Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
He reminded himself that he had stared down creditors and angry fathers, fled from worse than Darcy's glower.
No, this was not the time to run. This was the time to strike—to charm, to gather information, to slowly peel back the layers of deception that hid the truth about the boy.
And if, in doing so, he could wound Darcy by stealing the woman he favoured? All the better.
“Denny,” Wickham said, returning to the conversation, “I do hope Miss Elizabeth Bennet will be in attendance?” His friend had been teasing Wickham about his interest in the lady since that card party.
“She always is,” Denny replied. “Though from what I gather, Bingley’s after her sister. Still, you would do well to dance with Miss Elizabeth. She is clever, lovely—and she holds her own in conversation.”
“Oh, I intend to,” Wickham murmured, lifting his mug in a toast. “If music be the food of love…then play on.”
And as the fire crackled, and the ale flowed freely, George Wickham sat back, smiling like a gentleman, with manners marked by calculation.
The rain had broken just after noon, and though the sky remained bruised and heavy with unspent clouds, George Wickham slipped from the militia encampment and once more made his way towards Longbourn.
He donned an inconspicuous grey coat in place of his red uniform in an effort to blend in.
The recent storms had turned the roads to muck, but he took a less-used path that skirted the edge of the Bennet estate.
He moved with care—he did not need to be seen again on Bennet land. Not yet. Not until he was ready.
By the time he reached the hedgerow, the sun was casting pale silver shafts through the thinning clouds.
Wickham crouched low beside the hedge, the scent of wet earth rising around him, sharp and clean.
Longbourn’s modest grandeur stretched before him, its bricks dampened darker by the storm.
Chimneys smoked lazily. A gardener emerged from a side door and began to rake up storm-fallen branches.
And then—there. The door nearest the nursery opened, and a figure stepped out onto the sodden lawn.
An older woman, plainly dressed, with a large shawl around her shoulders.
Wickham recognised her type immediately: governess or nursemaid.
She held the hand of a young boy who skipped at her side, unfazed by the chill in the air or the puddles that clung to the lawn like spilled ink.
The child laughed and let out a whoop of joy before breaking away from his minder and running through the grass.
Wickham narrowed his eyes. He crept a little farther down the hedge, stopping behind the gnarled roots of a hawthorn.
The boy had snatched up a stick and was brandishing it like a sword, whirling in slow, wet circles.
He leapt over puddles and chased a flurry of leaves carried on the wind.
The woman called a warning about the mud, but he only laughed harder and darted farther into the yard.
And then he turned, his face lifted towards the sun peeking through the clouds.
Wickham froze. The smile died on his lips.
There it was. No doubt now. The boy’s face—those clear, aristocratic features—was a mirror of Richard Fitzwilliam at age six or seven. He remembered the way Richard’s eyes flashed with mischief, the way his jaw set when determined.
And this boy—his boy—looked the same.
Except… The child’s hair was golden—very like the honeyed tresses of the Fitzwilliams. There was something of his father there, though.
The locks flopped to one side, one unruly strand forever falling across his brow.
Wickham felt a strange tightness in his chest as he watched the lad swat at it in irritation before resuming his imaginary duel.
He was thin. Too thin, perhaps. His shoulders were narrow beneath the jacket he wore, and he lacked the solid frame of his Fitzwilliam kin.
Wickham smirked faintly. Well, of course.
The Fitzwilliams were all thick-necked brutes.
The lad might carry the look of them in the face, but the grace—that came from Wickham.
The irony did not escape him. That the boy had inherited so much from a family who would never claim him, never even acknowledge him, and yet… here he was, paraded about Longbourn like a precious heir. Wickham’s jaw clenched.
How did they manage it? he wondered again.
How had the Bennets taken in a babe not their own and fooled the world for five years?
Was Elizabeth truly the one who pulled him from the wreckage?
Had she known whose child he was? Wickham had left Anne's valise after removing the valuables.
Perhaps some information had been contained therein.
But most importantly… What did she want from him now?
The boy came closer, chasing a bedraggled bird that had landed near the hedge. Wickham ducked slightly, watching with hawk-like stillness. Up close, the resemblance was even more striking—a Fitzwilliam through and through. Only Wickham’s signature cowlick and willowy build hinted at the truth.
Wickham’s smile returned slowly, curdling into something sour and triumphant.
So, it was true. His son lived—and bore another man’s name.
The Bennets had cloaked him in comfort, called him their own, and made him a symbol of their future.
