Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“ I thought you were Wickham,” Mrs Younge spat, sneering at Darcy in palpable distaste. “Where is he?”
“I am right here, darling,” came a nonchalant voice from behind the heavy curtains in the back of the study.
All eyes turned in that direction, and a smug Wickham appeared from among the forest green panels of velvet. He was perfectly coiffed, dressed to the nines in Darcy’s attire, freshly shaven, and exceedingly satisfied with himself. In his hand shone the silver barrel of a pistol cocked and ready to fire.
Fitzwilliam, who had been glaring at his heretofore paramour, turned towards the menace, his hands deftly scooting the topmost sheets of paper over the open gun case, tossing Darcy a meaningful glance in the process. He must have been loading the pistols a moment ago. Of course, neither of them could grasp one of the weapons, for Wickham would fire his weapon long before either of them could reach the box.
“Wickham?” Darcy’s shock at this turn of events could not have been more profound. He manoeuvred his body so that Elizabeth was now enclosed between himself and the bookcases lining the wall. “It was you? But, why?”
“Why?” Wickham scoffed. “You have the nerve to ask me that? After you belittled me and judged me and shunned me all those years, you wonder why I should wish you dead? Come, Darcy, I thought you were more intelligent than that.”
“If you want me dead, then why are you here? What has your grudge against me to do with the Fitzwilliams? Why do you hold Fitzwilliam hostage?” Darcy dared not ask about Georgiana, for he did not wish to believe Wickham capable of hurting one who looked up to him almost as an elder brother.
“Oh, I do not hold the colonel here hostage,” Wickham said, pointing his gun towards Fitzwilliam. “He and I were simply reminiscing about our time together in Ramsgate, how much we enjoyed running into one another. It took two months for the swelling in my nose to go down after our tête-à-tête, and my ribs still ache when I take too deep a breath.” He grabbed at his left side with his free hand, affecting a wince. “Yes, I have fond memories of our time together on the Kent coast, old man. But, then, we have already had that discussion, have we not?” At that, Wickham lifted the pistol and tapped the barrel against his right temple, waggling his eyebrows.
Fitzwilliam’s hand floated to his own face, and Darcy noted an angry red lump forming just at his hairline. How had he not seen it until now? Wickham must have had a grand time torturing his cousin in retribution for his so-called sins against the scoundrel. Darcy’s ire rose on Fitzwilliam’s behalf—stuck in a room with a vengeful beast who was armed and intent on tormenting him for having protected the young lady Darcy had begged him to care for.
Wickham will not get away with this.
“And why did you not kill me at the inn? Why recite the sob story about your grief and beg to be back in my confidence?”
“I did not beg,” Wickham objected, slinging the shining steel pistol in his direction. “I needed to be above suspicion—in your mind most of all. How else would I slide into your place as master of Pemberley and Darcy House? I could not be seen anywhere near the scene of the crime. The two incompetent goons Mrs Younge here hired did not even know my face.”
“And the claim that they had been after you in Hertfordshire?”
“Well,” he said with a smirk, “they did ask after me in Hertfordshire. Whether they claimed to have a warrant for my arrest, I could not say.”
Darcy was sick. He had gone against his nature and given his old friend the benefit of the doubt. All signs had pointed to Wickham’s innocence, to Darcy’s having been at fault in the rift between them. If Wickham, too, had been pursued by the same men, then he could not be the one who hired them, he had assumed. It turned out that some assumptions were deadly.
“And how did you expect to become master of my holdings just by having me out of the way?” Darcy asked, hoping against hope that the answer was not what he knew it to be.
“Why, by marrying the heiress, of course,” Wickham said brightly. “Why do you think I am here? I have come to gather Georgiana for our trip to Scotland.”
“You will go nowhere near Georgiana,” Darcy growled. “Did I not tell you that I amended her contracts?”
“Yes.” Wickham rolled his eyes. “You made it clear that if she marries the lowly son of her father’s steward, she will not receive her dowry. But, really, Darcy, what is thirty-thousand pounds compared to Pemberley and half of Derbyshire?”
“You do not understand,” Darcy said in measured tones. “I amended my will to ensure that, if she chooses to marry you, she forfeits her entire inheritance, not just her dowry. Pemberley, all of it. She will receive nothing upon my demise, Wickham. She shall be destitute, and so shall you.”
A roaring stillness overtook the room as Wickham weighed Darcy’s claim. “You are lying.”
“I assure you, I am not.”
“Come,” Wickham said decisively, cutting the silence. “Nigel, you grab Darcy. We shall not do the deed here. I have cleaned enough blood off of book spines to last a lifetime.”
Blood on the books? Cleaning up blood in a library?
Elizabeth, who had been surveying the room’s occupants during the tumultuous interview, turned her horrified gaze to Wickham.
“What did you say?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
“I said I am not going to shoot you here. Takes far too much effort to clean up.”
“You have cleaned up after a murder before? Lady Anne’s murder, perhaps?”
“Ah, Lady Anne. I almost laughed aloud when I heard you ask the colonel here about an accomplice. Of course that little chit could never have covered up such a crime herself.”
Elizabeth could feel Darcy’s entire person tense beside her. His hands balled into fists, and the muscle at his jaw began to pulse. She placed a staying hand upon his arm, intent on gathering as much information as she could.
Besides, the longer they stayed here speaking, the longer they had to figure out how to get out of this plight.
“You moved the body?”
“Yes, I moved her body,” Wickham responded, evidently annoyed that he had to explain himself. “I found that witless princess standing over Lady Anne holding a bloody dagger and laughing. I wanted nothing to do with it, of course, but as I was backing away, she saw me. Unfortunately, Miss de Bourgh had caught me, ahem , romancing one of the tenants’ daughters the week before, and she threatened to tell if I did not help her. My hands were tied, really.”
“Where did you put her?” Darcy asked through clenched teeth.
“You would like to know, would you not?” Wickham taunted, flashing him a grin.
“Whose idea was it to make it look like Lady Anne had run away?” Elizabeth asked.
“Mine, of course. All that little fool wanted was the thrill of the kill. She had no notion of what to do afterwards. I told her to run up and pack the portmanteau while I disposed of the, shall we say, evidence.”
“I take it the jewels that were missing did not get buried with her,” Elizabeth said.
“What a waste that would have been. Anne had thrown them into the case with the gowns, but I decided the workman was worthy of his wages,” he confessed with a shrug. “It was Anne who took the jewels Lady Anne was wearing, though. I wish I had thought of that.”
Pistol or no, Darcy was set to lunge at his old friend, Elizabeth could tell. She squeezed his arm with all her might, afraid, no certain, that Wickham would shoot him dead at such a move.
“Now,” Wickham declared, his voice clearly straining for control, “can we please begin our procession down to the cellars? Nigel, kindly take hold of Darcy.”
“Do not do it, Nigel,” Fitzwilliam said in icy calm, staring down the larger man with all the military ferocity of a commander of armies.
Nigel hesitated, and Wickham ordered, “You do not answer to him, you hulking imbecile.”
As Wickham was distracted reprimanding Nigel, Darcy saw Fitzwilliam reach beneath the papers at his fingertips and lift a weathered flintlock towards their captor. Before he could cock it, however, Wickham had yanked Elizabeth from her secure place behind Darcy and positioned her bodily in front of himself, his pistol pressed against her ear.