Page 15 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

“W hen did you say Bingley was coming back?” Colonel Fitzwilliam helped himself to a decanter of brandy from the sideboard and sauntered back to the billiards table.

“I did not say, but I expect him tomorrow. I was rather surprised he is not here already.”

“And you believe he will offer for Mrs Wickham?”

Darcy twisted his cue, adjusting to the feel of it as he lined up his shot. “It would serve them both well if he did.” He missed and stood back in mind frustration.

Fitzwilliam retrieved his own cue and studied the table. “She would suit him handsomely. Better than fair features, seems to be a loyal sort of woman, and she has a bit of spine. But what say you, Darcy, how do you think of a couple where the wife is the more determined of the two? What chances have they for success and happiness?”

Darcy watched Richard drop his mark and considered. “Many men would take issue with a woman who is both clever and stubborn, as Mrs Wickham is. I think it nonsense, for a man would be fortunate to have such a stalwart partner in life. Bingley could do with a bit of direction, and is so easy in general that Mrs Wickham could hardly find anything in him to run against.”

“Just so. But what of the lady’s preferences? How do you think she would fare without a bit of flint upon which to sharpen her blade?”

Darcy smiled and made his next shot. “Even in retirement, you still speak as a soldier. You make Mrs Wickham out to be some she-devil, but I assure you, she is not.”

“Aye, but mark my words; she will become dull within a twelve-month. A woman such as she likes a man who can go toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with her. Now, if she married Bingley, I’ve no doubt that she would think herself well contented and have every reason for satisfaction—in the beginning. She may even grow fat, producing one chubby red-haired babe after another. She would take up embroidery and table decorating, or whatever it is matrons do with their days. But count on it—she will also take to drinking in the closet and gossiping with the maids out of sheer boredom. That clear-eyed doe will soon be an indolent old badger.”

Darcy snorted. “What know you of women, Richard? The light-skirts who follow the drum, the maids who pour your ale, and your ill-tempered wife have taught you little about a true lady’s character.”

Richard cracked the balls together and straightened. “I know a bloody bit more than you, if you think you can marry her off to Bingley and be done with it.”

Darcy leaned against his cue. “It does me little good to disagree with you, for the matter is out of my hands. Bingley has declared himself in love with Miss Jane Bennet, and unless he should alter his intent, it is she to whom he means to return.”

“Ah. Then that does present a problem, for you will continue to have a remarkably handsome widow about. But, if she has any sense, she will rather marry after her mourning period ends than continue as Georgiana’s companion. Only four more months, if I am not mistaken? I suppose you know some other chap in want of a wife.” He finished his remarks with that Cheshire Cat grin of old days, a head tipped forward in interest, and a hand cocked at his hip.

Darcy slowly lowered his cue. “I see that marriage has not dampened your thirst for intrigue and gossip.”

“A man needs some entertainment, and heaven knows I do not find it at home. I wonder, since you are so experienced in arranging the unions of others, have you a second gentleman in mind for Mrs Wickham? You must have given the matter some thought.”

Darcy’s only response was a grunt as he considered the table.

“A shopkeeper? Or perhaps a genteel farmer? She is not of the finest stock, if I recall correctly, but she has ample… assets. I trust you can warrant her… ah… quality?”

“Do not be such a pig, Richard,” Darcy growled. “Whatever has got into you, speaking of an honourable widow as if she were merchandise? I begin to think you merely mean to irritate me.”

His cousin merely shrugged and chuckled. “I have missed you, too, Darcy.”

E lizabeth’s fingers crushed the flower stem abruptly, bending it until the petals drooped. She turned her hand over and stared at it from all angles—noting the irony of that plain gold band she still wore, pressed against a dead bloom. How very fitting!

She ought to discard the ridiculous ring. It never meant anything in the first place, save for… well, the person who had slid it onto her finger. But that odd memory was gone the way of this poor flower. The autumn iris, so alive a moment ago, now looked as if it had been wilting for some days. Elizabeth sighed and cast it back into the flower beds before resuming her aimless wandering of the garden.

“Does not Mr Darcy object?” came a voice behind her.

