Page 76 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“Is there anyone here who can verify your claim?”

“Yes, Colonel Fitzwilliam was present at this meeting.”

“Richard.” Lady Matlock's voice was very controlled. “You knew about this?”

“I did,” Richard said.

“If Darcy was in England—if he was alive—” Lord Matlock spoke in a cold, level tone. Only the slight tremor in his voice belied his great anger. “You should have told us.”

“I should have told the people who, until ten minutes ago, were actively petitioning to have him declared dead?” Richard met his father's gaze without flinching. Lord Matlock opened his mouth, but no words were forthcoming. “Forgive me, Father,” Richard continued, “but without the loyalties on which my cousin ought to have been able to depend, I wished to allow Darcy a chance at happiness. That I actively took a role in promoting this deception is a small price for my conscience to pay. Although, I might point out that, given the reactions present, I see how the deception revealed the true characters of those who claimed him as a relation and intimate friend. Of this, I cannot take full credit. You have done most of the work yourselves.” Richard held his head high and widened his stance. “I will accept whatever judgment you wish to pass on that decision. But I will not pretend that I regret it.”

“Thank you, Colonel. I am certain the family will have more questions for you later, but I have one more inquiry of Mr. Reynolds,” Wrayburn said. “When was this meeting with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

“Six weeks ago, on the eighth of October.”

Lady Catherine said, “That is before the shipwreck. Wickham is a liar, and you, brother, have been taken for a worse fool than I had believed possible.”

“It cannot be! You are mistaken.” Wickham exclaimed.

Reynolds shot back. “I grew up at Pemberley, the same as you, Wickham. I would recognize Darcy anywhere.”

“Do not compare your upbringing here to mine. I was raised to be a gentleman. A Darcy.” Wickham's voice had shed its last pretense of composure.

Wrayburn set his hand on the desk. “Ladies and gentlemen⁠—”

“Where is he?” Wickham was on his feet, and the man who emerged from behind the easy manners and the careful charm was someone Darcy had always known was there, lurking in the dark. “If he is alive, then let him show himself. Or has he sent his solicitor and his cousin to do what he has never been able to do himself? Is he a coward as well as a liar?” He turned to the room with the wild confidence of a man who has nothing left to lose by going further. “He abandoned this estate. He abandoned his family and his duty and every obligation that fell to him⁠—”

Darcy had heard enough. The majority of his family would be happy if he disappeared and never returned, but Elizabeth deserved to know the truth. All of it. He would give his inheritance for her heart and feel that he had made the better deal.

Pulling the lever back, the hinges on the false bookshelf creaked as the door opened into the library.

CHAPTER 41

Aman emerged from behind a bookshelf, tall, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered, dressed in black—every inch a gentleman, imposing and powerful. Elizabeth’s heart leaped. Robbie!

Or was he?

The room erupted around her while Elizabeth sat very still and tried to reconcile the man standing before her with the man she loved in her mind. The humble, kind-hearted secretary she had worked beside for countless hours, who had conversed with her and with whom she had laughed. The man she had kissed. Was… Fitzwilliam Darcy? Her eyes locked with his.

He shuffled his feet, his jaw clenching just as his hands did at his sides. He swallowed hard. “Elizabeth,” he whispered.

Her hand touched her throat at the sound of his voice. “Robbie?” she breathed. He relaxed at her use of his name. But was he Robbie, or was he Mr. Darcy? The man standing before her was more polished, more formal, commanding. This man belonged at Pemberley in a way Robinson could not. But his eyes were so familiar to her. And without his beard to cover his face, he could not conceal his emotions. Relief, joy, fear, hope—it was all bare, exposed for her to see.

“Forgive me,” he said to her, as if they were the only two people in the room.

“Darcy!” Lady Matlock’s voice broke the silence like shattered glass.

“This is… How is this possible? I verified all his…” Lord Matlock’s confounded gaze moved from his nephew to Mr. Wickham, his expression cycling through astonishment and dawning fury.

Colonel Fitzwilliam crossed to Robbie and clapped him on the back with the relieved force of a man who had kept a secret for far too long. “Welcome home, cousin!”

“I knew it.” Lady Catherine looked about the room imperiously. “I knew he was not dead. I said as much from the beginning, and yet nobody listens to me.”

“Yes, Mama, you were right,” said Mrs. Schweitzer in a placating tone, to which her husband clapped and added, “How very clever you are,” in his accent. Lady Catherine huffed at the compliment.

Mr. Wickham’s solicitor was nowhere to be seen. Elizabeth could hardly blame him for making a hasty retreat. As for Mr. Wickham, his confidence had shriveled ever so slightly, but he remained rooted in place. He could not quit the room until the will was read. Perhaps he still held the belief that he would inherit, solving all his problems. It was the sort of delusion he would cling to, believing as he did that money was the solution to misery.

Charlotte squeezed Elizabeth’s shoulder. Elizabeth reached up to give a responding squeeze, but she could not look away from Robbie… Darcy. Oh dear, what was she supposed to call him? To her, they were two distinct men, two opposites. Her father looked between them, rubbing his hands over his face. Elizabeth almost pitied him. He had revealed the worst parts of himself to the very man he had sought to please—yet another regret to add to an ever-growing list.