Page 6 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

“C ongratulations, Darcy, you succeeded at last.”

Darcy scarcely looked up when George Wickham was announced at his study. He had been expecting this, and had even given the order that the rascal was to be admitted when he called at last. The only wonder was that it had taken nearly three months to come about. He never even set aside his quill as Wickham dropped into the chair opposite his desk without being invited.

“I have succeeded at many things,” Darcy answered mildly. “Pray, to which are you referring?”

Wickham put his hands on the desk. “Bernard married on his deathbed? Tell me that was not your doing.”

“Why would I tell you that? It most certainly was.” Darcy dipped his quill and continued writing.

“For what purpose? Oh, I remember!” Wickham leaped from the chair and paced the study, punctuating his words by smacking one fist on the opposite palm. “You swore I would never inherit. You vowed to see me in penury. You promised your revenge for—for what, I do not know.”

“Do you not? You do not recall your many offences against my family?”

“I recall that your father loved me, and so did Georgiana. I recall how that made you insensible with jealousy and that you did all in your power to discredit me!”

“No, I did all in my power to protect others from your lies. Where would Georgiana be if I had not intervened? Why, abandoned and probably pregnant out of wedlock, living off the charity of strangers wherever you left her.”

“There you are wrong, Darcy! Had you not intervened, she would be comfortably installed as my wife at a charming house three miles from here.”

“Just as your previous conquest, I trust?”

“Now, that is unfair. The lady toyed with my affections, not the reverse. Ask her yourself—or have you? Is that why I have not seen Fitzwilliam of late? I ought to call on him and ask after his wife,” he mused with a smirk.

“It will not work, Wickham. I’ve no interest in dredging up the past, and no intention of giving another farthing to a man who gambled away his inheritance within a month of receiving it.”

Wickham sneered. “You could not live long on five hundred pounds, either.”

“You were promised a living. What came of that? You refused to take orders, that is what.”

“I was indisposed when you gave the living to another man!”

Darcy snorted. “Indisposed for six months? You were detained by drink and women. You had never undertaken the proper studies and never intended to. I count it a mercy that you are no man of the cloth.”

Wickham returned to the chair and leaned forward intently. “Say what you will, Darcy. I ought to have at least been given Bernard’s inheritance. We both knew he had the French disease for years—it was only a matter of time. Yet you hastened his death by having him thrown into debtor’s prison and found some desperate wench to marry him at the last moment!”

“Hasten his death, indeed. Bernard was better looked after in prison than he could have been rubbing along in the seedy establishments he frequented. I saw to that. Moreover, I preserved countless innocent maids from his attentions—and from yours!—though it is a shame I was too late for some. That kitchen girl at Corbett, for example—dead at only sixteen because of Bernard. There were others, too, and none of them have a pleasant tale to tell. But I am sure the sentiments of the women you two have ruined do not concern you.”

Wickham laughed. “There, you have as much as told me the marriage you brought about was unconsummated.”

“I did not ask the lady the particulars of her marital relations, and in the eyes of the Church, the union was satisfactory. Let me also remind you that you will gain nothing by attempting to win her for yourself, for as your brother’s widow, the marriage would not be legal.”

Wickham sat back in the chair and shook his head. “Neat and tidy. You have thought of everything, Darcy, except for one.”

Darcy raised a patient brow. “If you fancy that I spend my days dreaming up means of thwarting you, you have been sadly misled. I have better things to do with my time.”

“Aha!” Wickham cried. “I see it. You are dying to know where the flaw is in your arrangements, but you will not ask. Very well, I shall not tell you. But you would be wise to keep an eye on that lovely young widow in the neighbourhood. It would not do for—well! Perhaps I shall say no more. Give Georgiana my regards, will you?”

Wickham breezed out of the room without an adieu, leaving Darcy scowling at his desk. The blackguard, he seethed. Whatever scheme Wickham thought himself the master of, Darcy had no notion. But he would take the man’s caution—the last thing he needed was for Wickham to whisper his malcontented perfidy into her ears. She thought little enough of him already.

Not that he would have it differently. It would be too dangerous, should she accidentally take a liking to him. No! That, he could not withstand. Best to keep her at arm’s length as his employee—

As the kindest friend Georgiana had ever had. As a local widow, for whom he was occasionally pleased to do a good turn. And as a pleasant neighbour who was already doing much to improve circumstances for the tenants of the neglected estate.

