Page 16 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

“I t happened after my mother and father were betrothed. At a dinner party…” Darcy led Elizabeth to the stone garden bench, allowing her to settle herself facing in one direction while he dropped down to it from the other.

“Your father knew?”

“He could not help it. When he and my uncle discovered her in the library, her gown was torn, and she was weeping inconsolably. She refused to name the scoundrel, but they knew very well that it had to be Lord Dewhurst.”

“Oh…” Elizabeth’s brow was contorted, her cheeks drawn. “Your poor mother!”

Darcy watched her steadily. Seated oppositely as they were, she was looking beyond him, but he could see each delicate vein of her neck, each indignant flicker of her cheek. “There was nothing to be done. Dewhurst was already married—not that anyone would wish to force my mother to break her engagement with a man she loved to marry her attacker. My uncle offered to pay my father to go forward with the marriage, an offer which my father adamantly refused, for he loved my mother deeply and would never have cast her off.”

“So, what did he do?”

Darcy set his teeth and nodded as he recalled the tale. “What any respectable man would. He challenged Dewhurst on the field of honour. And won, I might add. Then he demanded that Dewhurst would provide for the child, for it was not to inherit Pemberley. My uncle helped to force this point, as the Matlock family hold considerable power in the House of Lords. Dewhurst finally agreed, and my father used the funds to purchase Corbett.”

She turned to face him at last, those dark eyes nearly liquid with regret and sympathy. “And her child never knew her?”

“No. He was kept near, so that my mother would have the comfort of seeing her son, but for him to know her was not possible. Even old Wickham only knew that the child was the natural born son of ‘someone,’ but not whom. The only persons who knew Bernard’s true parentage were my father, my uncle, and later myself. Dewhurst had every reason to conceal his part in it, for his financial humiliation was complete.”

“But surely,” she reasoned, “it is not impossible that someone might have said something, after all this time. A servant, even, might have known something.”

He nodded slowly. “No one at Pemberley knew of it, because my parents took an extended wedding tour to Scotland. When the child was born, he was sent to old Wickham in secret, and my parents did not return for another two months. Dewhurst no longer lives, but he had an heir who might have learned something. So, I ask you; is it more likely that someone has suddenly given information, or that George Wickham wishes me to think someone has done so? He knows me, and he knew my father. He would know there is a stone somewhere to overturn regarding Bernard’s identity, and he might just be daring enough to claim that he has found it.”

She turned away and pursed her lips, her eyes unfocused on the trees overhead. “What would he gain by merely harassing you? Surely, if he has gone so far as to issue a legal complaint, he must have some proof.”

“That is my instinct as well,” he confessed. “And if Wickham did discover Bernard’s true parentage…” A sickening realisation hit his stomach at that moment. Not for his family’s tarnished honour, not for Georgiana’s innocence, but for the woman seated at his side—the woman he had already forbidden himself to touch, because she was his brother’s widow.

“I must leave,” she finished in a flat voice. “I understand, sir. You have been very kind, but if my family cannot remain at Corbett, we will go elsewhere.”

He did not correct her misapprehension—could not dare. Some part of him had clung to the idle thought that perhaps, if he could somehow settle it with his conscience, he might have had a future with her. And perhaps, if she continued to soften towards him as she had begun, she might have desired the same. But if the fact of Bernard’s parentage was legally and publicly known, any such hope was dashed.

“I must speak with my steward,” he announced at length. “I am also expecting my solicitor.”

She looked back to him and swallowed, then nodded. “Yes. Shall I go to Miss Darcy?”

He gazed long into her eyes, then stared down at her fingers—at that wedding ring—as he lectured himself, once again, that she was not for him. “No,” he answered softly. “Go to your family. Assure yourself that all is well and send word if you have need of anything.”

She was looking down at his hands now too, but at last their eyes met. “Thank you, sir.”

“E gad, Darcy. Do you know, I always knew your father had hushed up Bernard’s parentage for some reason, but this…” Richard made a low whistling sound. “I suppose that means Bernard was as much my cousin as you are. I feel soiled by the association,” he said with a faint sneer of distaste.

“And well you might. Richard, I would not have Georgiana hear of this unless it cannot be helped. She always nursed some pity for Bernard, and that is enough in my mind. If she knew that our mother had suffered so, it would trouble her greatly.”

“Right. So, what shall it be for Wickham? An ‘accident,’ or shall I just have the blackguard thrown into prison?”

“Do not be ridiculous, but I must know what information he has. I just spoke with my solicitor, and he is making inquiries. If there truly is evidence, I must be prepared.”

“Suppose there is not? George was no more an heir of the body than Bernard was, so why would he truly open such a challenge if what he wants is Corbett? What if he is just performing his usual sleight of hand while he tries some other means behind your back?”

Darcy smiled. “Then I shall be grateful to have you here. What have you learned so far?”

“Only that he told the Bennet family he was bound for London.”

Darcy paced before the mantel, tapping the leg of his trousers in thought. “I ordered my men to find Mrs Younge and Mrs Godfrey—or, rather, Isabella Wickham. Perhaps they will know something.”

“For a price. How long, Darcy?”

“Hmm? How long what?”

Richard stepped near, shaking his finger. “How long do you mean to keep cleaning up after the Wickhams? Bribing and shepherding them into rectitude, settling their debts, mending the path of destruction in their wake?”

Darcy threw a hand in the air in exasperation. “What would you have me do? You see what he has done, whom he has harmed. You were bitter at me after I got you to wed Anne, but can you think of a happier resolution?”

Richard grumbled, rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers on the desk. “No,” he admitted through clenched teeth. “It is not as if I expected to hold any special affection for the lady if I ever married, and I needed a bride with a fortune.”

