Page 9 of Mr. Darcy’s Honor (Darcy and Elizabeth Forever: Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

CHAPTER SEVEN

SERPENT IN THE GARDEN

Darcy’s heart crawled to his throat as all eyes drilled into him. This wasn’t real. The garden party at Netherfield. The invasion by George Wickham, unwelcome as a plague.

“Ask him about Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Wickham accused, his voice dripping with false concern. “Ask him about her condition, which can no longer be concealed.”

Darcy’s heart nearly stopped. Elizabeth’s condition? Was she ill? Injured? The sudden thought that some misfortune had befallen her sent a rush of cold dread through his body that no amount of resentment could suppress.

“What has happened to Miss Bennet?” he demanded, advancing on Wickham with such ferocity that several ladies gasped. “If you have harmed her in any way?—”

The naked concern in his voice silenced the party. Even Caroline Bingley’s perpetual smirk faltered at the raw emotion in Darcy’s normally controlled demeanor.

“Tis so trite to accuse me, who am her protector.” Wickham’s eyes gleamed with triumph at this unguarded reaction. “Your concern is touching, if somewhat belated. For justice demands that certain consequences be acknowledged. Certain responsibilities accepted.”

“What are you talking about?” Bingley demanded as around them, guests exchanged glances of confusion.

“I speak of the natural result of clandestine meetings between a gentleman and a lady,” Wickham said with theatrical solemnity. “The inevitable consequence of compromising encounters that certain parties have been so eager to deny.”

The words hung in the air like poison gas, and Darcy felt the earth shake beneath his feet. Surely Wickham could not mean?—

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is with child,” Wickham announced to the stunned silence. “A child conceived during Mr. Darcy’s visit to Hunsford Parsonage, when he called upon her alone and unchaperoned.”

A collective gasp rippled through the gathering. Bingley coughed, spilling his drink. Sir William Lucas turned an alarming shade of purple, while Mrs. Goulding clutched her daughter’s arm as though to physically shield her from the scandalous revelation.

Darcy raised a fist, surging with white-hot fury. “You dare come here with such a vile fabrication.”

“Is it a fabrication, Mr. Darcy?” Wickham countered, his expression one of pained nobility. “You have already denied proposing to Miss Elizabeth—a claim contradicted by multiple witnesses. Would you now deny all contact with her as well?”

Caroline Bingley’s hand flew to her mouth in a gesture of shock that failed to mask the gleam of malicious delight in her eyes. “How perfectly dreadful. Poor Miss Eliza.”

The trap was springing closed around him. His previous denial of the proposal undermined his credibility in refuting this even more outrageous claim.

“I deny taking any liberties with Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” Darcy said coldly. “And I warn you, Wickham, that such slander carries consequences.”

“Consequences indeed,” Wickham agreed. “Which is precisely why I have come. Miss Elizabeth’s condition will soon be impossible to hide. Her reputation—already damaged by your previous denial—will be utterly destroyed.”

He paused, surveying his captive audience before continuing. “I am prepared to offer a solution that might preserve some measure of dignity for all parties.”

And there it was—the true purpose of this public performance. Wickham had orchestrated this humiliation not merely out of spite, but as a prelude to blackmail.

“You lie.” Darcy thundered. “You invented this entire farce, and I will make you suffer the full consequences of your slander.”

“Will you?” Wickham’s smile was triumphant. “The poor girl confided in me during her darkest hour, begging for my guidance and protection. Who else could be the father but the man who spent so many unchaperoned hours with her at Hunsford Parsonage?”

“This is monstrous,” Bingley breathed, his face white with shock. “You cannot possibly mean?—”

“I mean exactly what I say,” Wickham declared with righteous fervor.

“Miss Bennet finds herself in the most delicate condition, abandoned by the man who took advantage of her innocence. As a gentleman, I cannot stand by and watch her suffer for another’s sins.

I am told the Bennet family physician confirms she is approximately three months along, precisely corresponding to your stay in Kent. ”

More gasps and ejaculations from the onlookers.

Mrs. Goulding pressed a handkerchief to her lips, while Mr. Hurst, usually somnolent, was suddenly alert with undisguised interest. Caroline Bingley made no attempt to hide her avid interest in the unfolding drama, her eyes darting between Darcy and Wickham as though watching a particularly thrilling theatrical performance.

“The physician has confirmed it?” Mr. Goulding asked, his usual reserve overcome by the scandalous revelation.

