CHAPTER 1 WICKHAM’S TRAP
Darcy
A man by the name of Fitzwilliam Darcy did not cower. He met challenges head-on, and thus I found myself in somewhat of a quandary. I had come to Hertfordshire to help my dearest friend establish himself as a gentleman of property.
I did not expect to trip over the threshold.
The air fled my lungs the minute I stepped into Bingley’s drawing room. There, standing beside the fireplace, was the last man on earth I could be prevailed to greet.
George Wickham—holding a ledger beneath his arm.
“Darcy!” Bingley’s cheerful voice seemed to come from a great distance. “There you are. Come meet my new steward. Mr. Wickham. He comes with the most excellent credentials—trained at Pemberley itself with all the proper references. I understand you were boys together?”
I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak. The room had narrowed to a single point: that face, those eyes, that practiced expression of pleased surprise. My mind raced, grappling with the implications of Wickham’s presence in Bingley’s home.
As he smiled at me, his lips twisted, as if he had won a game his opponent did not know was being played.
“Mr. Darcy.” Wickham’s bow was deferential enough. “I cannot express how pleased I am that you will be guiding Mr. Bingley in his new venture. It will be just as our fathers intended, working together toward a common purpose.”
I could not speak. Every word I might have said—he tried to ruin my sister, he is a predator, he will rob you blind—led directly to Georgiana’s shame, and Wickham knew this.
That was why he was smiling.
Bingley’s smile was genuinely innocent. “Darcy! I hoped you would be glad to see a familiar face. Wickham has been managing the accounts for a fortnight now, and I confess I do not know how I managed without him.”
My eyes narrowed, mentally calculating how much Wickham could reasonably rob my friend in a fortnight without it becoming noticeable, which, to an oblivious manager like Bingley, could be quite substantial.
But I said nothing. My gaze centered on the fireplace poker and whether Netherfield would need new carpets.
“I have been telling Bingley how fortunate he is to have secured your counsel,” Wickham continued, settling himself against the mantel.
“Estate management is a calling, as my father always said—not merely a profession, but a stewardship of lives and land that requires the deepest personal commitment. I learned that lesson at Pemberley, watching our fathers build a rather remarkable partnership.”
“Wickham has already identified a drainage concern on the eastern tenancy,” Bingley said. “And the roof of the north barn wants attention. He spotted it within his first week. I tell you, Darcy, the man has eyes like a hawk.”
“He does indeed.” My throat loosened just enough as I forced my shoulders into a relaxed posture. “Although an extra set of eyes, particularly over the ledgers, would alleviate any discrepancies.”
Wickham responded with calibrated modesty, nodding. “Indeed, I have noted small irregularities one would expect from an estate between tenants. I have prepared a summary for your review, Mr. Bingley, at your convenience. And yours, of course, Mr. Darcy, if you wish to examine the figures yourself.”
“Oh, but not now,” Bingley exclaimed. “Darcy has only just arrived, and we have a delightful local assembly to attend. The beauties of Meryton require appreciation, and I have heard that the Hertfordshire flowers are the most notable in all of England. We can leave the accounts for now. Caroline is delighted. She says a good steward is worth his weight in gold.”
“I am certain she does,” I replied, noting that Wickham had, indeed, a way of delighting unsuspecting sisters.
His eyes met mine, and in them, I saw everything he was not saying: I know you cannot speak, and I know why. Every day you remain silent is a day I win.
Bingley’s carriage rolled toward Meryton, and Bingley’s enthusiasm bubbled over like warm champagne, making my stomach queasy and my heart unsettled. Meryton was a small provincial town where public assemblies were open to anyone who could purchase a subscription.
“I’ve heard such delightful things about the local beauties,” Bingley sang praises, practically bouncing in his seat. “Can you imagine? Five daughters in one family alone. And the eldest, a Miss Bennet, is said to be the most exquisite creature in all of Hertfordshire.”
Across from us, his two sisters, Caroline and Louisa, used their fans to dispel their brother’s enthusiasms. Louisa’s husband, Mr. Hurst, appeared dead to the world, in his usual state of repose.
I, however, was not inclined to enjoy any local gathering of minor gentry mixed with tradesmen, militia officers, and local dignitaries—a knight, I’ve heard, who was given his commission based on a clever speech.
“Will you dance?” Bingley nudged me. “Surely, with the surfeit of charming young ladies, at least one might meet your exacting standards.”
“I have no intention of dancing,” I said, which was nothing less than the truth. My mind was too occupied with Wickham’s schemes to spare any attention for provincial assemblies and country misses.
“Nonsense. You cannot glower in corners all evening. People will think you insufferably proud, and then where shall we be when I am trying to establish myself as a respectable neighbor? You must make at least a passable effort at civility, Darcy, for my sake if not your own.”
Let them think what they like. I had larger concerns than the good opinion of Hertfordshire’s backwater society.
Somewhere in Netherfield’s steward’s quarters, there might be letters written by a fifteen-year-old girl to the man she believed loved her, letters that could destroy her if they ever came to light.
