The Journey Begins
His sudden appearance at St George’s that morning had set the ton buzzing.
Mr Darcy in London, at this unfashionable time of year, and looking so travel-worn!
The whispers followed them from the church: “Mr Darcy of Pemberley, ten thousand a year, not yet one and twenty, such a handsome young man!” By now the speculations would be racing through drawing rooms across Mayfair, and hasty notes going out to alert mothers with eligible daughters.
In his uncle’s study, the Earl sat behind the desk, Richard standing by the fireplace, as Darcy finished relating the events of the past months.
“And you are certain about these figures?” his uncle asked, studying the papers before him. The Earl’s genial countenance had stiffened into something more reminiscent of his days in Parliament, when he had been reckoned a formidable opponent.
“Entirely certain, sir. Mrs Reynolds has been keeping separate records since shortly after Father died. She noticed discrepancies in the household accounts almost immediately.”
“Wise woman. And these… accidents. Richard tells me there have been several?”
Darcy glanced at his cousin, who had moved to stand behind his father’s chair. “Three in the past year that I am certain of. Before that, there were two incidents I dismissed at the time. And just before I left, Miller found another that may have been no more than wear.”
“Nothing is insignificant where your safety is concerned.” The Earl shuffled through the papers until he found a page.
“These withdrawals began small. Testing to see what he could get away with, no doubt. But these recent amounts…” He tapped the page with one finger.
“He is growing either desperate or careless.”
“Both, perhaps,” Richard suggested. “He might know Darcy has been watching the accounts more closely this past year, or he knows his time is running out if he cannot see Darcy done away with.”
“Which makes him all the more dangerous.” The Earl sat back in his chair. “These accidents, looking back now. How long do you think they have been happening?”
“There were always incidents,” Darcy said slowly.
“A crumbling step, other small mishaps. They were so occasional, so seemingly random, that I never connected them before. It was not until I returned from Cambridge and began questioning the estate accounts that things escalated. The bridge, the tampered saddle; he has grown far less subtle these past months.”
“Because you are no longer the schoolboy he could easily dismiss,” Richard said. “Your questions about the accounts must have made him realise you are becoming a real threat.”
“Your brother Edward might be interested in this,” the Earl said, addressing Richard. “He is building quite a reputation in the courts for handling estate matters. And Charles tells me there is growing concern in the Lords about guardianship abuse; several cases have come to light recently.”
“That discussion will not help Darcy now,” Richard pointed out.
“Perhaps not directly. But it might make certain parties more cautious in their actions, knowing that such matters are under scrutiny.”
“That would require Wickham to show sense,” Darcy said. “He has grown more reckless rather than less these past months.”
“Which is precisely why we must move carefully.” The Earl turned another paper. “Tell me about these missing funds from the tenant rents. When did that begin?”
“Mrs Reynolds noticed discrepancies almost immediately after Father died. She has been keeping separate records since then. She was housekeeper even when my mother was alive; she knows every aspect of Pemberley’s management.”
The Earl set the papers down. “So we have evidence of systematic theft, and a pattern of increasingly dangerous accidents. What of the steward? Your father had already replaced old Mr Wickham by the time of his death, had he not?”
“Finch had taken the post by then. He had been old Wickham’s assistant, and Father confirmed him after old Mr Wickham died.”
“On whose recommendation?”
Darcy’s mouth tightened. “Wickham’s.”
“Of course,” the Earl said.
“Wickham insisted he was the natural choice, claiming the man’s long service under his father made him indispensable.”
Finch, the sort of man who never misplaced a paper and never offered more than was asked, had always struck Darcy as just cautious enough to be useful and just pliant enough to be dangerous.
“And I suppose he keeps separate offices from the main house?”
“In the estate office. And all estate records pass through his hands before reaching anyone else.”
“Convenient,” the Earl observed. “And I imagine this Finch has been particularly helpful in managing estate matters since your father’s death?”
“He presents the books promptly each quarter. Always with plausible explanations for any unusual expenses. Though I notice now that most of those explanations came from Wickham.”
“Creating a trail of paper that supports his version of events,” Richard said, “while keeping the true state of affairs hidden behind respectable accounts.”
The Earl pushed the papers aside. “And to think your father trusted him with the estate, with Georgiana, and with you.”
Darcy stiffened.
“I never liked that marriage. Your father could have found another solution, despite their claims of being in love. Georgiana was too young to know her own mind, and Wickham…” The Earl broke off, shaking his head. “George Darcy was too trusting by half where that young man was concerned.”
Darcy remained silent. His memories of that time were a child’s: the sudden flurry of activity, servants whispering in corners, his father’s drawn face, and Georgiana’s tearful insistence that she was in love.
At eleven, having already lost his mother, he had watched as Georgiana, who had been more mother than sister to him, was suddenly married and gone.
He had not understood then what it all meant, only that the house felt emptier than ever without her.
“And then to make him your guardian…” The Earl’s jaw tightened.
“Your father thought he was protecting you both. Keeping Georgiana’s husband close, ensuring she would always have a home at Pemberley.
But giving Wickham that much control! The man should never have been trusted with any responsibility, least of all an estate and two young lives. ”
“Dwelling on past mistakes will not help Darcy now,” Richard said quietly. “We must focus on getting him safely to his majority.”
“And protecting Pemberley’s resources in the meantime,” the Earl added. “Though that will be delicate, given Georgiana’s position. She still believes absolutely in her husband’s good management?”
“She sees what she wishes to see,” Darcy replied. “A devoted husband, a caring father, a responsible guardian. Any suggestion otherwise would…” He broke off.
“Would destroy her world,” the Earl finished. “Which is precisely what Wickham counts on.”
