Page 77

Mr. Darcy, London — The Night of His Attack

Fitzwilliam Darcy sat at his desk. The candles had guttered to stubs, and the May night pressed heavy against the tall windows of Darcy House. He had intended to be gone by now. Indeed, he had risen that morning fully prepared to quit Town by noon and ride directly for Hertfordshire.

But good intentions had ever proved insufficient companions in the face of legal delays and the stubborn inefficiencies of man.

The contracts—those confounded contracts—had been promised yesterday.

Instead, they had arrived only this morning, accompanied by apologies too smooth to be sincere and far too late to be of use.

By the time all was in order and the ink dried, the hour had slipped past any hope of departure.

He would not reach Netherfield by nightfall. Not even close.

So here he sat. Still in London. Still at his desk. And not, as he had imagined—no, as he had hoped—walking beside Elizabeth along the half-greened hedgerows of Longbourn, hearing her voice softened by the May breeze.

He had thought of little else these past days—had pictured it so vividly, he could almost feel the soft resistance of spring grass beneath their steps.

Her figure ahead of him, half-turned, the wind catching her hair.

The look in her eyes when she first saw him—not startled, but certain.

As if she had always known he would come.

He leaned back, one hand braced at his temple, the other resting upon a stack of papers he had long ceased to read.

His thoughts had drifted from every ledger, every line of ink, returning—again and again—to the puzzle that was Elizabeth Bennet.

Or rather, Elizabeth Darcy, if her tale were to be believed.

She had spoken of memories not yet lived, of futures unmade. Her words were threaded with knowledge no outsider could possess—of his home, his sister, his very soul. Could such a thing be true? Could he believe it?

And yet—if she were not real, then she was the finest actress England had ever produced. Every glance, every tremor of restraint and sorrow, had been too precise to be feigned. Too perfect.

Unless they were not feigned at all.

He drew a breath, slow and unsteady. His heart had made its decision days ago—it had believed her, wholly and without caution.

But the mind—ever trained for logic, shaped by pride—lagged behind.

He had searched for flaws, contradictions, the smallest slip in her account.

He had found none. Only more questions, and one truth he could not refute:

He wanted it to be true.

Desperately.

What man, hearing the woman he loves say I love you —with no performance, no hesitation—could choose to doubt her?

He rose from his chair, restless and unresolved.

The house was too still, the city too clamorous.

He crossed the study and turned at the hearth, pacing.

What had once seemed absurd now clung to him like an old coat, familiar in its weight.

Her words, her silences, her sorrow—they lingered not as phantoms, but as memories half-remembered, nearly lived.

He had not said it aloud. Not to Richard. Not even to himself. But something within him had shifted.

The question was no longer Is it true? —but What must I do, if it is?

He had meant to see her. Meant to stand before her and begin, at last, the conversation they had both left unfinished. He had pictured it so often these past days—her face lifting in quiet surprise, her eyes filling with something like joy—that the delay now felt like betrayal. Of himself. Of her.

He turned from the hearth, eyes unfocused. He could see her face even now: softened in candlelight, the familiar crease between her brows when she was trying to be brave. She had spoken of things no one else could know. Not facts alone, but feelings—intimacies of the soul.

The way she spoke of Georgiana—not as an observer, but as one who had known her deeply. She had not merely recited details; she had remembered them. Clementi over Beethoven—not as a statement, but as affection. Her voice had softened in the telling, not to persuade, but because it hurt to remember.

And then there was his father.

Darcy drew a breath that caught in his throat.

No one had known—no one could have known—how he had stood alone at the graveside, hollowed by grief, unable to move forward.

He had never spoken of it. Not even to Richard.

And yet Elizabeth had described it precisely: his words to the headstone, the ache, the shame he had not dared name aloud.

She had known.

And still, she had not used it to manipulate or plead. She had offered it only as truth, as if the memory were not hers alone, but a burden they both carried.

And then the park.

He had asked her— How long? —without realizing the question had formed.

It had risen unbidden, shaped by longing, by a need he scarcely dared acknowledge.

And she had not laughed, nor rushed to explain.

