31. Blood and Bargains
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
BLOOD AND BARGAINS
After three days spent haunting London’s less reputable corners, Darcy at last discovered George Wickham ensconced at a shadowed table in the Dorian Club, solitary but for a bottle of claret whose price would have scandalized the entire Pemberley staff.
The Dorian Club resided in a narrow St. James’s townhouse, its exterior offering a veneer of respectability that the interior promptly disavowed.
Green baize tables crowded the room, encircled by young men whose fortunes had already departed, though their laughter—too raucous, their eyes—too feverish, suggested hope had not yet followed.
The air was a dense fog of cigar smoke and the optimism of men who believed ruin could be reversed with a single turn of the cards.
Wickham, of course, belonged to such a scene as naturally as a fox to a henhouse, reclining with the indolence of one for whom honest employment was a nasty rumor.
His cravat drooped artfully, his coat the very latest cut—though Darcy doubted the tailor had seen a penny.
At Darcy’s approach, Wickham’s features arranged themselves, not in contrition, but in that infuriating smile which had always promised mischief.
The smile that said: Ah, brother. I wondered when you would find me.
“Fitzwilliam.” Wickham gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Do sit. You look as though you have been tramping through every gaming hell in London searching for someone. I cannot imagine who.”
Darcy did not take the seat. He stood at the table’s edge, looking down at the man who had wreaked more destruction in his twenty-odd years than most villains managed in a lifetime.
“You did not go to India.”
“Perceptive as always.” Wickham poured himself another glass of claret with the languid ease of a man who had no pressing concerns.
“India seemed dreadfully hot and inconvenient. I made it as far as Portsmouth, hired a skiff to take me back to shore, and found more agreeable accommodations elsewhere.”
“With the commission money I gave you.”
“A gift, as I recall. No conditions attached, merely suggested.” Wickham’s eyes glinted with amusement. “You really ought to be more careful with your generosity, brother. People will take advantage.”
The fury rising in Darcy’s chest was familiar—he had been managing it since boyhood, since the first time he understood that this charming, reckless creature shared his father’s blood and would forever be entangled in his life.
He suppressed it now, as he always did, and lowered himself into the chair opposite.
“I am not here to discuss your theft.”
“Theft is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as redistributive justice.” Wickham signaled to a passing waiter. “Another bottle, if you please. My brother is paying.”
Darcy did not contradict him. The cost of the wine was insignificant compared to what he needed from this meeting.
“You signed Thomas’s christening registry,” he said when the waiter had departed. “You claimed paternity of a child who was not yours.”
“Did I?” Wickham affected an expression of innocent confusion. “I recall signing something. Amelia was very persuasive. And you were very generous with your gratitude, as I recall—five hundred pounds to secure my cooperation. A fair price for a signature.”
“A fraudulent signature.”
“Fraudulent implies certainty about the alternative.” Wickham swirled his wine, watching the candlelight play through the crimson liquid. “How can you be so sure Thomas is yours?”
“Because I was the only man who proposed—again, when it became apparent she was increasing.”
Wickham smiled—that slow, knowing smile that had charmed serving maids and society ladies alike. “Ah, yes, the one honorable man in town. Surely, you might have supposed that Amelia had increasingly expansive tastes.”
“You will not speak of her that way.” Darcy had heard rumors, but Amelia’s lady’s maid was more reliable than the innuendo passed through drawing rooms, and she had refused to speak ill of her mistress.
“Why not? She is dead. The dead care nothing for our opinions.” Wickham set down his glass. “But we are not here to discuss Amelia’s romantic history, are we? You want something from me. What is it this time?”
Darcy forced himself to breathe, to set aside the rage and focus on the business at hand. “You will return to Pemberley. You will sign a statement acknowledging that you claimed false paternity on the registry, and you will relinquish any legal claim to Thomas, now and forever.”
