Page 12 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

September 1812

D arcy nudged his mount into an elegant trot, taking some satisfaction in the way the mare arched her glossy neck and lifted each step with elastic suspension. The creature had been worth every penny of the exorbitant price demanded by Viscount Atterbury, for she never failed to turn heads in Hyde Park. Not that turning heads was ever his ambition, of course. But, occasionally, it was convenient, such as when a man’s mind was turning numb from boredom and he was in the mood for a brief conversation with no threat of anything more demanding.

“Darcy!” A hand raised in the carriage he approached, and Darcy drew up.

“Lord Matlock,” Darcy greeted his uncle, then tipped his hat to the ladies in his carriage. “Lady Matlock and Lady Sophia. A pleasure to see you this afternoon.”

“Likewise,” Matlock answered. “Richard was by last week, and he said you paid him a call. Why have we not seen more of you?”

“I must beg your pardon. I have been much occupied, I am afraid.”

The earl grunted. “Let that not stop you. You must come to dinner on Tuesday. No, no, I absolutely insist. Lady Matlock has been longing to host you again.”

Darcy considered the notion. He had always enjoyed the company of his Fitzwilliam relations, and he truly did need to begin conversing with Lady Matlock about Georgiana’s come-out. It might be just the thing. But then he permitted his gaze to rove to Lady Sophia and the cold, almost assured look in her eye, and a chill rippled down his spine.

“I am afraid I have another obligation,” he answered politely. “But perhaps we might go to White’s together.”

“Of course, Darcy. Yes, that would be most agreeable.”

Darcy touched the butt of his whip to his hat once more. “Tuesday next, then. Good afternoon, Lord Matlock, Lady Matlock.”

“Good afternoon, Darcy. I—no, hold a moment! I had nearly forgot why I wished to see you.” The earl turned to his driver and his wife, making his excuses, then, shockingly, stepped down from his carriage. “A word, if you please.”

Darcy tried to conceal his astonishment, following Lord Matlock to the side of the path. “Is there some urgent concern, my lord?”

“A rumour, and it concerns you. You were the one managing Bernard Wickham’s affairs, were you not?”

“I was. He had many ‘affairs’ requiring management.”

“I imagine he did, the wastrel, but there may yet be one more. Were you aware of a legal complaint regarding his parentage?”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Who makes such an accusation?”

“I do not yet know. I only heard this from a private investigator your father and I once employed, who came to warn me of the matter. I rewarded his loyalty handsomely, of course, and asked to be kept apprised. Shall I send you word when more is known?”

Darcy’s fist tightened on the reins. “Please do.”

“L izzy! Would you just look what Mr Wickham has brought?”

It was late one Sunday afternoon, and Elizabeth had decided to attend services with Georgiana before joining her own sisters. Lydia’s question shook her badly, and she hung up her bonnet then turned round in some astonishment. “What?”

“Oh, come! You will not believe it.” Lydia caught Elizabeth’s elbow and dragged her reluctant sister into the dining room, where her mother and other sisters had gathered round the table gazing raptly at a whole roast leg of lamb. And at the head of the table, looking like some benevolent patron, stood George Wickham.

“Greetings, Sister.” He came to her side, bowing with a flourish and offering his most charming smile. “I was not certain you would be joining us, as I understand you have not come every Sunday of late. I do hope there is no trouble at Pemberley.”

Elizabeth kept her expression carefully neutral as she laid aside her wrap. “None whatsoever. May I ask to what we owe the pleasure of such a feast, sir?”

“Oh! A bit of nothing this is. A friendly wager with a well-to-do farmer, and I found myself the owner of this magnificent roast. I asked myself, ‘What shall I do with all this?’ and the answer was clear as day. But, my dear sister, you do not seem pleased. I hope I have not caused offense by my offering.”

She forced a smile and a gentle shake of her head. “Of course not.”

“Excellent,” said he, “for I have not yet done.” He placed his hand behind his back, pausing theatrically and waiting for her eyes to fix on his face. “Voila!” he cried and presented her with a small box.

