22. Forcing His Hand #3
“Chancery proceedings are a matter of public record, Apethorpe. Every letter Amelia wrote, every observation she made about your family, including the ones your mother wishes to burn, would be available to every scandal sheet in town.” He held Edward’s gaze.
“Ask yourself, Apethorpe: which outcome serves your family better? A private acknowledgment, managed between gentlemen, with Wickham’s confession to close the matter cleanly?
Or a public brawl in the courts, with every word Amelia ever wrote available for purchase at the penny press? ”
Edward’s hands clenched at his sides. For a long moment, Darcy thought he might strike him—or storm out, or do something equally dramatic and useless.
But Edward Apethorpe was not a fool. He was angry, grieving, desperate to protect his family’s honor.
“What do you propose?” The words came out flat, stripped of their earlier fury.
“We find Wickham.” Darcy moved away from the window, his posture easing. “Together. Your runners and mine. We locate him, we secure his confession, and we compel him to renounce any claim to Thomas. Formally. In writing. Witnessed and filed where it cannot be disputed.”
“And if he will not confess?”
“He will. George has never met a principle he would not sell. The only question is the price.” Darcy paused.
“But we must agree to no separate dealings. No private arrangements with Wickham that exclude the other. If your agents find him first, I will be informed immediately. If I find him, you are to be informed. We approach him together, present a united front, and leave him no room to play us against each other.”
Edward considered this. His expression was guarded now, calculating rather than furious.
“And the acknowledgment?”
“It will happen when the legal ground is prepared. When Wickham’s confession is secured and filed, and Thomas can be claimed as Thomas Darcy without any loose ends.
Safeguarded.” Darcy met Edward’s eyes. “I want this as much as you do, Apethorpe. More, perhaps, as he is my son. But I will not rush into a public acknowledgment that leaves him vulnerable to extortion for the rest of his life.”
“Very well.” Apethorpe extended his hand. “A gentleman’s agreement, for Thomas’s sake.”
“Yes, for my son’s sake.” Darcy took his hand. The grip was firm, brief—two men who were not friends, but who had found themselves, improbably, on the same side.
“I shall take my leave.” Edward moved toward the door. “She loved you, you know. In her way. She was simply not capable of being what you needed.”
Darcy said nothing because there was nothing to say.
Edward departed, and Darcy felt the weight of all that remained. The truth would be forced out. There would be pain, no doubt… but also honesty. He would start with his wife—the woman he loved—and pray for a mercy he had not earned.
“Sir.” Blythewood’s voice was hesitant, stripped of its usual smoothness. “If I may—”
“Not now. Do everything you can to locate Wickham. Send letters to inquire at every port.”
“I shall begin immediately, sir.” Blythewood gathered his papers and retreated.
The door closed, and Darcy remained at the window, not seeing the hedgerows or the lake, but only Elizabeth’s guarded face as she had come down the staircase, and then later pale and troubled, rushing upward with a letter clutched in her hand.
He rushed toward the family wing, both dreading and yearning to place everything before her. He would tell her before she heard from others.
Her door stood open, and her chamber was empty.
He checked the small parlor, the library, and the music room where Georgiana practiced. All empty, all silent, all lacking the one presence he suddenly, desperately needed to find.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” he called out. “Where is Mrs. Darcy?”
“The mistress has gone out, sir. With Miss Darcy and her friends.” Mrs. Reynolds’s expression was strangely impassive.
“Where?”
“To Kympton, sir. Mrs. Darcy called for the carriage while you were occupied.”
Kympton. The church where Thomas was christened.
The registry that held George’s fraudulent signature and his own name as godfather.
He knew exactly why his intelligent and observant wife had gone there.
Whatever Jane Bennet had written—whatever had sent Elizabeth rushing to her chamber with her face gone pale—it had driven her to investigate.
“When did they leave?” The words came out too raw and rough.
“Shortly after luncheon, sir. They should be returning… Sir? Are you unwell?” she called after him.
But Darcy was already moving, calling for his valet and asking for his horse to be saddled.
Elizabeth was clever and noticed things. She saw through schemes, and she had been watching him with those sharp, curious eyes since the moment she arrived at Pemberley, surveying his every reaction, measuring every evasion, and cataloging his every failure.
She was like a terrier, relentless in shaking the truth out of a rat. And Darcy had no plan other than to reach his wife and throw himself at her mercy; may God help them both.