CHAPTER 16 #3
“Did he use my name?”
“Not in the account that reached me.”
“He will.”
Richard did not contradict him.
“He spoke of Pemberley,” said Richard. “And of old family kindness.”
Darcy gave a short, humourless breath.
“The poor cousin’s grievance, then.”
“Most likely.”
“Mrs. Wickham has always known how to make it travel farther than it ought.”
Richard watched him.
Darcy’s hand closed once upon the back of the chair, then released.
Of course Wickham was well dressed. George Wickham had always understood that appearances cost less than consequences when another man could be made to pay both.
He had learned very young that a gentleman’s coat, a gentleman’s hand, a woman’s reputation, a debt, a friendship, a godfather’s indulgence — all might be detached from their owners and put to use.
Wickham was not dangerous because he pursued pleasure. Many men did that and damaged only themselves. Wickham was dangerous because he made other people pay for his pleasures, then arranged the evidence so neatly that guilt seemed to belong elsewhere.
“If he is in London,” said Darcy, “he means to spend what is not his, say what is not true, and leave some other person’s honour to settle the account.”
“I thought you should know.”
“Yes.”
“And take care.”
Darcy turned his head.
Richard’s face had sobered. “If Wickham hears of Miss Bennet—”
“He will use her.”
“He may try.”
“No,” said Darcy. “He will. Wickham does not leave a weapon unused merely because it cuts someone innocent.”
Richard accepted this with a grim little nod.
The maid came with tea. Richard waited until she had gone, then leaned back, his expression altered from warning into something more deliberately careless.
“And now that I have discharged myself of Wickham, I may turn to the other rumour.”
“There is no other rumour requiring your attention.”
“My dear Darcy, there are very few rumours that do require my attention. That has never prevented me.”
Darcy said nothing.
“I was told this morning,” Richard continued, “that you have become a man of errands.”
“I am a man of business.”
“A useful distinction. Does business now include breakfast rooms?”
Darcy took up the teapot because it gave his hand employment.
“Miss Bennet required advice.”
“I dare say. Ladies are forever helpless before curtains unless a solicitor stands between them and ruin.”
“She wished the terms of tradesmen to be properly reviewed.”
“Ah. Terms. That explains everything. I have always observed that nothing inflames a man’s professional caution like upholstery.”
Darcy handed him a cup.
Richard accepted it, took one sip, and grimaced.
“Mrs. Naylor remains a woman of strict views on tea.”
“You may complain to her.”
“I am not brave enough.”
That almost won a smile from Darcy. Almost.
Richard set down the cup and studied him over it. “I do not ask merely to torment you. Though I admit the temptation.”
“How generous.”
“I ask because your name has been coupled with Miss Bennet’s often enough to entertain people who ought to be denied entertainment, and because I should prefer to hear truth from you before London improves upon it.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened.
“London is idle.”
“London is always idle. That is not the question. The question is whether it is also right.”
“There is nothing to be right about.”
Richard looked around the room, not obviously, but enough: the table buried beneath Miss Bennet’s property, the memorandum for Cotton Lane, Mrs. Albright’s list of names, the letter in Elizabeth’s hand half hidden beneath a lease draft.
“You do not answer urgent notes about curtains, carpets, and paper unless either duty or feeling has made you absurd.”
“That is an inelegant division.”
“It is an accurate one.”
“There is professional duty.”
“Then keep it professional.”
Darcy looked at him.
Richard’s amusement had thinned. “That is not a jest. If it is only business, keep it business. If it is not, do not take refuge in the word because it sounds respectable.”
The fire shifted in the grate. Somewhere below, Mrs. Naylor closed a door with the soft firmness of a woman who disliked unnecessary noise.
Darcy could hear carriage wheels in the street, the faint scrape of a chair from another room, Richard’s breathing, his own silence lengthening into confession.
“Miss Bennet,” he said at last, “is very amiable.”
Richard’s face altered, though not into triumph. Rather into that affectionate concern which Darcy found harder to bear than ridicule.
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
“And that is precisely the difficulty.”
Darcy moved away from the table and stood by the mantel. The room, already small, seemed to have contracted under the pressure of admitting aloud what had been safer while disguised as utility.
“In former circumstances,” he said, “I might not have thought myself obliged to so much prudence where I found a woman so much to be esteemed.”
Richard did not interrupt.
“But things are not now as they once would have been. Miss Bennet is rich, established, and independent. I have my profession, which promises well enough. I have rooms. A competence respectable only because I keep it within exact bounds. A name half the town may still be taught to doubt, and family enough to make any attachment ugly.”
Richard’s expression sharpened.
Darcy continued, because if he stopped he might not begin again.
“If I were to court her, every malicious person in London would call it calculation. They would say she had bought herself a damaged gentleman. They would say I had sold myself because I had nowhere better to go. They would make her kindness look like purchase and my regard look like need.”
“And would it be?”
Darcy turned sharply. “No.”
“Then begin there.”
“You think truth protects a woman from what is said?”
“No. But false retreat does not protect her either.”
“That is unjust.”
“Is it? You are very good at finding noble names for retreat.”
Darcy’s hand tightened on the mantel.
“You think I should court her?”
“I think you should decide whether you mean to. If you do not, be careful how much of yourself you allow her to employ.”
“I have behaved honourably.”
“I did not say otherwise.”
“Then what do you accuse me of?”