Chapter Five
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood as George Wickham was announced.
The black armband he wore had thus far served to keep away all but the most determined fortune hunters, for which he was grateful—families were streaming into London now for the season, but he was not available to wait on the daughters of the ton while he was in mourning.
George Wickham, however, was a fortune hunter of a different kind.
Darcy sighed. As soon as he finished the business required by his father’s will, he would be returning to the country. He was anxious to go home.
Wickham’s dark hair fell across his forehead in a way he likely thought handsome, Darcy noted, and his clothes were clean and in good repair.
The man strode into Darcy’s study with an air of familiarity and seated himself without waiting to be asked.
The butler raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly to the left, indicating the hallway.
Darcy frowned and nodded at the butler, who then closed the door behind him.
“To what do I owe this visit?” he asked, still standing.
“I have come to pay my condolences,” Wickham replied smoothly, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers. “The news took some time to reach me in Devonshire or I should have been here sooner.”
A silence fell between them, one Darcy was not willing to breach. Eventually, Wickham cleared his throat and spoke. “Come now, Darcy, there must be something you have to tell me.”
“I do not know what you mean, Wickham.” Of course he was here for the will. He felt entitled even now.
“You will make me ask?”
“Ask what?”
Wickham released a quiet hiss of distaste. “For my bequest, Darcy. I know your father must have left me something.”
Darcy’s right hand balled into a fist. “He paid for your education and arranged a good secretarial position for you, Wickham. That was the end of his patronage. There is nothing for you in my father’s will.”
“You lie,” Wickham cried, jumping to his feet.
“He sent me to Devonshire to teach me a lesson. Well, I have learnt it.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I know he would not have cut me entirely. You know he meant Briarwood for me. At least he must have left me the living at Kympton? I would take a settlement for that, Darcy. I know you do not want me near.”
Darcy slapped his hands on the desktop as he leaned across it, the signet ring that now adorned his finger cracking loudly against the wood.
His entire body was vibrating with anger, but he smiled grimly when George Wickham paled.
“Do not impugn my honor, Wickham,” he said in a voice that was low and cold.
“You would have been notified were you left anything in the will. It would have been both a legal and moral obligation.” He paused for a moment to regain some control.
“There is nothing for you here. I suggest you return to your employer.”
“I used all my ready money making my way to London,” Wickham complained. “I have no way to return.”
“That is not my fault,” Darcy responded.
"I did not ask you to come." He would certainly never give the man anything more. “I still hold hundreds of pounds of your debts and I will not add to the total. You are fortunate I have not had you tossed in prison.” Shoving his temper down into a small, tight ball in his stomach, he straightened and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Find your own way back. You always manage.” He rang for his butler. When the man appeared, wisely flanked by two footmen, Darcy addressed his father’s godson. “You know the way out.”
Wickham said bitterly, “I know you sank me, Darcy. You and that old man Russell. Your father hinted as much.” His frown twisted into a sneer. “But I will have my due, Darcy. One way or another, you will pay me what I’m owed.”
By the time the footmen reached him, each grabbing an arm, Wickham was done. He shook them off and left the study, the servants following in his wake.
“No one else today, Mr. Blake,” Darcy said, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “I have work to complete.”
The butler nodded, and Darcy dropped into his chair. He could not wait to get back to Pemberley.
Late summer, 1807
Elizabeth bent over a large map of London lying across a wide mahogany desk, her drawing papers and pencils abandoned nearby. Her aunt was perched at a smaller desk, writing letters of business for her husband. Uncle Phillip stood beside his niece, hands clasped behind his back.
“I am not sure, Uncle,” she said cautiously. “I do not wish to choose poorly.”
He shook his head. “Did you choose poorly when you recommended Maudslay’s work on the strength of his metal lathe? Screws made precisely the same size, every time.” He shook his head. “That was a brilliant choice, and you were but a little girl then.”
