies alike. “Ah, yes, the one honorable man in town. Surely, you might have supposed that Amelia had increasingly expansive tastes.”
“You will not speak of her that way.” Darcy had heard rumors, but Amelia’s lady’s maid was more reliable than the innuendo passed through drawing rooms, and she had refused to speak ill of her mistress.
“Why not? She is dead. The dead care nothing for our opinions.” Wickham set down his glass. “But we are not here to discuss Amelia’s romantic history, are we? You want something from me. What is it this time?”
Darcy forced himself to breathe, to set aside the rage and focus on the business at hand. “You will return to Pemberley. You will sign a statement acknowledging that you claimed false paternity on the registry, and you will relinquish any legal claim to Thomas, now and forever.”
“My, my, what prompted this change?” Wickham leaned back, cradling his head in both hands, his lips twitching. “Let me surmise. Your marriage has been the talk of the town, and your wife wishes for an heir. Is she… perhaps unable to…”
“You will not speak of my wife.” Darcy’s jaw tensed as he waved an idle hand at the surroundings. “You have, no doubt, already incurred significant debts—enough to land you in debtor’s prison. If you do not comply, I will be forced to pursue you through Chancery Court, where every debt you have accumulated and every woman you have compromised will be examined in excruciating detail.”
Wickham’s lips twisted irritatingly. “I do not mind an examination of my dalliances, although perhaps some women may surprise you as less respectable than you imagined, and the scandal might stain even your impeccable reputation.”
Darcy saw the bluff for what it was. Wickham’s only weapon was the threat of further scandal, a currency Amelia herself had spent freely in life, as if daring society to judge her by rules it never applied to men. But now she was gone, and the living—her son and his family—mattered more than any notoriety she had once courted.
“I am merely protecting my son, Thomas.”
“Ah yes, the boy,” Wickham repeated the words with faint mockery. “How touching. The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, defender of bastards and buyer of brides.”
Darcy’s hand clenched beneath the table. “You will not speak of my marriage.”
