Page 7 of The Rogue’s Widow (Sweet Escapes Collection #3)

“A nd this is the last of the accounts?” Darcy asked Daniels, his steward. His desk was littered from a long afternoon of the most wearisome sort of business—that of patching up the sorry affairs of another.

“Yes, Mr Darcy. We have made a thorough search, and no other can make any claims—of paternity or debt or otherwise—of Mr Bernard Wickham.”

Darcy sighed. “So end it. A good thing, too, for I doubt my coffers could have endured another decade of his debauchery.”

“With all due respect, Mr Darcy, there was never any requirement for you to see it all attended to.”

“There was—a promise of sorts. Moreover…” He allowed the thought to drift as he penned the final signature. Daniels sat patiently while he sanded the page, folded the directive, and stamped it with his signet ring. Darcy paused as he handed the sealed missive back to his steward. “I dislike seeing innocents harmed by a rogue.”

“And that is why it is a privilege to work for you, sir,” Daniels answered in a curiously husky tone.

Darcy dismissed the compliment with a brusque wave of his hand. “Have we any other business this afternoon?”

“Only if you wish to look over some of your investments, sir. There are also the latest foals born, a report on the lambs—”

“Tomorrow, Daniels.” Darcy rose from his desk and subtly flexed his tired calves behind the desk.

“Very good, sir. I am at your leisure.”

After Daniels had gone, Darcy walked to the hearth and at last gave in to the urge to stretch his shoulders, roll his taut neck, and draw several deep breaths. Long and tedious work it had been, but Bernard Wickham and his affairs were now behind him. Save for the problem of his “widow.” But he had a plan there, provided that the lady was willing to heed his advice… and he could manage to carry it off.

“William?” The door to his study cracked, and Georgiana’s voice sounded small and fragile.

He turned and gestured for her to enter. “What is the trouble, Georgiana?”

She came, her hands clasped tightly before her, and her steps shortened. “William, something dreadful happened in Lambton today.”

Instantly his eyes went to the door, and his body tensed. “Where is Mrs Wickham? She is not harmed in some way? Has someone offended her?”

“No, quite the opposite. We met a woman today… oh, it is in every way distressing!” She covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers and quelled a few hasty breaths before continuing. “Do you know a Mrs Isabella Godfrey?”

Darcy’s brow furrowed in thought. “I am not familiar with the name.”

“Are you certain?” Georgiana pressed. “She claims to be a widow, and sister to Mr Jameson at the inn. She told us she resides at East Orchards, and made it sound as if she had always lived there.”

He narrowed his eyes. “The only one I recall who could possibly make such claims is… but no, I thought she died or fell to ruin years ago.”

Georgiana stepped closer. “Who?”

“Why do you wish to know? This must have been some peculiar encounter.”

“It was. William, she claims a special fondness for George Wickham, and she said she had been longing to meet Elizabeth, as the new mistress of Corbett. She had the oddest things to say about how Mr Wickham was cheated of his inheritance by someone who wished to do him harm, but that it was still a good job that Elizabeth had got it in the end. It was all so fearfully uncomfortable! I simply did not know what to say—I wished to leave, but I could not very well do that.”

“Georgiana, tell me everything you recall. Was this a tallish woman, with hair that is more red than brown?”

She nodded. “Yes, that sounds right.”

“Expressive features, smiles too often and is somewhat brazen in her approach?”

“Yes, yes, that is her! Do you know her after all?”

He frowned. “No.”

“But William! You must know who she is. I think she was quite taken with Elizabeth and begged her to call if she ever could.”

His gaze sharpened on his sister. “And what of E—Mrs Wickham? Did she appear equally enamoured by the acquaintance?”

“That is what troubles me, for I could not be sure. Mrs Godfrey was everything pleasant and inviting, and you know, I think Elizabeth still feels somewhat unwelcome here in Derbyshire.”

“Has she said that?”

“No, but it is in her manner, do you know? I suppose if I were Bernard’s widow and had to hear all the awful things said about him, I would scarcely feel less uncomfortable.”

