36. The Bargaining Chipped #3
“No evidence exists beyond your word against his,” Blythewood countered, idly twirling the quill between his fingers.
“And I venture to suggest that the banknotes you received have already been frittered away. Your signature upon the registry document, however, was witnessed by both Pastor and Mrs. Duntze, who remain quite prepared to testify should the matter require.”
“Brother!” Wickham turned those puppy-dog eyes on him, the pleading gaze that always worked on their father. “Will there be no place for me at Pemberley? My home? Where your own mother tended me and our father doted on me?”
“Not when you have spent your life trading on my father’s affections and my family’s good name.
You have taken every opportunity offered to you and squandered it.
” He leaned forward, an iciness taking hold in his chest. “I offer you India because it is what my father would have wished—a chance, one final chance, to become the man you have always claimed to be.”
“And if I cannot become that man?”
“Then you will have the satisfaction of knowing you failed on your own merits, in a place far enough away that your failure will not embarrass your family.”
Wickham’s face had grown pale, leaving his features strangely naked. His gaze flitted between Darcy, Elizabeth, and the impassive Blythewood, searching for weakness and finding none.
“All has been arranged.” Darcy pushed the letter of credit forward. “Read the terms, if you will.”
Wickham snatched up the document, scanning it rapidly. His expression shifted as he read—hope, confusion, then the dawning realization of the trap.
“The funds are released upon arrival,” he said flatly. “Not before.”
“Correct.”
Wickham paged through all of the documents, as if still able to find a clause that he could slip out of.
But the velvet noose had already closed, and the silence stretched.
Wickham’s gaze moved to the ring still lying on the desk—the cheap brass circle that had once purchased a country girl’s trust.
“She told you everything,” he said.
“She told me the truth.” Darcy’s hand found Elizabeth’s beneath the desk and held it. “Which is more than you have ever done.”
Elizabeth squeezed his fingers, and something warm unfurled in his chest: gratitude, pride, and the fierce certainty of a man who had at last discovered what was worth defending.
“The papers, Mr. Wickham.” Blythewood’s dry voice cut through the tension. “Three signatures are required. Here, here, and here.” He indicated the marked lines. “Unless you wish me to read the documents aloud for your… clarification?”
Wickham’s lip curled. “That will not be necessary.”
Then he reached for the pen, dipped it in ink, and signed with a flourish that spoke of defiance even in surrender.
“There.” He set the pen down, breaking the spine of the quill. “The registry is corrected. Thomas is officially your son. Congratulations, brother. You have won.”
“This was never about winning.”
“No?” Wickham rose from his chair, his composure cracking at last. “Then what was it about? Justice? Family honor? The satisfaction of seeing me humiliated?”
“It was about Thomas.” Darcy met his eyes steadily. “It was always about Thomas. Everything else is… incidental.”
His expression changed, just for a moment, bordering on shame, perhaps, or the ghost of the boy he had once been, before bitterness and envy had hollowed him out. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar mask of charm.
“Well.” He straightened his coat and smoothed his cravat. “I suppose I should begin preparing for my journey. Three weeks, you said? Colonel Powell will be delighted to have company, I am sure.”
“I am sure he will,” Elizabeth said as he marched toward the door. “And George?”
Wickham looked back, pausing.
“You will make us all so proud,” Elizabeth said, her sweetness not hiding the barb.
Wickham glared at her, his jaw tightening, and walked away with no dignity intact.
The door closed behind him, and Blythewood gathered the papers, mentioning the trip to Kympton to correct the registry and file the paternity records. He departed, leaving Darcy alone with his wife—at last.
“That was…” Darcy searched for the word. “Magnificent.”
A small smile curved her lips. “I had an excellent teacher.”
“You had nothing of the sort. That was entirely your own doing.” He reached out, hesitating only slightly, and took her hand. “He never stood a chance against such wit.”
“He saw only what he expected to see,” Elizabeth remarked, her fingers tightening around his. “A woman he had once deceived, and a wife he might use as leverage against her husband.”
“And in this, he was entirely mistaken,” Darcy declared, lifting her hand to his lips where he pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. He felt the subtle intake of her breath, and the slight tremor that ran through her at his touch. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes?” she whispered in response.
“My door is always open to you,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “You need never knock.”