Page 8 of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Exile

“So, he trapped them both,” Richard said bitterly.

Reynolds held Darcy's gaze. “I am not a betting man, but I would wager that you are still named in your father’s will. Furthermore, I would wager my last farthing that Elizabeth Bennet still holds the key to your inheritance.”

Darcy slid down in his chair, limp and weak. His abrupt departure had been mostly selfish, but he had appeased himself over the years by convincing himself that, by leaving the country, he had guaranteed that young lady's freedom, her family would move on, and she would be allowed a childhood free of any expectation concerning him. He had hoped it with all his heart, and after so many years he had come to believe it was true.

Apparently, he was still a fool.

A tap on the door sounded, and the same clerk from below carried in a tray with a tea service and several dishes covered with silver domes.

“On this table, if you please, Mr. Lightwood. Postpone my morning appointments. If anyone inquires, I am not available.”

“Consider it done, sir. Is there anything else with which I may assist you?”

“Thank you, Lightwood. That is all for now.” Nodding toward the door closing behind the clerk, Reynolds poured tea and removed lids. “Forgive my presumption but, given the hour you must have landed and the tumultuous morning you have had, I assumed you might be in need of sustenance.”

The smell of fresh bread and sausage slammed into Darcy, seizing his senses. He had not enjoyed a decent meal in weeks, had not eaten a morsel of dry biscuit since the day before. Mouth watering, he served his plate and waited for Reynolds to continue.

“I believe the change to the will I wrote to you about had to do with George Wickham,” he began, looking at Darcy for a response.

George Wickham? There was a name Darcy had not thought about in years and would have been pleased never to hear again in his lifetime.

Reynolds continued, “Mr. Darcy’s steward died a year after you left.”

“I am sad to hear it. Father considered him a friend.” Darcy had never understood his father’s choice. Even so, the loss would have pained him.

“Yes, well…” Reynolds rubbed his finger over his thumb, weighing his words. “It was only after Mr. Wickham was not there to make light of the conduct of his son that your father learned how deplorable Wickham’s behavior had truly become.”

Darcy restrained his hands from flailing heavenward and his voice from shouting, Finally! There was no disgrace George Wickham could commit that the boy’s father had not turned to his son’s advantage. Half of Derbyshire thought him a hero! Calmly, he commented, “It was a matter of time.”

Reynolds was too honorable to his profession to give his opinion, though he showed it in his eyes. He steepled his fingers under his chin. “Ah, but the damage goes beyond Mr. Wickham’s ability to blind others to his son’s trespasses.”

Darcy set his plate on the table. “You have my attention.”

Richard swallowed his mouthful. “And mine!”

“Mr. Wickham encouraged his son to believe the reason he had been chosen as Mr. Darcy’s godson, granted a gentleman’s education, and taught the ins and outs of Pemberley’s property was so he might take your place.”

“And place his steward’s son on a pedestal above his own flesh and blood? It is the height of presumption!” Richard looked offended enough for the both of them.

Darcy took a deep breath. “I ought to be surprised, but I am not.” Father had been disappointed in him as his son. How many times he had held Wickham up as a worthy example to imitate? Every time Father sided with Wickham over Darcy, it would have confirmed Wickham’s belief. “Was Father aware of this?”

“Eventually, yes. He warned Wickham in no uncertain terms what would happen if he did not amend his course. However, Wickham was too accustomed to having his crimes dismissed, and so he continued as before, albeit with much more caution. He is not a fool, which makes him a more dangerous foe. He believes himself entitled to your inheritance.”

“Good God,” Richard muttered. “The nerve of that blackguard knows no bounds.”

“Which is precisely why,” Reynolds said, “you have a great advantage if you act before it becomes known you have returned to England.”

Darcy shot him a look. “Act? By doing what? I am having difficulty seeing any advantage right now.”

Reynolds leaned forward. “The Bennet estate is located outside the village of Meryton”—Darcy raised his hand in protest, but Reynolds continued, louder and faster—”an easy distance on horseback from here. You could travel to Longbourn, before anyone in your family knows you are in the country, before the reading of the will. You could see if Elizabeth Bennet’s character is as strong as your father credited and her appearance as pleasing as a man might hope.”

“Absolutely not! Nothing good can come of it.” Darcy jumped to his feet, too agitated to remain sitting or swallow another bite.

“You would not have to talk to her, only observe as a curious stranger might,” Reynolds argued. “Much can be discerned by watching a person’s interactions with others.”

Darcy spun around, mid-pace. “You want me to spy on her?”

“Not spy. Observe. Just… watch how she interacts with her neighbors… to discover her genuine nature.”