Wickham’s composure cracked completely. “He’s lying! I never… that is, even if some payment changed hands, it was merely to expedite…”
“To expedite the creation of fraudulent documents,” Darcy finished. “How very obliging of you to confirm Mr Fenton’s testimony.”
The realisation of what he had just admitted struck Wickham like a physical blow. He staggered backwards, his face ashen with the knowledge that his own words had sealed his fate.
“This changes nothing,” he said desperately. “I am still the boy’s father. Biology trumps legal technicalities.”
“I’m afraid not,” Hartwell replied with satisfaction. “Ambrose is, for all legal purposes, Mr Phillips’ son, not yours.”
“But that’s impossible! The man died! You said so yourself.”
“Quite true. But he died after Ambrose’s birth. Which makes young Ambrose an orphan in need of proper guardianship—a role admirably filled by Mr and Mrs Darcy, who have already provided him with a loving home.”
Wickham stood frozen in the centre of the study, the weight of his complete defeat finally sinking in. Not only had he lost his weapon against Darcy, but his own admissions had provided evidence of serious criminal behaviour.
“You planned this,” he whispered. “You set a trap…”
“On the contrary,” Darcy replied with cold precision. “You destroyed yourself through your own greed and dishonesty. I merely provided the rope.”
The sound of approaching footsteps announced the arrival of Darcy’s men, summoned at his earlier signal. Wickham’seyes darted towards the window, then the door, calculating his chances of escape, but Hartwell’s solid presence blocked any hope of flight.
“Blythe, Roberts,” Darcy said as two of his most trusted servants entered the study. Both men possessed the solid build and steady demeanour that made them invaluable members of Pemberley’s staff, and their presence seemed to fill the room with quiet authority. “Please escort Mr Wickham to secure quarters whilst we await the arrival of the constables. He is not to leave the estate under any circumstances.”
“Very well, sir,” Blythe replied, his weathered face betraying no emotion as he took in Wickham’s increasingly frantic appearance. He took Wickham’s arm with a firm but not brutal grip. “Come along now.”
“This is not over, Darcy!” Wickham burst out, his voice rising to a pitch that bordered on hysteria. You may have won this battle, but I will find a way to—”
“You will find nothing but the justice you have so long evaded,” Darcy replied with finality. “Take him away.”
The sound of their footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving Elizabeth and her husband alone in the sudden quiet of the library. She sank into the nearest chair, her legs trembling with the aftershock of confrontation and the profound relief of knowing their tormentor would trouble them no more.
“Is it truly finished?” she whispered, hardly daring to believe that their long nightmare might finally be ending.
Her husband moved to her side, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder. “The legal proceedings must still run their course, but yes—I believe our family is finally safe from George Wickham’s schemes.”
Through the tall windows, she could see Ambrose playing with his wooden soldiers on the terrace, his childish laughter carrying on the morning breeze. The sight of their son, secure and content in his rightful home, brought tears of gratitude to her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“The constables approach through the main gate.” Morrison’s announcement carried the satisfaction of a man witnessing justice finally served. Through the library windows, Elizabeth could observe a small party of uniformed constables making their way up Pemberley’s drive with purposeful strides.
Her husband nodded with grim approval. “Summon Blythe to escort them to where Wickham waits. I should prefer this business concluded with all possible efficiency.”
The past hour had crawled by with agonising slowness as they awaited the arrival of proper legal authority. Wickham remained under guard in one of the estate’s smaller chambers, his earlier bravado having dissolved into sullen silence once he grasped the hopelessness of his position. Elizabeth had spent the time in restless pacing, unable to settle to any activity whilst their nemesis remained within Pemberley’s walls.
“Will there be a trial?” she asked. “Public proceedings that might expose our private affairs to further scrutiny?”
“His confession of bribery and document forgery should expedite matters considerably. With such evidence, I doubt he will risk a public trial that would only confirm his guilt before a wider audience.” Darcy moved to stand beside her at the window, his presence providing comfort despite the gravity of their situation. “More likely he will accept transportation or imprisonment in exchange for a quiet resolution.”
The constables had reached the house now, their authoritative bearing marking them as men accustomed to dealing with criminals of various stations. Elizabeth watchedwith mingled relief and apprehension as Morrison directed them toward the rear of the building where their prisoner awaited.
Within minutes, raised voices echoed through the corridors. Wickham’s protests grew increasingly shrill as he was formally charged with his crimes. His words carried clearly despite the distance, a litany of innocence and injured dignity that fooled no one present.
“This is preposterous! I am being persecuted by a man who bears me personal grudges! The child was never harmed in my care—this is all malicious exaggeration designed to ruin my character!”
“Your character required no assistance from others in achieving ruin,” came the dry reply from one of the constables. “Your own actions have provided quite sufficient evidence of your unfitness for civilised society.”
The sounds of struggle followed—furniture scraping against floors, heavy footsteps, and Wickham’s increasingly desperate attempts to talk his way free of consequences. Elizabeth pressed closer to the window, watching as the small procession emerged from the house with their prisoner between them.