“But back to Mrs Godfrey, did Mrs Wickham appear to credit her words?”

Georgiana shrugged. “Well, why would she not? I wanted to tell Elizabeth all about George Wickham, but I feared to say anything after we came away, for I thought ‘What if she discovers the truth about me?’ I do not think I could bear for her to hate me, William!”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief for his sister to dab eyes that had swelled with sudden tears. “She would never hate you, but you did right, for I would not have her know all.”

Georgiana’s lip trembled. “Surely, this is nothing of consequence. You mean to tell me now that I am fretting over nothing, yes? I mean—” her hands twisted together unhappily—“It was just one conversation, and nothing is bound to come of it, right?”

“Of course, my dear,” he soothed. “You must not trouble yourself, or your eyes will become swollen and then you truly will have questions to answer from your friend.”

She drew a trembling breath and nodded. “Yes, yes, you are right. I will go now. But you will make inquiries after Mrs Godfrey, will you not?”

“Indeed, I will, but I am certain that it was only a passing conversation, as you say. Run along, and I will see you at dinner.” He kissed the cheek she lifted to him and stood back as she left the study.

“Isabella Godfrey now, is it?” he murmured to himself. “Let us hope Elizabeth Wickham is made of finer stuff than you were, old girl.”

July 1813

E lizabeth had never seen a more beautiful sight in all her life than the one that greeted her at her front door. Jane—long-lost Jane, gone these two years to Dorsetshire, now returning to the bosom of her family. Elizabeth raced to her first, nearly sweeping her much taller sister off her feet and twirling her about in transports of joy.

The reunion was boisterous and long, with all six women talking over one another in a frenzy of exultation. There were news to share, gossip to catch up, Lydia’s startling new height to marvel over, and every feature and corner of Corbett Lodge to be admired. When they had exhausted their words and hands, they fell to satisfying their stomachs with the bounty from the larder. And the best gift of all—the Darcys had insisted that Elizabeth should remain at least two or three days to welcome her favourite sister, with no concern for rushing back to Pemberley.

“Oh, Lizzy!” Jane draped herself over the sofa, her hand cast over her stomach and her countenance suffused with plenitude for the first time in far too long. “I can only think we have been granted some Providential blessing. I still cannot credit your story!”

“It is true, every word.”

Jane lifted her head. “Why, Lizzy, you do not look at all pleased. Do you regret marrying Mr Wickham? Surely the knowledge that his estate would be well cared-for lent him peace in his last days. He must have desired a wife for some reason.”

“So I was told, but I am questioning that reason.”

Jane straightened, glancing quizzically at their mother. “Oh! Do not listen to Lizzy,” scoffed Mrs Bennet. “You know she frets over everything.”

“It is far more than ‘fretting’ to be concerned for the prospects of one who was injured by my gain,” Elizabeth replied. “And yes, I am. I have met Mr George Wickham on a few occasions now, and can trace no resemblance to the fearsome creature Mr Darcy sketched for me.”

“But your letters told of Mr Darcy’s kindness to you,” Jane recalled. “How he arranged everything here, cared for his friend’s affairs and now acts the gracious employer and generous neighbour. Surely, such a man must have had his reasons for supporting Mr Wickham’s decision to marry, rather than permitting the inheritance to pass to his brother.”

“Mr Darcy is a person who has some hidden reason for all he does. He rarely speaks more than a sentence or two and never explains his motives, so how am I to understand them? Even kindness can be corrupt, if bestowed for the wrong reasons.”

Jane and Mary exchanged a long look, with the latter lifting her shoulders and returning to Fordyce. Jane sighed. “I will trust that so many good things to come into our lives cannot be tainted at their root. When am I to meet this Mr Darcy?”

Elizabeth turned her head at the sound of hoofbeats clattering in the drive. “Right now, it would seem.”