Elizabeth turned to find Anne Fitzwilliam—pale under her wide bonnet and attended by a vigilant maid carrying an extra shawl. She curtsied. “I am uncertain what you can mean, Mrs Fitzwilliam. Do you mean to ask if he objects to my plucking a flower, or causing disarray among the hedges by discarding it so haphazardly? Or perhaps he might object to the muddy portion of grass I have just walked through, where some careless gardener spilled too much of the water that had been intended for a sapling? You are perfectly right, for I suppose he would object to my footprints ruining the sod and the sod spoiling my shoes.”

The lady came near with a hawkish expression. “I heard you were an impertinent one, but you would do well to recall your place, Mrs Wickham. What I meant to ask, before you so flippantly presumed upon my intent, was whether your employer would object to you gadding about the grounds—alone and indecorously heedless of your appearance.” She sniffed and appeared to take pleasure in staring at a bit of grass on Elizabeth’s skirt before frowning and speaking once more. “Oughtn’t you to make yourself decent and return to Miss Darcy?”

“Your concern is well-meant, I am sure,” Elizabeth answered lightly. “Perhaps it is not so long that you cannot recall what it was to be a girl yourself—always some guardian or chaperon at your side? I have no desire to make myself an odious presence by over-constancy.”

Mrs Fitzwilliam’s cheek flinched. “I recall perfectly,” she retorted in a frosty voice. “But Miss Darcy’s preferences must and should be subject to her guardian’s wishes.”

Elizabeth bowed her head. “If Mr Darcy should make his objections known to me, I will be certain to address them. Good day, Mrs Fitzwilliam.”

“Here, now! I have not taken my leave of you, Mrs Wickham. Do you dare to turn your back on me?”

Elizabeth looked over her shoulder, her expression all innocence. “Forgive me, Mrs Fitzwilliam, but when I said, ‘Good day,’ that was me taking my leave. Is that not how it is done in Kent?”

Anne Fitzwilliam’s face took on the first hint of colour since Elizabeth had met her—though splotchy red could hardly be deemed healthy or attractive. “You take your leave of… A lady’s companion dismissing me? Preposterous! Come back here, you!”

Elizabeth gritted her teeth and faced the woman once more. “I am a respectable widow with property of my own, madam.”

“But who is your mother? A daughter of trade, no doubt, if her child possesses such audacity and so little decorum. I wonder at Mr Darcy for choosing such a—”

“Saucy minx? Poor influence? Provacateur?” A masculine voice interrupted Mrs Fitzwilliam, causing her to pale and jerk her head to the speaker. Mr Darcy himself had just rounded the hedge and was standing in his typical manner—hands clasped lightly behind his back, head inclined in half-facetious interest, and one foot slightly to the fore, as if to suggest that he was by no means on his guard. He glanced at Mrs Fitzwilliam, then turned his gaze to Elizabeth.

“Perhaps you are right, Anne,” he mused with a half-smile. “Mrs Wickham is certainly all these things and is a dreadful choice as a proper companion.”

“Precisely!” the lady agreed with energy. “Now, Darcy, if you would only look at the names I gave you last year, I am sure—”

“I have not done, Anne. Mrs Wickham?”

Elizabeth blinked and reached unconsciously to gather her skirt. “Yes?”

Mr Darcy gestured impatiently. “We had matters to discuss, had we not? You appear to be at your leisure and, at present, so am I.” He turned to his cousin, giving her a formal bow. “Anne. I hope you enjoy the rest of your constitutional.”

Elizabeth hesitated, but then a prick down her spine seemed to urge her forward. She fell meekly into step beside her employer, her body curved away from his as they walked side by side in an uncomfortable display of professionalism. She knotted her fingers in front of her stomach and fastened her eyes to the grass.

“I know what you wished to speak of,” she offered in a flat voice.

“Do you? Then you know more than I.”

“You are seeking some other arrangement for Miss Darcy—another companion, or perhaps she is to live with Lady Matlock to prepare for her coming out.”

Mr Darcy frowned, but did not look at her. “That was not my intent.”