His son, raised by country gentry like some sort of charity project, given an estate—something he had been denied by George Darcy.
He would not act now. No, not yet. But this…
this changed everything. Now he could devise a means of securing his future.
The child turned, called something to the governess, and was led back towards the house, boots squelching in the soaked grass.
Let the others play their little games. Let Darcy court and Bingley swoon, and the Bennets smile their secret smiles.
Wickham had found the ace in his deck, and he would use it.
Wickham remained motionless under the hedge as the boy turned one last time to wave at something behind him—a dog, perhaps, or a garden cat scuttling past. The governess gently took the child’s hand and urged him towards the house, scolding him for his wet cuffs.
He skipped along without a care in the world, his jacket hem muddied and his hair flopping into his eyes.
Wickham watched until the door closed behind them, and the child vanished from view. Only then did he let out a quiet sigh. Then, with slow deliberation, he rose and slipped away the way he came—his cloak muddy and his mind whirring with plans.
That boy is mine.
The words rang in his head like the toll of a church bell.
It was no longer a suspicion—it was the truth.
Cold and absolute. He had seen Richard Fitzwilliam’s face—and a masculine version of Anne's—stamped across the child’s brow.
Had he not known better, he would have thought the Fitzwilliam spare had been reborn.
But the boy was not Richard’s. He wasn’t Darcy’s. He wasn’t a Bennet.
He was Wickham’s. It was not as though he wanted the boy, however. No, just like every other person in the world, the lad existed only to be of use. Once that had been expended… well, then the boy could go back to being someone else's problem.
His boots sank into the damp earth as he turned and made his way back along the path.
The trees seemed darker now, heavy with rain and secrets.
By the time he reached his quarters in Meryton, his cloak was soaked through, and his hands ached from the cold.
But he barely noticed. His thoughts were afire.
He peeled off the wet cloak, tossed it over a chair, and sat heavily on the edge of his narrow cot. The small oil lamp flickered, throwing long shadows on the plastered walls of the room. A bottle of brandy waited on the shelf, but he ignored it. He needed a clear head.
He had to think.
Extortion.
It was always the first weapon in his arsenal—clean, efficient, profitable.
And in this case, justified. The Bennets were landed gentry, not noble, but respectable enough.
And from what he had gleaned, they were not poor.
Each girl had a dowry of some sort, meager though it might be.
With five daughters and no sons, they could not afford a scandal, not with marriage prospects so vital.
One whisper of a rumor—one suggestion that young Thomas Bennet was not born of Mrs Bennet’s body, and the entire family would be ruined.
What man would risk his inheritance for a family who dared to pass off another’s baseborn brat as their own?
And who would marry into a household built on deceit? Never a Darcy, that was for certain.
They would pay. Oh yes, they would pay dearly.
He could start small—an anonymous note, perhaps; then he could request a quiet meeting. He would not go directly to Mr Bennet at first. The man was cleverer than he let on. No, better to aim for Miss Elizabeth. She was the heart of the family, the protector. She would act, and she would act fast.
And if that failed… he smirked to himself.
There was always Darcy. His smile soured.
Darcy, with his condescension and his fortune.
Wickham had always resented the way he looked at people—as though he were born better, as though virtue and wealth had been bestowed by divine right.
How galling it must be for him, Wickham thought, to find himself enamoured of a woman who would never truly be his.
Not if I take her first.
Wickham rose and poured a small measure of brandy, letting the warmth snake down his throat.
He did not need to love Elizabeth to want her.
She was clever, yes, and charming in her own way.
But more importantly, she mattered to Darcy.
To possess her would be to defeat him. Yes.
Wooing Miss Elizabeth was no mere flirtation—it was strategy.
Keep your enemies close. Earn her trust. Learn what she knows, what she suspects.
Was she aware of the truth? Had she lied, or had she only protected the child out of ignorance?
And if she knew everything…
Then, Wickham would find her price. Every woman had one. Love, security, power, reputation—it mattered little. He would find what she valued most and use it to bind her to him. He drained the last of the brandy and set the glass down with a soft clink.
Tomorrow, he would begin his work. A soft word here, a lingering look there.
Perhaps a private conversation after the ball at Netherfield.
And if fortune favoured him, he might convince her that Darcy’s interest had cooled.
Wickham was practised in the art of influence.
Women believed what he wanted them to believe.
Why should Miss Elizabeth be any different?
Outside, the rain began again, soft and steady against the windowpane. Inside, George Wickham smiled. The game was in motion. And for once, he held the winning hand.