Page 3 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER TWO

A MALICIOUS MISSIVE

Darcy crushed the letter in his fist, his knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. Such base cunning, such vicious manipulation—and yet he was not surprised. Wickham had always possessed an uncanny talent for exploiting weakness, and Darcy had provided him with the perfect opportunity.

The London morning that had begun with such promise now lay in ruins around him. He forced his fingers to relax, smoothing the wrinkled paper to read the damning words once more. Not responding was not an option.

My dear Darcy,

What delightful news has reached me from Hertfordshire!

It seems congratulations are in order for your recent proposal to the charming Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

Though I confess myself somewhat surprised that a gentleman of your exacting standards would lower himself to court a lady whose family connections you find so regrettably inferior.

Miss Bennet was most eloquent in describing your romantic declaration, particularly your struggles against your better judgment and your noble sacrifice in overlooking her disadvantageous circumstances.

How magnanimous of you to inform her that accepting her would require you to overlook numerous social obstacles. Such tender words of love, I’m sure.

It seems, however, that your manner of proposal left much to be desired.

Speaking of her family’s inferiority and the degradation of aligning yourself with them?

Declaring your love “against your will, your reason, and even your character?” Such sentiments are hardly calculated to win a lady’s affections.

Most concerning, perhaps, is your decision to seek Miss Elizabeth alone, unchaperoned, for nearly an hour. Such behavior from a man of your standing might be easily misinterpreted by society, particularly given the lady’s subsequent distress.

I write as a friend to both parties. Miss Elizabeth has naturally sought comfort from those who hold her in genuine esteem, and I have been privileged to offer her my support during this difficult time.

How widely her confidence may extend beyond me, I cannot say, though the Bennet family seems quite aware of the particulars.

Recent financial difficulties have left me unable to maintain the lifestyle appropriate to a gentleman, and I believe it only fair that you provide what your late father would have wished.

A sum of two thousand pounds should suffice to settle past grievances, along with a comfortable living—perhaps Kympton, which stands vacant—to ensure my continued discretion regarding certain private matters.

I trust you understand my meaning. Such a pity Miss Bennet was left unprotected during your proposal. An hour alone can give rise to the most unfortunate rumors, particularly when a lady’s refusal might be construed as wounded pride rather than genuine sentiment.

I await your response with the sincere hope that we may put this unpleasantness behind us.

Your servant,

George Wickham

The paper crackled beneath Darcy’s tightening grip as a wave of cold fury swept through him.

Wickham knew everything—not merely that he had proposed, but the precise words he had spoken in what should have been a private moment.

The hour alone, the rejection, the insults Wickham claimed Darcy had delivered to the Bennet family.

And there could be only one source for such detailed information.

Elizabeth.

Her name, once a source of secret pleasure even amid the pain of rejection, now tasted like poison. How quickly she must have run to Wickham upon her return to Hertfordshire. How eagerly she must have shared every mortifying detail of his failed proposal, laughing together over his humiliation.

His mind conjured unwelcome images: Elizabeth and Wickham, heads bent close together as she recounted his most private emotions.

Perhaps she had mimicked his voice, his expressions.

Perhaps Wickham had taken her hand in false sympathy while they laughed at his expense.

The thought of Wickham’s fingers touching hers, of his practiced charm directed at Elizabeth while she shared the intimate details of the ill-fated proposal sparked a jealous rage he had never before experienced.

And a sinking sense of dire betrayal.

A knock at the study door interrupted his brooding. “Enter,” he called, his voice harsher than intended.

His valet, Barany, appeared, bearing a silver tray. “Your correspondence, sir. And dinner is ready to be served.”

“I am not dining tonight.” Darcy took the letters without looking at them. “Barany, what do you know of the local magistrates in Hertfordshire?”

The valet’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Very little, sir. Though I believe Sir William Lucas holds some position in Meryton.”

“And their procedures for investigating questionable claims?”

“I could not say, sir. Shall I make inquiries?”

“No.” Darcy waved him away. “That will be all.”

The servant bowed and withdrew, his face betraying no curiosity about the letter that had transformed his master’s countenance from controlled composure to barely suppressed fury.