Elizabeth hesitated, not accepting it at once, and his expression altered from buoyant to wounded. “I hope I have not troubled you, Elizabeth. Is a brother-in-law not permitted to give his sister-in-law a gift?”

“I am not certain it is seemly,” she confessed. “What would people say?”

“I hope they will say that George Wickham is a generous fellow who cares prodigiously for anyone who can claim a connection to him. Your good mother did not object.”

“My mother?” Elizabeth turned to find Mrs Bennet in the very act of touching a small jet brooch, pinned to her gown. “You gave my mother a brooch?”

“And a modest amber cross for each of your sisters, as well—I did not think it quite the thing to give unmarried ladies a brooch. I hope you will forgive me. Come, you must look at it! All the finest ladies prize jet jewellery while in mourning, yet its costliness might have prevented my favourite ladies from wearing such pieces in memory of their father and husband. I sought to remedy that.”

Elizabeth thinned her lips and opened the box. Inside was a tiny flower pin, black as night and glittering from its linen nest. “I thank you, Mr Wickham, but I cannot accept.”

“What is this, ‘Mr Wickham’? Have you grown formal with me, my dear sister?”

She closed the lid of the box and tried, in vain, to give it back. “No, but I must be conscious of appearances.”

Wickham’s countenance darkened. “This is not about accepting gifts, is it? You are more concerned about Darcy’s opinion.”

“Should I not be? My duties are as a guide and chaperon to his sister, and I am most often in his house. Does not my employer have a right to an opinion regarding my affairs?”

“Not if those personal affairs do not affect him. How can a simple brooch be of concern? I hope—” he touched his hand to her forearm and leaned close—close enough to send a shiver down her spine. “I hope you have not heeded Darcy in all things. He has only his own interests at heart.”

Elizabeth glanced down at Mr Wickham’s hand and coolly stepped back until he dropped it. “Please, sir, pay me the honour of regarding my wishes in this. I speak not for Mr Darcy’s sake, but my own. You are very generous, but it would be better if you did not continue bringing gifts.”

He frowned. “As you say, Elizabeth. I hope I am not unwelcome here.”

“Unwelcome?” Mrs Bennet had been speaking to Kitty, but she overheard Mr Wickham’s remarks at a most inopportune moment and came near to speak her mind. “Why could you think yourself unwelcome, Mr Wickham? Lizzy, whatever have you said to poor Mr Wickham?”

“A misunderstanding, Mrs Bennet,” Mr Wickham quickly interrupted. “Nothing to worry about. Our dear Elizabeth is only expressing her very sound reservations regarding the acceptance of gifts from a single gentleman. A wise lady—” he bowed graciously, “and I humbly submit to her wishes.”

“Nonsense, Lizzy!” Mrs Bennet scoffed. “Why, it is not as if Mr Wickham has singled you out inappropriately, but he has showered us all with his kindness. Is that not right, Mr Wickham?”

He inclined his head. “As you say, but I would not wish to cause any discomfort or ill feelings.”

“Do not be ridiculous! Come, the table is laid. Lizzy, take that dirty wrap out from the dining room.”

Elizabeth surrendered, though Jane gave her a curious look as she passed by. Chastened, Elizabeth schooled her expression to be as neutral as she could make it and determined to avoid making a scene.

“W hat a scene! Jane, I cannot recall when I have been more humiliated!”

Elizabeth slammed the door to Jane’s bedroom and sank forcefully onto the creaking bed. “How does she dare?”

“Lydia can be too outspoken,” Jane agreed, “but it was not so bad.”

“Not so bad! She fairly bragged to Mr Wickham that I meant to deed Corbett Lodge to her when I remarried—and my supposed lover! Jane, what could make Lydia suppose that there was anything between Mr Darcy and me?”

“Do you mean there is nothing?” Jane asked innocently.

Elizabeth dropped the hand that had been kneading her brow. “Of course not! Are you saying that you also thought—”

Jane shrugged. “I think everyone does. It is true, I have only met him a few times, but each time he entered a room, he looked first for you before going to anyone else.”