“My, my, what prompted this change?” Wickham leaned back, cradling his head in both hands, his lips twitching. “Let me surmise. Your marriage has been the talk of the town, and your wife wishes for an heir. Is she… perhaps unable to…”
“You will not speak of my wife.” Darcy’s jaw tensed as he waved an idle hand at the surroundings.
“You have, no doubt, already incurred significant debts—enough to land you in debtor’s prison.
If you do not comply, I will be forced to pursue you through Chancery Court, where every debt you have accumulated and every woman you have compromised will be examined in excruciating detail. ”
Wickham’s lips twisted irritatingly. “I do not mind an examination of my dalliances, although perhaps some women may surprise you as less respectable than you imagined, and the scandal might stain even your impeccable reputation.”
Darcy saw the bluff for what it was. Wickham’s only weapon was the threat of further scandal, a currency Amelia herself had spent freely in life, as if daring society to judge her by rules it never applied to men.
But now she was gone, and the living—her son and his family—mattered more than any notoriety she had once courted.
“I am merely protecting my son, Thomas.”
“Ah yes, the boy,” Wickham repeated the words with faint mockery. “How touching. The great Fitzwilliam Darcy, defender of bastards and buyer of brides.”
Darcy’s hand clenched beneath the table. “You will not speak of my marriage.”
“Why not?” Wickham leaned back so thoroughly Darcy wished the chair legs would break.
“The gossip reached London within a week. Fitzwilliam Darcy, who would not dance with any woman in Hertfordshire, has married a country mouse from an estate with a leaking roof. The Bennet sisters, are they not? Five of them, all desperately seeking husbands, with an uncle in trade and a mother who makes spectacles of herself at assemblies.”
“You will not speak of my wife.”
“Brother, I have learned that when you tell me not to speak, there is always smoke hiding a fire behind it. One wonders why you chose the woman who hates you for such an exalted position. Was there, perhaps, some compromise that necessitated such a hasty decision?”
“Amelia’s death left me no choice. I needed a mother for Little Tom who was grieving.”
“Yes, but there is the gentle Jane Bennet—so recently abandoned by that cad friend of yours… Bingley was it? Of the mills up north? Or perhaps the pious Mary—”
“You have an ear for gossip, I see.” Darcy consulted his watch. “I am prepared to settle your accounts here. You will ride for Pemberley at dawn, and dawn is not inclined to wait.”
“Oh, and be reacquainted with your delightful wife? Indeed, the pleasure will be mine.”
“You mistake my wife for someone else,” Darcy declared. “This conversation is finished.”
Wickham poured himself a fresh glass of claret and swirled it in front of his nose.
“Ah yes, the elder two Bennet sisters. I do believe they spent the winter months in Cheapside. Jane, the beautiful one you passed over—to your detriment, I might add—was in low spirits, but the younger one? I do believe she quite thrived in the coffee shops and salons. Sharp and witty, that one, and so lively. I do believe you have taken the tail of an adder.”
“This is idle talk.” Darcy dismissed it; the elder Bennet sisters were gentlewomen to their fingertips, and whatever their uncle’s profession, their aunt would sooner allow a fox in the henhouse than her nieces to roam Cheapside unchaperoned.
“Idle, perhaps, but I would caution you, dear brother, that you have brought a snake into Pemberley.”
“The only snake is you.” Darcy glowered, impatient to be on his way. “You have a choice. Debtor’s prison or my way.”
“Takes one to know one,” Wickham waved his hand idly. “Very well. You want me to sign papers. I am willing to consider it—on certain conditions.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “Name them.”
“A home at Pemberley, permanently,” Wickham spoke as though requesting a second helping of pudding.
“Not in the great house, of course—I am not unreasonable. But Rose Cottage, which has been empty since my mother died. I should like to occupy it. A place to belong, after all these years of wandering.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It is my birthright, I believe. Our father promised me a living. Your mother loved me as her own. My sister delights in me. While you frowned over ledgers, I flew kites, caught butterflies, and taught her how to whistle. I long for those days again.”
