36. The Bargaining Chipped
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE BARGAINING CHIPPED
Darcy surveyed the documents Blythewood had so meticulously arranged, each awaiting George Wickham’s signature.
Three in all: the first, a confession of the false signature on the registry, with a promise to set matters right; the second, a formal renunciation of any claim to Thomas William Wickham, soon to be properly entered as Thomas William Darcy; and the third, a letter of credit, its bounty to be unlocked only upon Wickham’s safe arrival in Bombay.
Colonel Powell, ever the architect of expedience, had orchestrated the India commission, secured the passage, and would see to the funds, leaving Wickham little room for his customary evasions.
Darcy expected no resistance. Wickham had already boasted to all who would listen of his willingness to repair the grievous error—purely, of course, for the honor of the Darcy name. Yet, as ever with Wickham, generosity arrived with a bill attached.
Darcy, for his part, had risen early and even submitted to the ordeal of breakfast with his brother and sister.
Wickham, in high spirits, entertained Georgiana with tales of India, lamenting only that his ship had been forced to turn back—mainmast trouble, he claimed, though Darcy suspected the real misfortune had been the discovery of creditors onboard.
Still, Wickham pronounced it a stroke of fortune, bestowing upon Georgiana a smile so dazzling it might have melted the polar ice masses, for now he could assist Fitzwilliam in his legal distress.
Was it not, he insisted, the most diverting of adventures?
Georgiana laughed with delight while Darcy said nothing, stirring cream into his cold cup of coffee.
A hurried knocking caught Darcy’s attention. It was too early—the meeting was not for another quarter hour—but Wickham might arrive first with a Christmas list of demands, eager to establish the terms before the solicitor could intervene.
Darcy rose from his chair and opened the door with more force than warranted.
Elizabeth stood in the corridor, her cheeks flushed and hand raised. She wore a light blue silk that caught the morning light, her dark hair swept up in a simple style. She looked up at him with those fine eyes, causing him to almost forget the documents on his desk.
“Is something wrong?” The words came out too sharp. “Has something happened?”
“I thought I might join you.” Her lips curved with spirit, with the same brightness he had seen the night before when she laid that ring on his desk and dared him to judge her.
She stepped past him into the study, her skirts brushing his leg, and moved to the window where she surveyed his desk. “These are the papers?”
“Yes.” He closed the door, still a step behind her presence.
He would have spared her the ugliness of these negotiations, particularly after all she had confided of their earlier acquaintance.
Wickham, he knew, would see Elizabeth as a lever to be pulled.
“My brother and the solicitor will arrive presently. Do you require answers? Pray, do not trouble yourself; I believe he will prove amenable to our plan.”
“Your brother will see this as a game,” she said. “He has no doubt calculated your position and the amount you are willing to pay, and he will naturally ask for more.”
“To which I have safeguards.” Darcy tapped the letter of credit. “You do not need to concern yourself, dear. I shall report back to you as soon as the documents are signed.”
“I, however, wish to be present when he does,” Elizabeth replied, standing in his study as though it were her own, chin lifted, shoulders squared, every inch ready for battle, and in her resolve, quite beautiful.
“You are courageous.” He moved to stand beside her, his hand brushing her sleeve as he reached for the documents.
“The registry will be set right with his confession, and the renunciation will allow me to claim Thomas as my own. The India arrangements are secure: the letter of credit is valid only upon his arrival, and Colonel Powell will see the first funds go to his commission. Once that is done, the East India Company’s bankers will manage the rest.”
“Clever.” Elizabeth’s eyes glittered as she looked up at him from studying the documents. “How long will the signing take?”
“Half an hour. Perhaps less, if he proves sensible.”
Her glance was sidelong, amused. “And if he does not prove sensible?”
“Then we shall be here longer.” He paused, studying the determined line of her jaw and the proud tilt of her chin. “You need not do this. I can manage Wickham alone.”
“I know you can.” She turned to face him fully, and the compassion in her eyes made his breath hitch. “But we face him together. That is what we agreed.”
They had not, in truth, agreed to any such thing. Yet, seeing her now—vivid, resolute, and so splendid—he found himself quite without the will to protest her presence.
“Have you seen him this morning?” she asked. “I breakfasted in my chamber.”
