“You asked several questions the other day,” Darcy said finally, his voice low enough that their conversation would not be overheard. “I’ll answer the part about my care of Ambrose. It is not a subject I discuss readily, but you have earned the right to understand his circumstances.”
Her attention sharpened. “Only if you feel comfortable sharing such personal matters.”
“Ambrose came to me when he was barely one year old. His mother had died in childbirth, and there was no one else suitable to care for him.”
“The poor boy. To lose his mother so young.”
“His father was a man I once considered a friend—indeed, practically a brother of sorts. We grew up together on my father’s estate. George Wickham was the son of my father’s steward, a man of excellent character who served our family faithfully for many years.”
At the mention of the name, Miss Bennet’s sharp intake of breath was audible. Her hand flew to her throat, and she repeated the name in a whisper that sounded almost stricken.
“Wickham?”
The alarm in her expression puzzled him. “You recognise the name?”
Before she could respond, a sudden commotion erupted from the direction of the garden doors. Miss Bingley’s voice rose in distress, her usual composure shattered by panic.
“Stop! Come back this instant! You cannot simply—oh, dear heaven!”
The sound was followed by a frightened cry that sent ice through Darcy’s veins, a sound of pure terror that no child should ever make. Ambrose’s voice, high and desperate, calling out in fear.
He was on his feet instantly, Miss Bennet beside him as they rushed towards the source of the disturbance. Through the open doors, they could see a man striding rapidly across the lawn with determined purpose, a small struggling form clutched against his chest.
Ambrose.
“Stop!” Darcy’s command rang out as he sprinted from the house, Bingley and others close behind. The stranger’s headturned at the shout, revealing features that made Darcy’s blood run cold.
George Wickham.
“Mr Darcy, help me!” Ambrose’s cries spurred Darcy to greater speed. The boy was fighting desperately against his captor’s grip, small fists beating uselessly against the man’s coat.
Wickham had nearly reached the line of trees that bordered the property when Bingley, younger and fleeter than his friend, managed to intercept him. The collision sent both men tumbling to the ground, Ambrose rolling free with a cry filled with more terror than pain.
Darcy reached him first, dropping to his knees and gathering the sobbing boy into his arms with hands that shook from reaction and relief.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered fiercely against Ambrose’s hair, feeling the rapid flutter of the child’s heart against his chest. “You’re safe. I’m here.”
Bingley and another gentleman helped restrain the struggling Wickham, keeping the furious man pinned despite his attempts to rise. Miss Bennet arrived moments later, her gown mud-stained from her hasty pursuit across the grounds.
“Oh sweet darling,” she gasped, reaching for the boy who immediately stretched his arms towards her. Darcy transferred the child without hesitation, noting how quickly Ambrose’s sobs diminished once he was nestled against her shoulder.
“Unhand me!” Wickham demanded, though he had ceased struggling against Bingley’s surprisingly firm grip. “I have every right to my son!”
“Your son?” Darcy’s voice was deadly quiet. “You have no claim to this child, Wickham. None whatsoever. You left hismother behind in her condition, abandoned her and him. You have no rights by any law.”
“Don’t I?” Wickham’s smile held a familiar edge of cunning malice. “I think you’ll discover otherwise once my solicitor contacts yours. I was married to Eloise Phillips, Darcy. Married before the boy was born. That makes him mine by law.”
The words shook Darcy. “Impossible. You abandoned both mother and child, despite being told about her condition.”
“Told by whom?” Wickham’s laugh was harsh. “By you? By your family? I was serving His Majesty overseas when Eloise gave birth. When I returned, I was informed that both mother and child had perished. It was only recently that I learned the truth—that you had taken my son and raised him as your ward while allowing me to believe he was dead.”
Ambrose lifted his head from Bennet’s shoulder, his young features twisted with confusion and fear. “Who is this man, Mr Darcy? Why does he say I’m his son?”
“I am your father, boy! Your real father! This man has been lying to you, keeping us apart—”
“Enough!” Darcy’s command silenced him. “You will not speak to the child. You have no access to anything or anyone under my protection, Wickham.”
“We shall see about that,” Wickham replied, straightening his coat with affected nonchalance. “My solicitor will be in contact within the week. I suggest you prepare yourself, old friend. I mean to have what is mine, one way or another.”