As a beautiful woman… one who needed him just enough to draw him in, but was independent enough to push him away.

Dear heaven, it was too late for him, and he was only just confessing it to himself.

He noted the time on his mantel clock and rose from his desk to go to the window. Precisely four of a Sunday afternoon… and like every Sunday afternoon previous, there was Mrs Wickham, walking up from the garden. As was typical, she had eschewed the offer of a carriage and traversed the three miles from Corbett Lodge on foot. He knew her bonnet-shaded cheeks would be rosy, and her eyes would be bright from the exercise, and she clutched the dour black cape around her shoulders as if she was still not used to it.

She met him as he came out of his study, her head coming up in surprise. Did she know how he waited for her each Sunday afternoon? Or was she truly as oblivious to his notice as she seemed to be?

“Mr Darcy.” She curtsied and began to move away.

“I hope your family were well.”

She turned and dipped her head slowly. “They were. I trust Miss Darcy is changing for dinner?”

“I presume. I understand you had a visitor today at Corbett.”

She began to pluck the gloves from her fingers without looking at him. “I have many visitors. The estate has eight tenants, you know.”

“George Wickham?”

She nodded silently and folded her gloves together. “Your closest friend, I take it. I found him quite engaging.”

“Engaging or not, I would have you know that he is not a guest whose company I permit here. I would encourage you to take a similar stance at Corbett.”

“Interesting, as I just saw him riding away when I came up.”

“A matter of business, but it is at an end. He is not welcome again.”

She tilted her head and studied him with those liquid eyes, her lips softly parted. “I do wonder, Mr Darcy, what could have been so objectionable about the man that you forbid his presence? You believe him so odious that you brought me in to prevent his inheriting, but I found his manners perfectly engaging. I start to think I ought to feel badly for receiving what ought to have gone to another.”

He frowned and made a formal bow. “I have no doubts that my sister is anxious for your safe return. I shall see you at dinner, Mrs Wickham.” He turned on his heel and closed the door to his study, ignoring the bemused look in those dark eyes when he walked away from her.

May 1813

I t was rare that Georgiana wished to go into Lambton. There was little need for her to wander the shops—everything she desired was purchased in London or crafted especially for her by the very finest hands. But, occasionally, Elizabeth would prevail upon Miss Darcy to accompany her into the nearest town merely for the sake of some diversion.

Georgiana Darcy was a friendly soul, but her wealth and status only worsened her innate shyness. The townspeople’s eagerness to please Mr Darcy’s sister made her less confident, rather than more so. However, and in great part due to Elizabeth’s own growing familiarity with the town, Georgiana had stumbled upon one or two establishments in which she felt welcome without feeling conspicuous.

One such place was the bookshop where the proprietor would stand aside for an hour to suggest new delights to suit the ladies’ fancies. On these occasions, Georgiana would happily purchase anything he advised for herself, and never failed to secure another book for Elizabeth, despite the protestations of the latter.

Another, oddly, was the local coaching inn. The ebb and flow of travellers through the common rooms meant that there were many who did not know Miss Darcy for the princess of the county, and that slight hint of anonymity pleased her. She and Elizabeth occasionally spent the afternoon observing the passing humanity from the relative seclusion of one of the private alcoves. The innkeeper, a respectable man named Samuel Jameson, kept them well supplied with tea and scones and ensured that no one troubled them. The young ladies amused themselves by imagining where a certain businessman was bound, or how long a particular couple had been wed, or the tragic story behind a notable countenance.

One Wednesday afternoon, a woman entered in a state of agitation and called for the proprietor. This caught Elizabeth’s notice, for the woman appeared to be attired as a lady of leisure, but she was not accompanied by any husband or servant. Thinking she had discovered a person of interest, Elizabeth nudged Georgiana and they quietly witnessed the unfolding conversation.

“Samuel,” the woman cried, “the man you sent gave a most alarming report! Do you truly refuse to help me?”

The innkeeper wiped his hands and made a silencing gesture. “Come by later. My wife can speak with you.”

“I do not want that silly wife of yours. She hasn’t two wits to rub together. What is the meaning of this?”