“Because I am employed at his house!”

“And there is his tone of voice and expression when he speaks to you.”

“Again,” Elizabeth huffed, “he is familiar with my presence and I do not require him to engage in small-talk—”

“Confess it, Lizzy! You find him attractive as well. Come, now, I have seen how you watch him when he is looking away.”

“How could I not? The man is infuriating!”

“Is that why you stare at him? And my goodness, how you needle him! You have not bickered so energetically with anyone since Papa. A stranger would think you to be fighting in anger, but I believe you both take much pleasure from such exchanges.”

“You mistake me, Jane. I owe Mr Darcy my respect, that is all. If I relate to him differently than others, is it not to be expected? I am in his house all week, and he is entirely responsible for our family’s comfort. Should I not spare him some civility?”

“But what does he owe you? Certainly, far less than he has already given. Confess it, Lizzy—there is something, is there not?”

“I… no, Jane. Perhaps we have a peculiar way of getting on, but all this means nothing. Men of Mr Darcy’s station do not take notice of their younger sisters’ companions.”

Jane tilted her head and raised her brows. “Then why are you blushing?”

Elizabeth quickly pressed her palms to her cheeks. “I am not. But we are not speaking of me. What are we to do with Lydia?”

Jane shrugged. “She is only fifteen. What girl of her age does not speak some embarrassment or other? I am sure Mr Wickham will be generous and refrain from repeating anything she said.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Perhaps Mr Wickham is one of the principle people I would not wish to hear Lydia’s folly.”

“Surely it is nothing. I think you are weary, Lizzy, and you are fretting more than you need to. Has Mr Darcy sent word of his London business? I do hope he returns soon to ease Miss Darcy and relieve some of your worries.”

“I would not count on seeing Mr Darcy again soon,” Elizabeth muttered. “And perhaps it is for the best.”

L ady Sophia was no longer wearing mourning black when Darcy called at the Earl of Matlock’s London house the following week. He glanced at his cousin a second time in some surprise. Richard had not exaggerated when he claimed his sister would be seeking another husband soon, for the lady had donned a highly… diverting gown. She even appeared to be painted—or as close to such a scandalous state as an earl’s daughter would dare tread during the morning hours.

“Lady Matlock, Lady Sophia.” He bowed to both his aunt and cousin at the drawing room before the footman announced that his uncle would see him in the study. He gave his promise to both ladies that he would not depart without taking tea.

The earl rose from his desk to greet him warmly, and with very little preamble. “Ah, Darcy, I am glad you came when you did. This came not an hour ago—what do you make of it?” He extended a note. “It looks to me as if someone thinks to discredit your father in his grave. Bloody indecent!”

Darcy’s brow furrowed as he read the tightly penned lines—the words “foundling” and “forgery” leaping out more than once. “What is this?” he asked. “A claim that Bernard was not legally acknowledged by Franklin Wickham during his lifetime? Preposterous. Everyone can attest to the fact that the senior Wickham considered Bernard his son and heir. It cannot be contested—there can be no grounds for this complaint.”

The earl cleared his throat. “The fact that a mere steward could call his son an ‘heir’ to anything does raise the question, I suppose. But I cannot see how anyone could succeed legally with such an argument.”

“Perhaps that is not the complainant’s objective. Blackening my family’s name would do.”

The earl’s features hardened. “I think you know where to start looking for this troublemaker. See it hushed up, Darcy.”

Darcy gestured with the note. “I will keep this, if you do not object.”

“By all means. I trust I will hear no more of the matter.”

Darcy took tea with his aunt and cousin, although the earl declined to join them. Lady Matlock employed the time fretting about Richard and his scandalously small flat—after all, as a married man, he ought to have given it up in search of a better situation. Lady Sophia heartily added her sentiments that the marital estate ought to increase wealth at each essay, and that a married man who still sought to live economically was nothing short of a disgrace.

Darcy merely sipped his tea and kept his own counsel.