“He held court in the breakfast room.” Darcy’s voice flattened. “Regaling Georgiana with tales of India. The mainmast trouble that forced his ship to turn around. How fortunate that he happened to be in England just when his signature was required.”
“How very convenient for him indeed,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Quite. He promised to meet her for luncheon afterward. Apparently, they plan to ride the waterfall path together.”
“He seems confident in the outcome of this meeting.”
“He has always been confident.” Darcy shifted a document for no reason at all, then stilled his hands. “It may be his most fatal flaw.”
The door opened. Blythewood entered with his leather case, bowed to Elizabeth, and arranged himself at the small writing desk near the window.
“The documents are prepared, Mr. Darcy. I have included the summary of financial arrangements, should Mr. Wickham require clarification.”
“He will require a great deal of clarification,” Darcy said. “All of it designed to delay and obfuscate. You will provide none beyond what is strictly necessary.”
“Understood, sir.” Blythewood’s lips twitched—the closest the man ever came to expressing amusement.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor—confident, unhurried, the tread of a man who believed himself master of every situation.
“I shall see you at luncheon, dearest.” Wickham’s voice carried through the door, speaking to Georgiana. “And then we ride. Do not let Cook forget the hamper—I have a particular fondness for her game pie.”
“I would never forget!” Georgiana’s voice was affectionate. “Hurry back, George. We have so much to discuss.”
Still chuckling, Wickham entered, immaculate in his coat and elaborately tied cravat. And then, he stopped, his smile faltering at the sight of Elizabeth.
“Brother.” Wickham recovered quickly, bowing in a theatrical manner. “And sister. What an unexpected pleasure. I had thought this was to be a private matter between family.”
“Mrs. Darcy is family,” Darcy said. “Sit.”
Wickham’s eyebrows rose at the command, but he lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk, trying to appear unconcerned, although his gaze flickered between Darcy and Elizabeth.
“I confess I am touched by the formality,” he said, gesturing toward Blythewood and his array of documents. “One might almost think this was a court of law rather than a family gathering. Are we to have a trial, then? Shall I prepare a defense?”
“You only need to sign the papers correcting Thomas’s registry entries and renouncing any claims to paternity,” Darcy stated. “Mr. Blythewood has prepared everything. The matter will be concluded this morning.”
“Ah.” Wickham leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “The registry. Yes, I recall expressing my willingness to cooperate—for the good of the family, naturally.”
He looked pointedly at Elizabeth. “Family is everything, is it not? And I find myself unexpectedly blessed with one. A brother, a sister, a nephew—and now a sister-in-law who has shown me such gracious hospitality.”
“We do try,” Elizabeth said, her tone pleasant but her eyes watchful.
“You more than try, Mrs. Darcy. You excel.” Wickham’s smile warmed, as though they were sharing a private jest. “In fact, I had hoped to speak with you about a small matter. Rose Cottage—you know it, I believe? A charming property near the lake. My mother lived there, before she passed away.”
“I am aware of its history,” Elizabeth replied evenly.
“Then you understand why it holds such meaning for me.” Wickham spread his hands, the picture of humble supplication.
“I had thought, perhaps, that the family might see fit to allow me to reside there. Close to my brother, my sister, and my little nephew. Available to assist with Tom’s education—riding, hunting, the pursuits a young gentleman must master.
And Georgiana speaks of traveling to the Peaks this summer, perhaps even to Scotland.
She would benefit from a brother’s protection on such journeys. ”
Blythewood’s pen paused over his notes. His expression remained impassive, but Darcy caught the slight tightening around his eyes—the solicitor’s silent commentary on the audacity of the request.
“Rose Cottage,” Elizabeth repeated flatly. “And you would reside there… permanently?”
“If the family would be so generous.” Wickham inclined his head. “I ask for very little, you understand. Merely a roof, a modest allowance, and the distinct pleasure of being near those I love. Surely that is not too much to ask, after all these years of… estrangement.”
“It sounds idyllic,” Elizabeth said. “A quiet life in the country. Tending your mother’s roses. Sunday dinners at the great house. Teaching Little Tom to sit a horse.”
“Exactly.” Wickham’s smile broadened. “You understand perfectly, Mrs. Darcy. I knew you would. We are, after all, rather alike—you and I. Outsiders who have found our way into the family circle through… fortunate circumstances.”
The implication hung delicately in the air, spun as fine as spider silk.