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Elizabeth found herself subject to his attentions, but Mary, to Elizabeth’s quiet amusement, proved an able distraction.

With pointed questions regarding the clerical duties of a country rector and a pointed comparison between Mr. Collins’s practices and those of more learned men, she kept him engaged just long enough to prevent him from directing his focus entirely on Elizabeth.

Mrs. Philips, for her part, unknowingly assisted by lavishing praise upon Lady Catherine, effectively rendering Mr. Collins speechless with admiration.

When the gentlemen arrived, Elizabeth was prepared.

She watched as Mr. Wickham entered, all charm and ease, and she felt a strange detachment.

Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with an alacrity far too eager to be mistaken for casual interest, he took the seat between Elizabeth and Lydia.

His smile was easy, his air unbothered, but Elizabeth noticed a subtle watchfulness in his gaze—as if he had already marked her as an audience for his performance.

At first, Lydia’s chatter threatened to monopolize him, but the moment a lottery ticket was waved before her, her attention shifted entirely. With Lydia distracted by odds and prizes, Mr. Wickham turned his focus to Elizabeth.

"You are very quiet, Miss Bennet," he said, his tone light and teasing.

"Sometimes silence reveals more than speech," she replied, smiling.

He laughed, clearly delighted to find her responsive, and after the usual courtesies, he said with feigned casualness, "I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth blinked, her heart giving a brief, traitorous flutter. So he was wasting no time.

"Slightly," she said. "We were for a time at the same house."

"Ah," he said, drawing out the word thoughtfully. "Netherfield is not so very far from here, is it?"

"About three miles."

"And how long has he been in the neighbourhood?"

"A month or so," Elizabeth said lightly.

Wickham’s brow arched, and he leaned in, just enough to feign interest without impropriety. “You must find him a most charming houseguest.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a touch of mischief. “Charming is not quite the word I would use.”

He chuckled knowingly. “You surprise me, Miss Bennet. Most are too dazzled by his fortune to say anything but what is flattering. But then—I heard you were subjected to his... opinions at the assembly.”

She raised a brow. “News does seem to gallop in Meryton. ”

“Faster still when the insult is so poorly cloaked.”

A beat passed. Wickham’s smile faded just slightly, his features shifting into a mask of solemnity. Elizabeth could almost see the transformation—so practiced, so smooth.

“You see, Miss Bennet,” he began, voice heavy with false sincerity, “I have known Mr. Darcy all my life.”

“Indeed?” she said, as though the notion had never occurred to her.

“Yes. His late father was a second father to me. A man of unmatched generosity and principle. I was promised a living—a comfortable post at Kympton. But when the old master died, young Darcy refused to honour the pledge.”

He delivered the final blow with an air of injured nobility. Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap, eyes steady on his face.

“How dreadful,” she murmured. But there was little warmth in the words, and he noticed.

Still, he pressed on. “The promise was well-known. The late Mr. Darcy was a man of his word. Everyone expected his son to act accordingly.”

“I see,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “So it was a verbal agreement?”

Wickham hesitated for just a blink too long. “Yes. Of course. The gentleman’s word was as binding as any contract.”

“Except to Mr. Darcy, apparently,” Elizabeth said, her smile faint and cool.

The remark landed. Wickham's expression faltered, but only briefly. He recovered with a soft, regretful sigh, as though the very memory pained him.

“I bear no malice, of course. Only the weight of disappointment. One does not expect betrayal from a brother in all but name.”

Elizabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she regarded him thoughtfully.

“And in all the years since—what have you done?”

“Various pursuits,” he said quickly. “The law, for a time. Though it did not suit.”

“And now the militia,” she said, letting her tone remain light. “A most varied path. And yet, none quite as comfortable as Kympton, I imagine?”

Wickham smiled thinly. “Well, life rarely unfolds as we plan. ”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “But Mr. Darcy, as proud and dutiful as you paint him—would he not feel bound to uphold such a promise, especially if it was tied to his father's dying wishes?”

The flicker in Wickham’s eyes was almost imperceptible. “You are generous in your estimation. Far more than he deserves.”

Her fan turned lazily in her hand. “And you are generous in your condemnation. Remarkable, really, how one man can be so entirely villainous, while another—so coincidentally the victim—remains so thoroughly good.”

He studied her, the smile beginning to strain. “You doubt my account?”

“Oh, I believe that you believe it,” Elizabeth said sweetly. “Which is, in a way, even more fascinating.”

Wickham stiffened just slightly, and then—carelessly, confidently—pushed further. “I suppose you’ve heard of his sister? Georgiana. A delicate creature. Shy. He's terribly protective.”

The shift in Elizabeth’s demeanor was immediate. The teasing faded, her fan stilling.

“I would not speak of her, Mr. Wickham,” she said, her voice low and firm. “If you value your ease here, you will keep such names from your lips. And if you value your place among the people of this town, you will not turn your attention toward any young woman with notions of fortune.”

His brows lifted in mock innocence. “Miss Bennet, I protest—”

“See that you do not,” she said, her gaze cutting. “For I promise you, there are others less patient than I.”

Wickham let out a short, brittle laugh. “You wound me, Miss Bennet. I had no idea you held such a poor opinion of me.”

“I wonder why that is,” she said lightly, the edge returning to her voice.

Before the tension could mount further, Lydia leaned over, her voice bright and blithe. “Mr. Wickham, do tell—do you think Mr. Denny fancies Miss King? I’m sure he was looking at her the whole time they passed!”

Wickham, clearly grateful for the interruption, turned to Lydia with a gracious smile—though it did not quite reach his eyes.

“Miss Lydia, I would not dare speculate on Mr. Denny’s affections,” he said gallantly. “Though I fear I must excuse myself shortly. Duty waits for no man. ”

“Already?” Lydia pouted. “But you’ve only just come!”

He gave a polished shrug. “Alas. A short reprieve. The military keeps a fellow quite occupied.”

Elizabeth watched him rise with an easy grace, his retreat as rehearsed as his approach. She folded her fan and settled back, her smile unreadable.

He had told his story, worn his mask, played his part. But she, now, knew the lines better than he did.