I only needed to watch and wait before Wickham slipped, and only then could I eliminate the threat to my family’s reputation.
Bingley prattled on. “The Bennets live at Longbourn, which borders our land. The father is a gentleman of modest means and, from what I hear, a considerable wit. The mother is—” He paused. “Enthusiastic.”
“How dreadfully chilling.”
“The second daughter is said to be uncommonly clever. Reads everything, walks everywhere, and says precisely what she thinks.”
“A paragon of inconvenience,” I murmured, though the description snagged my attention despite my resolve to be interested in nothing.
Caroline sniffed. “Five daughters and no sons. How perfectly disastrous for a gentleman of such little consequence.”
“Caroline,” Bingley said, with a mildness that carried a warning, “if you cannot be civil, you may at least be quiet.”
The assembly rooms were exactly as unrefined as I had expected—crowded, overheated, and filled with the curious stares of strangers assessing the newcomers’ worth. I lagged behind my companions, allowing them to soak up the speculative glances.
Bingley was all smiles, shaking hands with a self-important local dignitary and being ushered around the room for introductions. I noticed the family he spoke of immediately, with Bingley throwing himself at a blond beauty, bowing until I was sure his hat would touch the floorboards.
And then, I saw her—an exquisite woodland fairy—all dark curls, spritely lips, and flashing eyes.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” the pompous man announced, “The second daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn.”
She was extraordinary.
My feet moved on their own, now wishing I had galloped to the front of the procession to claim an introduction, when a voice stopped me cold.
“Miss Elizabeth!” Wickham appeared at Bingley’s side, bowing to the Bennet family. “What an unprecedented honor.”
“Miss Elizabeth, Miss Bennet, Mrs. Bennet,” Bingley said warmly, “allow me to present Mr. Wickham, my steward at Netherfield. He comes from a most distinguished line. His father was steward at Pemberley, one of the great estates of Derbyshire.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened. “Pemberley! I have heard it is a magnificent property. Ten thousand a year, is it not? And belonging to Mr. Darcy, whom you arrived with tonight?”
“Indeed, madam,” Wickham replied, his smile a picture of modesty and charm. “Mr. Darcy and I were raised together, as brothers. His father, God rest him, was my godfather and sponsored my education at Cambridge. I owe everything to the Darcy family’s generosity.”
He met my gaze across the room, offered a smile, and then turned his attention back to the Bennet sisters.
“Mr. Wickham,” Miss Elizabeth said, extending her hand with a warmth that twisted a knot in my chest, “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. It must be wonderful to work so closely with old friends.”
“It is a privilege I do not take for granted.” Wickham bowed over her hand with flawless grace.
“Though I confess I am even more privileged to make your acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth. Mr. Bingley spoke highly of the local families, but he didn’t quite prepare me for the beauty and wit I’d encounter here. ”
She laughed, a bright, genuine sound that carried across the crowded room. “You flatter me, sir. I suspect you are adept at such compliments.”
“Only when they are deserved.”
The orchestra struck up the next dance. Bingley immediately claimed the eldest, Miss Jane Bennet, for a dance, and Wickham smoothly said to the second, “Might I be so bold as to request this dance, Miss Elizabeth? I confess I am eager to hear more of your impressions of the neighborhood.”
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with interest as she accepted Wickham’s outstretched hand. “I would be delighted, Mr. Wickham.”
Gall boiled in my belly as I watched them.
Wickham, performing the role of a man captivated by a woman of uncommon intelligence.
Elizabeth, laughing with delight at something he had said as they crossed hands.
I studied them through two figures, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms, my face arranged in an expression of mild disinterest that required considerably more effort than scaling a fortified wall.
Elizabeth’s dark curls caught the candlelight as she moved through the steps, and when she tipped her head back, the line of her throat was mesmerizing, and then…
A small, furry creature collided with my legs. This same small, copper-and-white blur darted between the dancers’ feet, its silky ears flapping. It nearly tripped Mrs. Hurst and dodged a gentleman’s attempt to seize it by the scruff before charging at Miss Elizabeth’s hem.
“Oh!” Elizabeth stumbled backward, her hand flying to her chest. The dog pawed at her skirts, whining with an urgency that seemed to separate her from Wickham.
The assembly erupted in laughter and confusion, but Elizabeth’s face lit up with delight.
“Oh, you poor dear!” she exclaimed, breaking away from Wickham to kneel beside the panting creature. “Where did you come from?”
Wickham’s mask slipped for an instant; he drew his foot back as if to kick the creature, but stopped himself as the dog, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, slipped past the shrieking ladies and indignant gentlemen, bolting for the garden doors.
Miss Elizabeth gathered her skirts and ran after it, her dance slippers sliding across the parquet floors, her laughter trailing like a ribbon in the wind.
As for me? My feet carried themselves forth, and I trailed Elizabeth Bennet into the dusk toward the sound of her laughter, a pair of fine eyes, and the graceful light that warmed me for the first time since Ramsgate.