“So I am informed,” Wickham replied with exaggerated gravity. “Though in her delicate condition, Miss Elizabeth has been confined to Longbourn, receiving few visitors. Her suffering is considerable, both physical and social.”

The calculation became clear to Darcy. Three months would indeed place conception during his time at Rosings.

Wickham had timed this accusation perfectly—not too early to be dismissed as speculation and not so late that Elizabeth’s condition would be obvious enough for others to judge the timeline independently.

Wickham had also chosen his audience with equal care. The assembled guests represented the core of Meryton society—those whose validation or condemnation would determine how the scandal spread.

“The child is not mine,” Darcy stated flatly.

“Yet you visited Miss Elizabeth alone at the parsonage,” Wickham pressed, sensing his advantage. “A fact confirmed by Miss Maria Lucas before her convenient ‘indisposition.’”

Sir William made a strangled sound of protest but said nothing.

“Visiting a lady unchaperoned and taking liberties with her are not the same thing,” Darcy growled.

“Perhaps not,” Wickham conceded with a shrug that suggested otherwise. “But society may draw its conclusions. Particularly given Miss Elizabeth’s unfortunate condition.”

The implication hung in the air: whether true or not, the accusation alone would be enough to destroy Elizabeth’s reputation beyond repair. And his reputation—already damaged by the controversy surrounding this alleged proposal—would suffer further.

Mrs. Long leaned toward Mrs. Goulding. “I always thought there was something improper about that girl’s manner,” she stage-whispered. “Too forward by half.”

“Such a shame,” Mrs. Goulding replied with equal volume. “The entire Bennet family will be ruined.”

“Ladies,” Bingley interjected sharply, “I must ask you to refrain from such speculation in my home.”

The rebuke was so uncharacteristic of Bingley’s usual amiable manner that both women fell silent, though their expressions remained avid with interest.

“Think of the child, Darcy,” Wickham continued, his voice taking on a note of emotional appeal that might have been convincing to those who did not know him well.

“Your own flesh and blood, born into disgrace. Is that the legacy you wish to leave? The great Darcy name attached to a child raised in shame and poverty?”

The calculated manipulation sickened Darcy. Wickham knew precisely how to twist the knife, invoking family, legacy, and honor—the very principles that had guided Darcy’s life.

“There is no child of mine,” Darcy said, his voice deadly with control. “And if Elizabeth Bennet is indeed with child—which I doubt—I suggest you look to your own actions for the father.”

A collective intake of breath rippled through the gathering. Wickham’s expression hardened, the mask of noble concern slipping to reveal a flash of the cruelty beneath.

“You accuse me?” He pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “When it was you who visited her unchaperoned? When it was you who proposed marriage—a fact you now deny? I have only ever treated Miss Elizabeth with the utmost respect.”

“You have treated no woman with respect in your entire life,” Darcy replied coldly. “Your history of seduction and abandonment stretches from Derbyshire to London and, apparently, now to Hertfordshire.”

“Strong accusations from a man who would deny his child,” Wickham retorted, his voice rising with practiced indignation. “But fear not, my friends, I come to propose a solution that would benefit all parties involved.”

And here came the true purpose of Wickham’s slanderous accusations. Darcy bristled, charging at the scoundrel but held back by Sir William Lucas and Colonel Forster.

“What solution?” Bingley asked, his expression troubled.

Wickham straightened, assuming an air of noble sacrifice. “I am willing to marry Miss Elizabeth and claim the child as my own, sparing both her and Mr. Darcy the full scandal of their… indiscretion.”

“How noble of you, Mr. Wickham,” Caroline exclaimed with glee. “Saving the Darcy reputation.”

“Of course,” Wickham continued with calculated reluctance, “such a sacrifice would require certain considerations. The child will need proper provision, and I cannot be expected to assume responsibility for another man’s offspring without adequate compensation.”

“How much is just compensation?” Mrs. Long inquired. “For such an honorable deed?”

“Merely, five thousand pounds annually,” Wickham replied promptly, “to ensure the child’s proper upbringing and education as befitting his Darcy blood.”

The casual mention of such an enormous annual sum sent fresh ripples of shock through the assembled guests. Five thousand pounds per year represented a gentleman’s entire income, the kind of settlement that would keep Wickham in luxury for life.

“You bastard,” Darcy whispered.