Page 68

He crossed to the desk, fingers grazing the edge of the folio.

“But I will admit,” he went on, “their usefulness has rather… peaked. Caroline Bingley was a charming little conduit, but not a patient one. She wanted quick results—names in mouths, blushes on cheeks. But you, Darcy, you are playing a longer game. And I confess, I find that far more interesting.”

Darcy said nothing. He had said all that mattered already.

Wickham flipped open the folio. A corner of parchment curled up like it wished to flee. “Two letters. But you knew that, did you not? You saw them. You recognized her hand.”

Darcy did not blink.

“They were sweet little things. Not scandalous on their own, of course. But with the right… frame—” Wickham gave a theatrical gesture, “—one might almost think she begged me to elope. That she proposed the arrangement, rather than the reverse. Girls are such passionate writers, are they not?”

Darcy’s hand curled into a fist inside his glove.

“You have read them enough,” he said, voice flat. “You will return them now.”

Wickham looked amused. “You speak as if I only have the two.”

Darcy stilled.

Wickham’s smile widened. “She wrote more, you know. You were in Scotland when I left. She sent several before the truth caught up with her.”

Darcy felt something sharp and cold lance through his ribs.

“You do not have them,” he said quietly.

Wickham shrugged. “Perhaps not. But perhaps I do. And perhaps the Admiralty would find her phrasing… vivid.”

He leaned forward, hand resting on the folio.

“So let us not quibble about decency. Let us talk terms.”

Darcy did not move.

“Terms,” he repeated.

Wickham leaned back, as though easing into the luxury of his own depravity. “Do not look so offended. I am not entirely mercenary. I could have sent them to your uncle weeks ago. Imagine what the Earl might have done with them—”

“You would not.”

Wickham tilted his head. “Would I not? Why ever not? Because we were boys together? Because your father believed in me?”

Darcy stepped forward. “Because if you had sent them, you would have nothing left to bargain with.”

Wickham blinked, and for a moment—just a breath—he looked amused. Then it passed.

“Well reasoned,” he allowed. “Still, I am not unreasonable.”

“No,” Darcy said, teeth set. “Only gutless. You have no claim, no case, no weapon except cowardice.”

Wickham’s smile slanted. “Cowardice has served me tolerably well.”

Darcy’s breath left through his nose, controlled. “What do you want?”

Wickham shrugged. “What I always wanted. Security. Opportunity. A commission in a better regiment. Somewhere with prospects.”

“Which you squandered twice already.”

“Because they were not properly funded.” Wickham tapped the folio once, casually. “I do not need much. Enough to establish myself. I have always wanted a post abroad—Cadiz, perhaps. Warm breezes. Far from prying eyes.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to pay you off.”

“I want you to solve your problems,” Wickham said, as if bored by the obviousness. “You want Georgiana’s letters. I want the means to disappear.”

Silence settled between them again, longer this time. He could feel Dyer’s gaze drifting uneasily across the ledger.

“You will give me every letter,” Darcy said at last. “And anything else you have. Names, drafts, threats. All of it.”

“And in return?” Wickham asked, the picture of civility.

Darcy did not flinch. “You will never speak of her again.”

Wickham grinned. “And my passage?”

Darcy turned to Dyer. “Draft the agreement.”

Wickham stretched, as if it had cost him nothing. “A pleasure, as always, Darcy.”

Darcy stared at him, all iron. “Go to Spain. Or the devil. But if I hear your name again—anywhere near hers—”

“You will what?” Wickham asked.

Darcy stepped forward, voice low and clear. “You will pray it is only my uncle who finds you.”

Wickham chuckled, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “I see your time in Town has not dulled your sense of drama.”

Darcy did not answer. He would not trade barbs.

Dyer dipped his pen, scratching lines of legal phrasing onto parchment. “A simple agreement, Mr. Wickham,” he said tersely. “Release of all materials, permanent withdrawal from contact. Compensation to be rendered upon delivery.”

“And safe passage to Cadiz,” Wickham added smoothly, eyes on Darcy.

Darcy inclined his head once.

“Fine,” said Wickham. “Shall I deliver the letters now, or are you sending a footman to frisk me?”

Dyer looked to Darcy.

Darcy folded his arms. “Now.”

With a dramatic sigh, Wickham reached into the inner pocket of his coat. From within, he withdrew a packet, folded and sealed. “Do take care with them,” he said as he placed it on the desk. “They were quite sentimental.”

Dyer picked them up without ceremony. “I shall examine them before the transfer is approved.”

“Oh, do,” said Wickham. “Their authenticity is beyond doubt.”

Darcy remained still, though his pulse thundered.