She had simply waited, calm and certain, with that dreadful stillness in her eyes—the kind that came not from doubt, but from knowing too much.

He pressed a hand to his brow, overwhelmed .

Could it be true? Could any of it be true—not because it aligned with reason, but because it felt true in a way nothing else ever had? It defied logic. It demanded everything. And yet, he could not shake it.

She had spoken of James. Their son.

Even now, the name echoed through him like a prayer: James Fitzwilliam Thomas Darcy. He could almost see the boy—a child with Elizabeth’s eyes and his shoulders, born not merely of love, but of time twisted back upon itself by the force of that love.

Darcy let his head fall against the chair’s high back, the tension in his frame unrelenting.

He was so very tired of resisting what his soul—if he dared call it that—had already accepted.

Whatever the world said, whatever sense or society demanded, he had not been meant to stay in London. He had not been meant to wait.

Sleep came slowly, if it came at all. His thoughts remained half-formed and restless, spoken inwardly in Elizabeth’s voice.

Even as his body slackened, his mind refused stillness.

And when sleep finally began to gather around him, his last waking image was not of ink or duty, but of her—walking toward him in the evening light, as if she belonged to him already.

Then, a sound stirred the silence. A soft click.

Darcy’s eyes opened at once. The study was still shadowed, the fire low—but something had shifted. There it was again—a faint creak, followed by the subtle slide of a boot on polished wood.

He did not move. Not yet. He listened, every sense sharpened.

A figure emerged at the edge of the firelight. Half in shadow, the face obscured by a scarf drawn clumsily high, the posture tense and unnatural. Whoever it was, they did not belong.

Darcy rose in one smooth motion, reaching for the poker by the hearth. His voice was low, even.

“I would advise you to leave now—before you do something you regret.”

The figure jerked. A familiar voice, hoarse and sharp, broke the silence.

“Bloody hell.”

Darcy’s grip tightened. “Wickham.”

The scarf dropped. Wickham stood revealed—haggard, unshaven, with wild eyes and a coat hanging askew. He looked nothing like the charming officer of Meryton days. There was something hunted about him now, all pride stripped away, leaving only desperation.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” he snapped. “Word was you’d gone to the country.”

“You were misinformed.”

Wickham scoffed bitterly, eyes darting around the room. “Figures. Still living in comfort, I see. Some things never change.”

Darcy ignored the bait. “What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?” Wickham spat. “I needed coin. I thought I could slip in, take something small. No one would know.”

“You came to rob me.”

“I came to survive,” he growled. “You don’t know what it’s been like.” He nodded toward the desk, the silver inkwell, the decanter. “Just enough to get out of London. Buy time.”

“For what?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“It became my concern the moment you broke into my house.”

Wickham advanced a step, face twisted. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think this is where I meant to end up?”

Darcy’s voice was cold. “I think you ended up exactly where your choices led you.”

“I had to leave Meryton,” Wickham snapped. “Everything was fine—until one merchant refused me, then another, and another. No one would lend. No one would listen. Whispers started—about debts, women. Lies. Things I never said. Things I never did.” He paused, bitter. “Not there, at least.”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You fled Meryton under suspicion.”

“I had a plan,” Wickham hissed. “I was going to leave with Lydia—take her pin money, charm her into elopement. It would have worked. But then—”

He swore under his breath.

“Her mother came with us.”

Darcy blinked. “Mrs. Bennet? ”

“Yes! She ruined everything. She arrived with trunks and smiles, convinced it was all some grand jest. Said she would chaperone the journey herself—‘until the papers were signed,’ she said. I couldn’t make a move with her fluttering about, bleating nonsense about lace and lace merchants and bridal muslins. ”

He laughed harshly, a sound with no mirth in it. “I told them I had to fetch something in Town—said I’d be back by morning. But I never went back. I was never going to take Lydia with her mother squawking about lace and wedding papers. It ruined everything.

Darcy said nothing. Wickham’s expression twisted.

“I called it off. Too much trouble. Too many eyes. After that... well, I made a few decisions. A forged requisition. An officer’s signature. Enough to disappear for a while.”

Darcy’s voice turned to ice. “You forged army notes.”