“Precisely. Anne’s needs and yours were both satisfied, and the family honour preserved. Yet, if I had not nearly forced the issue, can you say it would have come about?”

“You are deliberately avoiding my point, Darcy. What of Wickham? He has gone from one offence to another for years, and will continue to do so as long as you pick up the pieces.”

Darcy looked towards the window. “You know why I cannot confront him openly. Georgiana’s reputation—”

“A pitiful excuse. Why not do as you did with Bernard and send him to prison?”

Darcy rose from the desk with a hiss. “He has been shrewder in his debts. I searched last autumn but discovered very little of use.”

“And you did not ask me for help?”

Darcy cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. “If I recall correctly, you were still threatening to knock me down if I came near.”

Richard stroked his jaw in thought. “Oh, yes. I would have helped you back up, you know.”

Darcy offered a sort of laugh, then a knock came at the door. At Darcy’s summons, the footman opened it and announced a harried, red-faced Bingley.

“Ah, there you are,” Darcy greeted him. “I had almost given you up. You remember Richard, of course.”

Bingley spared a short nod for Fitzwilliam, then came forward. “Darcy, I have just come from Corbett. Something dreadful has happened!”

The room turned cold, and Darcy’s stomach twisted in dread. “Mrs Wickham? Is she injured?”

“No, no, it is Miss Lydia. She has disappeared!”

“Miss Lydia?” Darcy repeated. “When did this happen?”

“This afternoon, they said. I rode by—just a bit of a detour before coming here,” he confessed with an abashed look. “Miss Jane met me in the drive, saying that Miss Lydia had gone, and Mrs Wickham is out going round to all the farmhouses looking for her. I came here as quickly as I could.”

“I feared that one would be trouble,” Darcy answered tightly. “I will come at once.” Fitzwilliam was already at the door of the study, calling for his hat and coat. Darcy and Bingley followed close on his heels.

D arcy found Mrs Bennet in a fit of hysterics to rival any thrown by his most flamboyant aunts. She greeted the search party from her sofa, a lace handkerchief fluttering about her ample bosom as her middle daughter strove to keep a vial of salts before her ever-wandering face.

“What has become of her?” she lamented. “My poor sweet Lydia, my innocent girl!”

“When did you last see her?” Darcy asked for the third time. “Was she here at luncheon?”

“Oh! I hardly know, I am in such a bad way. Lizzy would know, but she has gone off too, and for all I know they are both carried away to heaven knows what kind of fate. My poor girls! How could they do this to me?”

Miss Bennet sighed and spoke the first words of sense Darcy had heard since coming to the house. “Lydia was here at breakfast, but she asked for a large basket to be packed for a picnic. I heard nothing of this until later, but the kitchen girl did as she asked. I hardly know how Lydia could have carried it, if it was as full as Millie claims. Lydia told Kitty she was going walking with Lizzy, but then she told Lizzy that she was going out with Kitty. We knew nothing until luncheon when she did not return, for Lydia never misses a meal, and she is too addle-headed to embark on anything more than a quarter-mile walk.”

“Has she any friends among the villagers?”

Miss Bennet pressed her lips together. “She would never go with us when we took baskets round, so I do not believe so.”

Darcy caught Bingley’s eye, for the latter had drawn close to his lady and was standing protectively behind her. “Where has Mrs Wickham gone, do you think?”

Miss Bennet gestured helplessly. “I expect she has been almost everywhere by now. I do not know where to tell you to look for her, but perhaps we may hope that she has discovered Lydia somewhere, and they are even now on their way back.”

“Of course,” Bingley agreed. “Why, that is precisely how it must be. Miss Lydia cannot have gone far, and Mrs Wickham is most resourceful.”

Darcy fought a roll of his eyes as the happy couple consoled one another with this na?ve hope. “Fitzwilliam,” he announced to the glowering presence at his side, “I will ride west.”

D arkness was falling rapidly, and his sense of dread was escalating by the moment. Nearly two miles from Corbett Lodge, he dropped into a small valley where one of her tenants lived. It was the Smiths, a couple of advancing age with no children to attract a girl of fifteen to their home. Elizabeth would have left this as nearly the last house to search on her path, if he knew her as he thought he did.

His hammering heart and searching eyes were rewarded only a moment later when a woman’s figure emerged from the trees. Her steps were faltering, her head down in defeat, and her gown splattered and stained from her exertions. Darcy nearly threw himself from his horse and ran to her.

“Elizabeth! Are you hurt?”

She scarcely raised her bonnet—merely shaking it back and forth as she crossed her arms over her chest. Darcy heard a sob, and it tore through his heart.

“Elizabeth!” He reached her and clasped her shoulders, unnerved by the way her form slackened and she refused to look him in the eye.

“It is my fault,” she kept repeating. “I ought to have watched her better! I knew she would—oh, Mr Darcy, it is my fault!”

Darcy stripped off his riding coat and wrapped it about her against the evening chill. She shrugged into it as if grateful for the warmth, but still she would not lift her head.

“What can you mean, ‘your fault,’?” he asked.

“I feared she would do something foolish! Please, Mr Darcy, you must leave me. We are ruined, all of us! You cannot be seen with—”

“Elizabeth,” he interrupted. “Look at me.”

She closed her eyes firmly, but slowly lifted her tear-streaked face to him.

“Much better. Now, I pray you tell me what has happened.”

She drew a long, trembling sigh and nearly sobbed again. “I spoke with a farm maid who saw a girl who looked like Lydia. She was going south, they said—on the back of some man’s horse.”