“You might even learn something,” Wickham continued, tone light. “Georgiana always had an eloquent way of admiring you.”

Darcy’s fist struck the desk before he could stop it. The crack reverberated through the room. Wickham’s smile faltered—not because he feared the blow, but because Darcy never lost control. Not like this.

“I would advise you,” Darcy said evenly, “never to speak her name again.”

Silence followed.

Wickham adjusted his cuffs. “Well. We are all men of business here.”

Dyer cleared his throat. “The sum shall be paid upon verification. Passage arranged within the week.”

Wickham stood, smoothing his coat. “I shall await word at the Green Lion.”

He turned, half-bowing to no one, and left without another word.

The door clicked shut.

Darcy remained frozen, staring at the empty space Wickham had filled.

Dyer stacked the papers, careful not to meet his eye.

“I shall arrange the transfer immediately,” he said quietly.

Darcy nodded, still not trusting his voice.

His hand hovered for a moment over the desk where Wickham’s letters from Georgiana had lain.

He did not touch the packet. He would never touch it again.

Let Dyer burn them, bury them, seal them in stone.

It would not undo what had been done. Or what it had cost her to write them.

The damage, the cost, the final insult—paid in full.

He turned to Dyer. “See that he boards the ship. I want no reports of him lingering.”

Dyer inclined his head. “Of course.”

Darcy gathered his walking stick and hat, each motion measured, restrained. His limbs ached with restraint. The urge to pace, to strike something, to shout the full fury that clawed at his ribs—he buried it.

Instead, he adjusted his cravat.

“Thank you, Dyer,” he said with precision.

Dyer offered a stiff bow.

Darcy walked out into the brittle winter sunlight. His coat flared at the steps. Behind him, the door shut with a finality that felt like a hinge turning in the structure of his life.

Wickham was leaving.

But Elizabeth—he could not even imagine how to reach her now.

And still, February crept closer.

17 January

“ I believe it is to rain again,” Captain Marlowe said, eyeing the window as if it might open some path of escape.

Elizabeth turned a page of her embroidery with deliberate calm. “How very enterprising of the sky. One might hope it will find some novelty in sleet next.”

He offered a smile. It did not reach his eyes. “Quite so. Though I confess, I would sooner endure a storm than another fortnight in London.”

She nodded, even as the silence resumed.

This was their third visit in as many weeks, and each one had grown shorter, more stilted.

He used to bring her bits of verse and speak warmly of naval exploits.

Now, he mostly stared at the carpet. Fussing with his gloves. Smoothing his coat. Avoiding her gaze.

There had once been an ease between them—however shallow. Now, every exchange scraped awkwardly against the last.

“You have not called for the Admiral’s reply,” she said, attempting some cheer. “Did your letter reach Cadiz?”

His brow furrowed, and he adjusted his posture. “It did. He was… encouraging.”

“But not definitive.”

“No.”

Elizabeth pressed a stitch firmly through the fabric. “Well. It would be most unwise to demand clarity from a man who commands squadrons.”

This earned a genuine chuckle. It vanished almost immediately.

She had once thought she could like him. Not love, never love—but respect, at least. Trust. Now she wondered if even that was possible. He had grown so very quiet, so palpably uneasy, as though marriage to her might constitute its own court-martial.

And always—always—her mind circled back to another. One who would never sit this still. One who would have matched her tone, challenged her wit, pushed her buttons just for the satisfaction of watching her react.

It did not signify. It could not.

A sudden knock sounded at the door.

Elizabeth blinked. “Were you expecting anyone?”

“I do not know, but I have perhaps overstayed,” Marlowe said, rising. “Shall I—”

But Mrs. Gardiner had already swept in from the hall. Her expression was composed. Too composed.

“Lizzy,” she said, carefully. “You have callers.”

Elizabeth looked up, puzzled. “Callers?”

Before she could rise, the door opened wider and in came Mr. Bingley—flushed, stiff-backed—and behind him, unmistakably, Miss Bingley.

Jane gasped softly.

Captain Marlowe turned immediately, startled. “Sir—madam—”

Mr. Bingley gave him a nod. “Captain. Forgive the interruption. It was not… anticipated.”

Miss Bingley did not speak. Her chin dipped in greeting—barely. Her gaze flicked over Jane, Elizabeth, and the furnishings in a single sweep. Her mouth tightened.

Marlowe glanced between them all. “I believe I had best take my leave.”

He was already at the door. Elizabeth stood, confused. “You need not—”

But he bowed to her, then to Mrs. Gardiner. “My respects. Until next time.”

The door shut behind him.

A thick, ragged silence followed.