He leaned close to the woman and spoke in tones low enough that Elizabeth and Georgiana, across the room, could not hear. His embarrassment and desire to send her away were perfectly clear, but the more he tried to divert her, the more rooted she seemed to be to her spot.

“I think she must be his lover,” whispered Georgiana.

“Goodness, what sort of novels are you reading?” Elizabeth whispered back. “That sounds more like Kitty’s sort of entertainment.”

“But see how familiar they are? They must be…” Georgiana reddened. “You know.”

“Or they could simply be neighbours or relatives.”

“Samuel,” the woman lamented at last, “you are of positively no use! I can see that I will have to solve this trouble on my own.”

“Do as you will, Isabella,” he grumbled as he turned away. “You never would listen.”

“See?” Georgiana hissed.

Elizabeth silenced Georgiana, for at that moment the woman had turned round and her eyes fell on them. She looked curious, then thoughtful, and then she boldly approached.

“I beg your pardon,” she inquired sweetly, “but would you be Miss Georgiana Darcy and Mrs Elizabeth Wickham?”

They glanced at each other—Georgiana in fear, Elizabeth in confusion. “Those are our names,” Georgiana answered hesitantly.

“Oh—” the newcomer rolled her eyes and offered a gentle smile. “Forgive my impertinence in addressing you, but it has been some while that I have greatly desired to meet you.”

Georgiana blinked. “Me?”

“No—I beg your pardon again. Her.” The woman nodded toward Elizabeth. “My name is Isabella Godfrey—Samuel Jameson here is my brother. I have heard much of the new mistress of Corbett Lodge.”

“Godfrey…” Elizabeth repeated slowly. “Why, yes, I have heard your name. It is a pleasure to meet you, madam.”

“We have a mutual friend,” Mrs Godfrey continued. “I understand you have made the acquaintance of your brother-in-law, Mr George Wickham?” At Elizabeth’s concession, she went on. “I knew Mr Wickham when he was but a lad. My husband—God rest his soul—used to have a fine apple orchard, and the dear boy was forever jumping the fence and pilfering the very best apples until one day we caught him and made him to come in like an honest lad and sit at table.” A warmth had kindled in Mrs Godfrey’s face as she relived what seemed to be a pleasant memory.

Georgiana had turned very red at all this account, and Elizabeth wondered briefly at it, but was more intrigued by the new acquaintance before her. “That is a very kind response to youthful indiscretions,” she replied.

“Oh! One could not help but be kind to George. The poor lad had a hard time of it with his elder brother always taking advantage of him. You know how boys often are!”

Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. “I am sorry to say that I know very little of the family history.”

“My dear lady,” Mrs Godfrey laughed, “pray, do not interpret my words as any slight against you on account of your departed husband. We all do as we must, and I say thank heaven that Corbett Lodge is become a respectable place again. It is a pity that poor George shall not have what he expected, but if not he, then what a mercy that it fell to a fine woman like yourself.”

Georgiana was looking at the floor now, and Elizabeth could even see that her shoulders had begun to hunch. She looked questioningly at her friend, but then returned her attention to Mrs Godfrey. “Forgive me for asking, but do you… are Mr Wickham’s prospects much harmed?”

Mrs Godfrey’s expression sobered. “Forever ruined, I should say. I regret to tell you that the poor man seems to have made an enemy of a rather powerful gentleman, though he confessed to me he is quite at a loss as to how. And, despite all hope to the contrary, that person was pleased to see him destitute. Oh, but do not look so downcast yourself, Mrs Wickham!” she interjected at Elizabeth’s turn of countenance. “You could have known none of this, and I have heard enough fine and noble things of your character to think very well of how matters came about for you. I am certain you are just as deserving, and perhaps more so. Such a pleasure it gave me when I heard how wonderfully you care for your widowed mother and sisters! ‘There, Isabella,’ I said to myself, ‘there is a lady you ought to meet,’ and I am very glad I have done so.”

“I am honoured,” Elizabeth answered, but in a numb, automatic sort of speech.

“All the honour is mine, I assure you. But there! I had a rather troublesome matter to address, so I must away. I understand it would be difficult to call on you at Corbett, but if you are ever near East Orchards, I should be delighted to receive you. Good day, Mrs Wickham, Miss Darcy.”

“Good day,” Elizabeth repeated.

Georgiana remained silent.