Chapter Twenty-Six #4
The house admitted him without hesitation.
Mrs. Younge received them. She entered the drawing room with the same careful propriety Darcy remembered, though time had altered her in ways both subtle and unmistakable.
A harder quality marked her expression now, a rigidity that had not been present before.
Beneath it, he saw at once the woman he had once employed to care for his sister—the same keen eyes, the same calculated composure.
“Count Vendicarsi,” she said, her tone smooth. “I regret to inform you that Mrs. Wickham is not receiving callers at present.”
Darcy inclined his head. “On the contrary,” he said evenly, “it is not Mrs. Wickham I have come to see.”
Her gaze flickered. “Then I must ask—”
“I have come to see you.”
A pause. Something in her expression shifted, though only for an instant. “I am at your service,” she said congenially.
Darcy smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. “Tell me,” he said, “where did you obtain the brucine to poison Mr. Wickham?”
The color drained from her face. “I do not know what you mean,” she said, though the steadiness of her tone had begun to falter.
Darcy shook his head. “Yes,” he said. “You do.” He took a step closer.
“What was the price?” he asked. “What did your brother promise you, in exchange for your loyalty? A fortune? Security? A life beyond the reach of consequence?”
She swayed slightly, her composure cracking. “I know nothing of this,” she said, though her voice had lost its firmness.
Darcy’s gaze did not leave her. “I am certain he did not account for one detail. He did not expect me to survive.”
Her lips parted. She drew a breath that did not seem to reach her lungs.
Recognition dawned.
“Dar—” she began.
He smiled. “Yes. It is I.”
She staggered.
“The vial of brucine was found in your chambers. That, combined with your other offenses, is more than sufficient to see you brought to justice.”
She shook her head, her control slipping entirely now. “No. No—you do not understand—”
“Then enlighten me.”
She drew in a breath that came sharp and uneven. “I did her a kindness,” she said suddenly, the words spilling forth. “I rid her of him. Of that wretch. He was unworthy of her—unfit—he would have ruined her—”
“A kindness?” Darcy repeated.
“For her,” she insisted. “For her sake—”
“For another’s,” he said coldly.
Her silence confirmed it.
A voice broke the moment. “What?”
They turned.
Georgiana stood in the doorway. Her face was pale, her expression stricken, her gaze fixed upon Mrs. Younge with dawning horror.
“What did you do?” she asked.
Mrs. Younge faltered, her composure entirely undone. “I—my dear—”
The magistrate stepped forward. “You are under arrest,” he said.
She turned toward him, her expression wild. “By what authority?”
“By the authority vested in me as a magistrate of His Majesty’s court,” he replied. “You will answer to charges of murder and conspiracy.”
She made a sound of protest, though it was weak, ineffective. She was restrained. “Please!” she begged, turning to Darcy. “Have mercy. I have cared for Mrs. Wickham for years, been her friend and companion. Can you not see I was coerced—forced into my brother’s schemes?”
“Were you?” Darcy’s words were cold, completely devoid of emotion.
“I find your excuses difficult to believe.” He turned away, content with the knowledge that her confession would be her undoing.
He had pressed her just enough to divulge her secrets.
And he had no doubt she would offer more against Hargrave and Langford in an attempt to ease her own sentence.
The woman’s removal was conducted with discretion. She was taken not through the main entrance, but through the mews, her departure unseen by those who might carry word too swiftly to the wrong ears.
Darcy remained.
Georgiana had not moved. She stood rooted to the spot, her hands clasped tightly before her, her breath coming in shallow, uneven draws.
“Georgiana,” he said.
She did not respond. Her gaze remained fixed upon the doorway through which Mrs. Younge had been taken, unable to comprehend what she had witnessed.
“I will call upon you,” he said. “In a few days’ time.”
She did not answer.
Only when Elizabeth appeared, her expression filled with concern, did she seem to stir. Having come to call and been told of the commotion, Elizabeth went to her friend at once, drawing her gently away, speaking in low, soothing tones.
Darcy did not remain.
He returned to Ashcombe House in a state of restrained intensity, his thoughts moving rapidly, the events of the day settling into place with a clarity that left little room for doubt.
A note from Richard awaited him.
The ships make port this afternoon. The goods will be moved tonight. Stay clear.
Darcy read it once, then again. It was nearly done.
He found Lucien in the drawing room.
“The end approaches,” Lucien said, observing him closely.
Darcy inclined his head. “So, it seems.”
Lucien studied him intently. “And Wickham?”
Darcy was silent. At length, he spoke. “I do not know what to feel.”
Lucien said nothing.
“He betrayed me,” Darcy said flatly. “He destroyed my life as I knew it. But—” He broke off, his expression tightening. “He was once my friend.”
Lucien’s gaze was speculative. “It is possible,” he said, “to mourn what was, even as you condemn what has been done.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “Yes,” he said. And in that moment, he did.