“You will not,” Darcy declared. “Georgiana is a young lady now. She will be coming out to society in a year or two.”
“Ah, but I am her brother as much as you.”
“Half.”
“Such hostility.” Wickham affected a wounded expression. “One might think you did not trust me.”
“I do not trust you. I have never trusted you. And I will see you in hell before I allow you to set foot in Pemberley as anything other than a temporary guest under strict supervision.”
Wickham regarded him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he laughed—a genuine sound, rich with amusement.
“You have changed, Fitzwilliam. Marriage has given you fire. Or perhaps it is fatherhood—defending your little bastard with such passion.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Very well. I will come to Pemberley. I will sign your papers. I will relinquish my claim to the boy, although….”
Darcy waited for the condition.
“In exchange,” Wickham continued, “I wish to occupy your guest suite, strictly supervised, mind you, and I should like to see how little Miss Bennet manages as mistress of Pemberley. Whether she has risen to the occasion or remains the sharp-tongued country girl who found you so objectionable.”
“You are to respect the position my wife holds.” Darcy knew Wickham was poking him, as he always did, trying to get a rise out of him. “Now, we depart. I hope you are in condition to ride.”
“Ride? I should like a barouche at the least if I am required to relinquish that precious boy. I’ve grown quite attached to the child ever since I signed the registry claiming him.” Wickham stretched and yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I hear he is a charming child, quite unlike you in temperament.”
Before Darcy could respond, a waiter approached, followed by a young man in Pemberley livery holding a letter.
He bowed. “Mr. Darcy, sir. A letter from the mistress. She deems it urgent.”
Darcy took the letter, recognizing Elizabeth’s hand on the direction. He broke the seal and read quickly, conscious of Wickham watching with undisguised curiosity.
My dear husband,
I write to inform you that the Apethorpes called yesterday. The visit went tolerably well—better than I had feared, though there were complications involving Harley and a great deal of screaming. Thomas is well and asks for his Da constantly. I have assured him you will return soon.
Mrs. Reynolds and I have settled on Saturday next for the dinner party. The guests include the Cathcarts, the Duntzes, and the Matlocks. I have managed not to burn the house down in your absence, though Jamison came perilously close when asked to bank the fire for Lady Apethorpe.
Please return when your business allows. Pemberley is not the same without its master.
Your servant,
Elizabeth
Darcy read it twice, searching for what lay beneath the formal words. Your servant. Not your wife, not your devoted, merely your servant—the same closing he had used in his own letter to her. She was holding him at arm’s length, and maintaining the distance he had created with his lies.
And yet. Pemberley is not the same without its master. Was there longing in that, or merely duty? He could not tell. He had never been able to read Elizabeth with certainty, and now, with everything broken between them, he understood her less than ever.
“Good news?” Wickham inquired, his tone falsely solicitous.
Darcy folded the letter and tucked it into his coat. “My wife informs me of a dinner party this next Saturday. If you intend to attend, you will conduct yourself with absolute propriety.”
“Propriety is my middle name.”
“Your middle name is Thomas.” Darcy’s voice was ice. “The same name you fraudulently attached to a child who was never yours. Do not test me, George. You will sign the papers, behave yourself at dinner, and then you will leave Pemberley and never return.”
Wickham’s smile did not waver. “We shall see, brother. We shall see.”
He strolled toward the door, pausing only to glance back over his shoulder. “Give my regards to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Tell her I am very much looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.”
Darcy’s hand shot out, catching Wickham’s arm before he could turn away. “When did you meet my wife?”
Wickham’s smile widened. “Did I say I had? Perhaps I am merely anticipating the pleasure.” He freed his arm with an easy twist. “Good evening, brother.”
And with that, Wickham vanished. Darcy summoned his coat and stepped into the London night, carrying with him a disquiet he had not brought in.
Pemberley is not the same without its master.
No indeed, because as it stood, he was not the only one who entered this inconvenient marriage with secrets.