It was not merely Mr Darcy. In his company was that Charles Bingley fellow, whose arrival Elizabeth had not known to expect. What inconvenient presumption, and at such a time! As a precaution against unwanted courtliness, Elizabeth kept her greeting to Mr Bingley as short as she could without being uncivil. Oh, he was not a bad sort of man. In fact, she might have heartily liked him, had it not been for Mr Darcy’s clear desire that she ought to do so.

Mr Darcy introduced everyone, and Mr Bingley cheerfully fell into conversation with her mother—a thing few gentlemen ever had the temerity or patience for. Elizabeth watched them in a detached fashion, until she sensed Mr Darcy standing at her side.

“Your eldest sister little resembles you,” he noted.

She turned a cross look on him. “Is this your typically impolite means of asking if she truly is my sister? I assure you, she is.”

“I intended no speculation of the kind, but many families have siblings who, for… various reasons, look quite different from one another.”

“Mr Darcy, that statement only affirms to me that you think my sister’s birth might have been irregular. Though I have adequate assurances that it was not, it is a terribly coarse observation, and better kept to yourself.”

He laughed. “I meant no offense.”

“Of course, you did. You delight in espousing opinions designed to provoke.”

“And if I do, you never fail to make statements intended either to misdirect the conversation or overtly confront my words.”

“Perhaps you could terminate my employment, if my manner is offensive.”

Mr Darcy offered an enigmatic smile. “I never said I was offended.”

They ceased speaking, and he stood beside her in taut silence, his hands crossed behind his back and his weight balanced forward on his toes. Every so often he would tense, as if thinking of something, and then the notion would pass, and he would stand at ease once more.

“Mr Darcy, had you something to say?” she asked at length. “What can you mean by coming in all this state just to meet my sister?”

“Why, Mrs Wickham, do you not think I would stir myself to greet a new neighbour?”

“No.”

His brow wrinkled, and he frowned. “You are correct, I suppose.”

“And if your intent was to bring Mr Bingley to my notice and me to his, you have a rather heavy-handed way of going about it.”

“I do not think so. Are you not required by the rules of civility to comport yourself as a widow in mourning while at Pemberley? So much the better for any interested gentleman to meet you here, where you are more at home and such a gentleman might know your family.”

“Are you speaking of Mr Bingley or yourself?”

Mr Darcy’s complexion changed hues—the first she had ever seen him do so. “Myself! That is a curious question to ask, Mrs Wickham.”

“Is it? For I am hardly away half a day, but you do not casually ride in this direction.”

He blinked and stared across the room. “Merely surveying the drainage from the neighbouring fields, as I do each week at this time of year. And inspecting the flocks, of course.”

“You are watching me.”

“Indeed not, madam!” He laughed consciously. “What, do you think I have little better to do than to spy on those in my employ whenever they return to their homes?”

She sighed. “Mr Darcy, if you have concerns that I might behave in a manner unbecoming to my post, why do you not speak to me of it?”

“You mistake me, Mrs Wickham. Your name aside—for I suppose you cannot help it that you wed a blackguard—there is no disrepute to be found in you.”

“Then you are looking in on the management of the house? May I remind you, sir, that you nearly forced me to accept this duty, and you no longer have the right to express doubt in my abilities—or my mother’s, as she acts as mistress while I am away. You do recall that she was mistress of a larger house for twenty years and knows what she is about?”

“Why do you presume that I do anything but what I profess? Can a man not ride out among his neighbours?” Mr Darcy’s ears were red at the tips and he was making a point of looking only at Mr Bingley… who had fallen into animated conversation with Jane. Mr Darcy’s brow darkened, and he developed a positive frown.

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. “It is a pity.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh! Only that you went to all that trouble to make Mr Bingley and me like each other, but he is even less cooperative than I am.”

Mr Darcy glanced down at her. “Your sister is handsome, but Bingley is no fool. I hope you will both see the sense of it in time.”

Mr Bingley and Jane both burst into a laugh at some silliness, and the gentleman was leaning far closer than a first acquaintance typically permitted.

“Did you ever think, Mr Darcy, that perhaps you are not always right?” Elizabeth asked smugly.

“Never.”