“But you must see how much sense it makes,” she protested. “We have not been without our troubles, and with a background such as mine, I can be of no credit to her—why, you heard what Mrs Fitzwilliam said.”

He looked quizzically at her. “Why should either of us care what she said?”

“Because it is the truth!”

Mr Darcy pushed his lower lip out in a thoughtful, dubious expression wholly incongruous to his typical bearing. “And? It is also true that Anne Fitzwilliam made a scandalous dalliance by which she meant to force me to the altar, just to save her reputation. I should think the truth of your past is not nearly so tarnished as hers, and you see that I have not shunned my cousin.”

“Because she is your cousin. I am no one.”

Mr Darcy spun suddenly on the ball of his foot, his colour high and eyes curiously ablaze. “I will thank you never to repeat that, Mrs Wickham. Whatever you are, you are not no one.”

She felt her own features paling as he fairly stared her into surrender. And, for the first time in their acquaintance, she wished herself to be in the wrong and him in the right. She could find no proper response, so she dropped her eyes and mumbled a “Yes, sir.”

He held her in his gaze for another moment, almost daring her to some display of defiance. Twice, she hesitantly met his look, and then faltered.

“Very well,” he sighed at last. He glanced over his shoulder, and still seeing Anne Fitzwilliam not far away, he steered her gently towards the orangery. “Tell me about your concerns. What can I do?”

She stopped, causing him to turn back to her. “So easy as that? You are not asking me to prove my case or defend my decision to ask for your help?”

“Why would I ask such a thing? Had I no confidence in you, I would never have chosen you for the roles I asked you to play.”

Elizabeth regarded him carefully. He seemed to be in earnest.

“You were troubled on your sisters’ account?” he prodded.

“Yes,” she confessed. “Not that anything improper has taken place, but I wonder if Mr Wickham means to gain something by his displays of friendship. My family suspect nothing—even Jane, for she can only think well of people.”

“You are asking me to reveal his infamy to your family? Regale your sisters with tales of his exploits?”

Elizabeth glared at him. “Of course not!”

“Then perhaps you wish me to have him shot when next he shows his face? I am afraid his crimes do not merit that.”

“No, I—” She hissed in exasperation, then narrowed her eyes when she discovered the hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “You are provoking me again, sir.”

His lips turned up in earnest, then his expression became grave once more. “Forgive me, Mrs Wickham. I found the opportunity too tempting to resist, but you have asked a serious question and I will not mock you. What is your true concern? That he means to work upon your sisters until he compromises one of them in revenge?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. With Lydia, it is not unlikely that he might succeed, but I feel like he wants something else besides.”

Mr Darcy frowned, then with a flick of his eyes gestured that he wished to resume walking. Elizabeth fell into step beside him as he spoke. “I had heard something while I was in London. From my uncle, Lord Matlock, if you wish to know. A source informed him that someone was legally challenging Bernard’s legitimacy, and I think we both know who it was.”

Elizabeth laced her hands tightly as she walked. “Can such a complaint succeed? Is there proof?”

Mr Darcy made no immediate reply. He studied the ground, his cheek twitching occasionally as if he were considering what answer he might make. “Possibly,” he said at last.

“And if it did…” Elizabeth bit her lip and turned her face quickly away. She had taken for granted how comfortable it was to have a home, and to know her family were together and safe. If she lost Corbett, where would they go? She composed her features, but her voice was unsteady when she spoke again. “If it is not my right to hold the property, then it is not. But I thought you said your father designed the inheritance for Bernard? That all had been done legally?”

“It is true… to a point. But just as I did not pursue George Wickham when he wronged Anne or Georgiana, in the interests of protecting their honour, so my father left certain loose threads in the placement of Bernard.”

Elizabeth was watching his expression—the hesitation, the pain never before witnessed, and she fought an impulse to touch his shoulder in a show of comfort. “I do not understand,” she asked gently.

“Do you not? Is it so difficult for you to understand how easily a woman’s life can be ruined by a rogue?”

“No, of course not. But what is that here?” She tilted her head and this time, she did dare to touch his arm because she could not stop herself. “Who was Bernard, really?”

Mr Darcy thinned his lips. “My mother’s son.”