Alone again, Darcy rose from his desk and strode to the window. Below, a fashionable couple strolled arm in arm, the lady tilting her parasol to smile up at her companion. The sight twisted something inside him—a sharp reminder of foolish hopes he had briefly entertained regarding Elizabeth Bennet.

Fool. He had been a complete and utter fool.

Not only for believing she might accept him, but for imagining she possessed the discretion and good sense he had attributed to her.

That she would immediately share the details of his proposal with Wickham, of all people—the man Darcy had explicitly warned her about—spoke to a thoughtlessness he had not anticipated.

Or perhaps it was deliberate cruelty. Perhaps she had sought Wickham out specifically to ensure Darcy’s maximum humiliation.

And now, what of his standing in society?

If this story reached London—if it reached Lady Catherine—he would become an object of ridicule throughout the ton .

Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, rejected by a country nobody who then gossiped about his private affairs with a militia officer. The very thought made his stomach turn.

He ripped Wickham’s blackmail missive, the tearing sound perversely satisfying. Wickham would not see a ha’penny from Elizabeth’s indiscretion.

A sudden, cold clarity descended over him. There was another way—one that required neither payment nor capitulation.

Denial.

His word against hers. The respected master of Pemberley versus the daughter of an obscure country gentleman. Who would society believe? Who would Wickham believe when Darcy refused to acknowledge any proposal had ever taken place?

The elegant simplicity of it crystallized in his mind. Let Elizabeth Bennet face the consequences of her indiscretion. Let her learn what it meant to mock Fitzwilliam Darcy to his enemy.

He returned to his desk and pulled out a sheet of his finest paper. His hand remained steady as he dipped his pen.

Wickham,

Your letter has been received and its contents noted.

I am at a loss to understand your reference to any proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. No such event occurred during my stay in Kent. I did, on occasion, encounter the lady during her visit to her friend Mrs. Collins, but never in circumstances that could be considered improper or unchaperoned.

Whatever tale Miss Bennet has spun for your amusement, I suggest you consider the source. A tendency toward exaggeration and romantic fantasy is not uncommon among young ladies of limited prospects and lively imaginations.

As for your financial difficulties, they remain your own concern. My father’s generosity toward your education was more than repaid when I settled your considerable debts and provided you with three thousand pounds upon your refusal of the Kympton living. You will receive nothing further from me.

Should you persist in spreading falsehoods regarding myself or fabrications regarding Miss Bennet, you will find yourself facing consequences far more severe than financial distress.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

He read over the words, satisfaction curling through him like frost. A necessary correction to Wickham’s schemes and Elizabeth’s indiscretion.

Darcy sanded the ink, folded the letter, and sealed it with wax pressed by his signet ring. The act felt final, decisive.

He pulled the bell rope beside the fireplace. When Barany appeared, he was once again the picture of controlled composure.

“This letter must be delivered to Hertfordshire today. Find someone discreet.”

“Of course, sir.”

The letter was a masterstroke. If Elizabeth insisted the proposal had occurred, she would appear either delusional or dishonest. If she remained silent, Wickham’s threats would crumble.

Either way, Darcy emerged with his reputation intact while teaching them both the price of making him their entertainment.

The Elizabeth Bennet he had imagined—intelligent, discerning, honorable—was a figment of his own creation. The real Elizabeth had proven herself as shallow and thoughtless as the rest of her family.

His traitorous mind kept returning to the memory of her eyes, the grace of her movements, the quick wit that had both charmed and challenged him.

Yet it was she who had violated the basic principles of discretion and respect.

She had accused him of arrogance, yet thought nothing of sharing his most private moments for the entertainment of others.

He would ride to his club, he decided suddenly. Circulate among his peers, demonstrating through his calm demeanor that nothing was amiss.

Fitzwilliam Darcy did not yield to blackmail. He did not reward betrayal with protection.

And he certainly did not love Elizabeth Bennet.

Or so he told himself, ignoring the hollow ache beneath his anger, the echo of a feeling he was determined to crush before it could weaken him again.