“Can he not be removed before August?” Darcy asked.
His uncle glanced at the papers. “Possibly. But I will not pretend to Edward’s profession. He must examine your father’s will and the estate records before we know what may lawfully be done.”
“Mrs Reynolds’s records show the theft.”
“They may prove enough,” Richard said. “Or they may show only discrepancies until they are compared with Finch’s books. The accidents are more difficult. Set together, they form a pattern. Presented separately, each may still be called mischance.”
“And until Edward tells us otherwise,” the Earl said, “we must assume that any challenge will alert Wickham before it removes him.”
Richard’s expression hardened. “With Georgiana and the children still beneath his roof.”
Darcy understood. They were not waiting because nothing could be done. They were waiting to learn what could be done without making the danger worse.
The Earl and Richard began considering how the evidence might be gathered without alerting Wickham, but Darcy’s thoughts drifted back to that time: to Georgiana’s tearful joy at her wedding breakfast, to his father’s proud speech, too loud and too determined, about welcoming a second son to the family.
How quickly it had all changed after his father’s death.
The gradual shift in Wickham’s manner, the subtle ways his control had grown, each change so small that even Darcy had not recognised the pattern until too late.
“Darcy?” Richard’s voice recalled him. “What do you think about Edward examining the estate documents?”
Darcy pulled his attention back to the papers spread across his uncle’s desk and the plans being made. The past could not be changed, but perhaps they might still salvage something from his father’s final mistake.
By the time the interview concluded, a clear strategy had emerged.
Edward would examine the will and the copies of the estate records Darcy had brought, while Mrs Reynolds continued keeping her private accounts.
Any further documents concerning Wickham or Pemberley would pass through Edward’s legal office.
If he found sufficient grounds to proceed against Wickham, the Earl would lend his name and influence to whatever action Edward advised.
Richard’s men would be in place at Netherfield before Darcy’s arrival, their references from the Earl of Matlock explaining away any questions about their sudden availability.
Richard himself would arrive for the shooting season in November, giving Darcy just over two months to settle at Netherfield before his cousin joined him.
It was not a perfect solution, but it might keep him alive until August. Perhaps by then they would have enough evidence to protect not only Darcy and Pemberley, but Georgiana and her children as well.
As servants cleared away the remains of their late luncheon, the Earl rose from behind his desk. “We shall see you for dinner tomorrow night, then, before you leave for Hertfordshire?”
“Thank you, uncle, but Bingley is staying with me at Darcy House. We have several matters to settle before I leave on Tuesday.” The arrangements for Richard’s men among them, though that could not be mentioned.
“Very well.” The Earl’s expression softened. “Take care, nephew. And remember, you are not alone in this any more.”
Richard walked with him to the door. “I will see you in November, unless circumstances require me sooner.” Then his expression lightened.
“And do try to enjoy yourself a little at Netherfield. Go to some assemblies, dance with a few pretty girls, let yourself forget about all this for an evening or two. You are too young to be so serious all the time.”
“I hardly think this the time for…” Darcy began, but Richard cut him off.
“It is exactly the time. The best way to convince everyone that nothing is amiss is to behave as a young man ought.” He clapped Darcy on the shoulder. “Besides, Bingley will not let you hide away entirely. Who knows? You might even find yourself enjoying it.”
As his carriage pulled away from Matlock House, Darcy found himself almost smiling.
They had a plan now, and allies he could trust. Whatever awaited him in Hertfordshire, he doubted he would find any enjoyment there.
Still, he could nearly hear Richard’s voice in his ear, telling him to smile, to dance, to live.
Perhaps pretending to enjoy himself would be part of the act now, too.
* * *
Tuesday dawned pale and windless, the streets of Berkeley Square damp with last night’s rain. Darcy left quietly, before most of London had stirred. His carriage rattled northward through the damp morning, Fletcher riding behind.
The first miles passed in near silence. Only when the city’s roofs fell away behind them did he draw a deeper breath.
By midday they were well clear of London.
The autumn hedgerows shone damp and bright beneath a wan sun.
For the first time in months he saw the world without suspicion: cottages with smoke rising from their chimneys, fields newly ploughed, a shepherd calling to his dog across the downs.
Yet habit is not easily unlearned. More than once he checked the tack himself when they paused to rest, running his hand along the girth strap as if reassurance might be found in leather and buckles.
The shadows were long by the time the carriage turned through the gates of Netherfield Park. Smoke rose from the chimneys, and a lamp already glimmered in the hall window. Here at least was cheerful company, and no one who wished him harm.
The front door opened before the carriage had fully stopped, and Bingley came down the steps to meet him.
“Darcy, my dear fellow! You are earlier than expected, a happy surprise. Caroline was certain you would delay.”
“Then I must disappoint Miss Bingley’s expectations,” Darcy replied, allowing himself a small smile.
“You will like the neighbourhood,” Bingley promised. “The Bennets of Longbourn are the principal family, five daughters, all said to be handsome. The eldest is thought particularly amiable.”
Darcy answered with polite disinterest. “I came for quiet, not conversation.”
“Then you shall have both,” Bingley laughed. “We ride out tomorrow morning; I want your opinion on the eastern fields before I speak to the steward.”
When the household had retired, Darcy stood by the library window, watching mist drift across the lawns. The air was wet with rain and smelt of woodsmoke, and somewhere in the stable yard a horse stamped restlessly.
He told himself the worry was foolish. Wickham’s reach could not extend this far. Netherfield would be a place of order and calm, a brief refuge before Richard’s arrival in November.
Tomorrow he would ride out with Bingley and the steward, nothing more than a gentleman’s inspection of his friend’s new property.
He slept soundly for the first time in months.