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Elizabeth stared at him. That alone overturned nearly everything Mr. Wickham had told her. “But surely you can prove this?”

His answer was stiff. “Yes.”

She was astonished. Miss Bingley’s lie was nothing to Mr. Wickham’s. “Then why has he been willing to tell the story so openly?”

The tension in Mr. Darcy’s shoulders eased a bit. Had he thought her accusing him? She had not been.

“Because he has depended upon my unwillingness to answer him publicly,” he said.

Elizabeth did not understand. “Because he was your father’s godson?”

“In part.”

Mr. Darcy stood and walked to the window. Elizabeth waited. He remained there long enough that she began to think he would say no more, but there was already enough to destroy much of Mr. Wickham’s account. Elizabeth remembered the ease with which he had described himself as wronged, the details obviously selected to make Mr. Darcy appear proud and vindictive.

When at last he turned to face her, he was composed. “There is another matter,” he began. “One I have told almost no one.”

Elizabeth sat back. “I believe you, Mr. Darcy. You need not tell me more if it distresses you.”

“No, I must.” He took a breath. “For Wickham is not only ambitious, Miss Elizabeth, he is dangerous.”

“That is a very serious statement, sir.”

“It is, and if you allow me, I shall relate why I have made it.”

She nodded.

“Last summer, my sister was at Ramsgate under the care of a companion, in whom I was sadly deceived. Wickham followed her there.”

Elizabeth took in a sharp breath. This was an ominous beginning.

“Assisted by her companion, he persuaded her that he loved her and proposed an elopement. My sister knows he was a favourite of our father’s, and he knew how to gain her confidence.” Mr. Darcy’s voice became lower. “Her fortune is thirty thousand pounds, and she was not sixteen until November.”

The room seemed suddenly too warm. “Your sister was fifteen last summer,” Elizabeth said. “My youngest sister is fifteen now.”

Mr. Darcy remained stoic, but his hand closed upon the back of the chair beside him.

“I arrived unexpectedly before they left, and thankfully Georgiana confessed to me at once. She asked whether they might be married here in England.” His jaw tightened. “I wrote to Wickham—he was gone by the next morning. He would not face me.”

Elizabeth thought of the laughing young man in Meryton, of the pleasure she had taken in hearing Mr. Darcy condemned by someone who seemed to confirm every poor opinion she already possessed. But he had never knowingly faced Mr. Darcy, had he?

She had been vain and foolish. Mr. Darcy had called her tolerable, and she had liked Mr. Wickham better for disliking him. She had asked Mr. Wickham questions but had been only too pleased to accept his answers. “I am sorry,” she said.

Mr. Darcy frowned.

“For Miss Darcy,” Elizabeth said, then added, “and for you.”

His gaze found hers. “I should not have spoken of this,” he said. “My sister’s reputation is my responsibility. But I have not acted properly in withholding the information. Wickham is in Hertfordshire, and your younger sisters are often in company with the militia. You and your father ought to know enough to be cautious.”

Elizabeth’s first instinct was to defend Kitty and Lydia from the implication, but the defence would have been absurd, and she knew it.

“Does Mr. Bingley know?” she asked. “Miss Bingley?”

“They know there was some misconduct. Nothing about my sister.”

“And yet you have told me.”

Mr. Darcy was silent.