Elizabeth sighed and dragged her attention back to the map. She was sixteen now and knew that mistakes cost money. Sometimes, a lot of money. “But you forget the disaster of the sewing machine, Uncle.” That mistake had been more recent, and she was still smarting from it.
“You were choosing with your hopes of avoiding needlework, there,” her aunt offered cheerfully. “There will be a working model someday, but I fear it is too far off to do you or me much good.”
“It was also a German inventor, Lizzy,” Uncle Phillip added.
“I think neither of us speak German well enough to delve into that market.” Elizabeth frowned.
She did not speak German at all. “Risk is necessary to make a profit, but we must consider what risks are reasonable.” He leaned over the map.
“Now. What have we said about purchasing property for future profit?”
“Population and location,” she chanted, and focused on the map.
“Mayfair is lovely, fashionable, and near Hyde Park.” Her attention wavered.
“I visited Georgiana there yesterday at her aunt’s.
Her brother intends to send her to school at Michaelmas, but she still misses her father terribly and does not wish to go. ”
Elizabeth glanced over at her aunt to see melancholy in the tightening of her lips and a deep sorrow in Uncle Phillip’s suddenly stooped shoulders.
They had been in London when word arrived about Mr. George Darcy just after Twelfth Night, too late for her uncle to attend the funeral.
Her uncle had not even known his friend was ill, and his shock had been complete.
To the dismay of all three, they had to content themselves with letters of condolence.
Elizabeth had written until her hand cramped, trying to offer Georgiana whatever comfort she might from so far away.
She and Georgiana had exchanged several letters a week for nearly three months afterward.
Uncle Phillip had written Georgie’s brother, who was now master of Pemberley. Elizabeth did not envy him.
Georgiana had gone to stay with her aunt, Lady Matlock, for a time.
She was meant to be in town after that but had insisted on returning to Pemberley and her brother as both Darcys adjusted to lives without their father.
Elizabeth had waited anxiously for her friend’s arrival in London, as business had kept the Russells in town through most of the long, hot summer.
She had now seen her friend at the Matlock townhouse several times while her brother remained in the country.
After six years of knowing Georgiana, she had yet to meet Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy; the new master of Pemberley had been away at university when she met Georgie and then he had been busy with his father.
However, she had heard many wonderful things about him from his younger sister and was disposed to think well of him.
Evidently, he was serious, kind, and thoughtful--an ideal elder brother.
Uncle Phillip cleared his throat and tapped the map. “Back to it, please. Mayfair is a rational starting point. Most of the population of London enjoys the park.”
“That is population and location,” Elizabeth said, and screwed up her face, thinking. “However, most of the townhomes in the Mayfair estate are leasehold.”
“Almost all. Very good,” Phillip said, nodding. “And?”
“So freehold would be more difficult to come by and therefore more desirable,” she said, letting her finger skip along the map as she studied the neighborhoods around the park more closely.
She tipped her head to one side. “There is still acreage for purchase in Kensington,” she said cautiously.
“I know I would rather have a country estate, even a small one, than be in London proper, and Kensington is not far from the park or the attractions of town. A mile or so?” She looked up at her uncle. “Is that right?”
Uncle Phillip was wearing a strange expression on his face, and Elizabeth’s fingers itched to draw it.
“Kensington,” he murmured, and examined the area where her finger had stopped.
“I will confess I was thinking of land somewhat closer in, but acreage is still available in Kensington, and with the way people are flocking to London…” He put a hand on her shoulder as they examined the area on their map.
“The land is not precisely inexpensive, but it is cheaper than in town.” He considered it.
“There are already a few wealthy families living there. “
“Fox had more than 200 acres, I believe, and Holland House has been in Kensington for at least a quarter of a century. He took a good deal of ridicule over it, but it became the gathering place for Whig social life,” Aunt Olivia said, her eyes trained on her letter. “It is quite a bustling place.”
Phillip mumbled something about the war, his cousin John, Fox, and all politicians. Olivia replied that Mr. Fox was dead and would not be their neighbor. He huffed, and then studied the map a bit more.