Wickham was pacing again, hissing in frustration. “Not this one. Besides, it is too late. Did you know Bennet sent a letter to a certain member of the House of Lords, asking questions?”
Mortimer scoffed. “What contacts would a half-crazy, indolent old codger like Bennet have?”
“Apparently, Lord Matlock. The Meryton postmaster informed me this morning.”
Darcy froze, his lips still brushing against Elizabeth’s, but his focus shifted to the conversation unfolding just feet away. Elizabeth’s breath faltered, and she started to pull back, her eyes wide with alarm. But Darcy gently coaxed her back into the kiss, his hand resting against her cheek with a tenderness that made her hesitate just long enough for him to hear more.
“Matlock? Preposterous.”
“Not as much as you might think,” Wickham retorted. “Collins is Bennet’s future son-in-law, and Collins is a lapdog for Lady Catherine de Bourgh—Matlock’s sister. No, I doubt there has been an introduction, but Bennet is the last old fool to care about that sort of formality. Regardless of how outside expectation it might be, Bennet did, in fact, write to the man.”
Darcy swallowed, and his eyes found Elizabeth’s. Her chest was rising in quick gasps now that probably had nothing to do with him, and fire had risen to her cheeks. If whatWickham said was true, her father had just stepped into something larger than he could have imagined.
“You think Lord Matlock would even read something from an odd stranger who wrote on such a thin pretence of a connection about some little by-election in a town he never heard of?”
“I think Matlock would very much like to take any chance he could to meddle in the election, and I promise you, he has heard of Meryton. Besides, it’s not just Bennet who is causing problems. Others are beginning to waver.”
Mortimer’s response was cold, his words barely masking his disdain. “You’ve botched this, Wickham. With the funds at your disposal, the town should be ours. What are you playing at?”
Wickham’s frustration boiled over. “Me? I have done everything I was told to do, but we’re running out of time! Wexfield will have my head if we don’t secure these votes. You need to step up, Mortimer, or this entire election will be a complete waste.”
Mortimer’s reply was a low growl, but Darcy barely heard it over the pounding of his heart.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened against Darcy’s chest, and when she pulled back slightly to catch her breath, Darcy didn’t give her time to voice the fear he saw in her eyes. Instead, he kissed her again, this time with a purpose that sent a shiver through him. This kiss was slower, more deliberate, and Elizabeth, perhaps sensing their charade was about to be discovered, responded in kind, her lips softening against his. It was probably when she slipped her tongue over his that he groaned aloud, and that was the end of their temporary invisibility.
“What the devil?” Wickham’s boots shuffled around the beam that concealed them, and Darcy’s heart stopped, the kiss faltering as another pair of steps joined the first. Elizabeth’s grip on him tightened, and he found himself holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable.
“Darcy?” Wickham’s voice was suddenly loud, full of shock and unguarded amusement as he came closer. Darcy felt the shift in Elizabeth’s posture, and that was it. No more excuses to keep kissing Elizabeth Bennet.
Wickham’s laugh echoed in the room. “Well, well, well. Darcy, you old dog. I was not sure where you had got off to earlier—thought you were dressing for your journey, but I didn’t expect this!”
Darcy slowly pulled back from the kiss, his heart pounding, and turned to face Wickham, making sure to keep Elizabeth shielded behind him as much as possible. Wickham’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he took in the scene, and Darcy feigned a besotted smirk, hoping it would suffice.
Wickham glanced toward the partially hidden Elizabeth, still ducking her face. “I thought I recognized that dark hair,” he chuckled, his voice dripping with insinuation. “Maria, eh? Always had a weakness for the dark-haired ones, didn’t you, Darcy? But I didn’t expect you to indulge yourself here, of all places.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. Had Wickham not accused him of lusting after his mother’s abigail less than an hour ago? A woman Darcy was quite sure was brunette, but Wickham had declared that she was blonde. The inconsistency was like a sharp tack in his mind, but there was no time to dwell on it now. He made a split-second decision.
With a deliberate sway, he leaned slightly against the wall, feigning the effects of too much wine. He forced a lazy smile, letting his eyelids droop just enough to suggest inebriation.
“I was just… taking my leave,” he slurred, his voice carrying the deliberate drawl of someone who had overindulged. He inclined his head slightly, hoping the gesture appeared more sluggish than stiff. “Bully of a girl, this maid of yours. If you’ll… excuse me.”
The subtle shift in his demeanour was calculated, every movement designed to project the image of a man who had lingered too long in his cups rather than one who had overheard a dangerous conversation. His heart pounded, but he maintained the veneer of nonchalance, praying that Wickham would buy the act and dismiss him without suspicion.
Wickham’s smirk widened, but he made no move to stop them. Instead, he gestured to Sir Anthony, chuckling. “Egad, that would explain why you seemed a bit muzzy in the head when we spoke earlier. Hair of the dog? Well, Darcy, I am glad to find that Netherfield’s ‘hospitality’ meets with your approval in some measure, at least. Come, Mortimer. We’ll continue our conversation elsewhere while Darcy finishes his business.”
Wickham turned and left the room, Sir Anthony following. As the door closed behind them, Darcy sagged, his entire body now limp.
He turned back to Elizabeth, who was still pressed against the wall, her breathing unsteady, her eyes wide with shock. The danger had passed, but the implications of what had just happened hung heavily in the air between them.
Elizabeth was the first to speak, her voice trembling. “Mr Darcy… you heard everything they said. They must know you have overheard them. You must leave at once.”
“You overheard him, too.”
“No. One of his maids overheard him—or so he thinks. Whoever Maria is, I would be concerned for her safety… or worse, if he now believes her to be a woman of easy virtue.”
“More likely, he has already sampled that for himself,” Darcy growled. “But I will send Mrs Nicholls a message to protect her maid. Come, we must hurry.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in alarm. “No! He knows we are in this room now. It would have been difficult before, but now it will be nearly impossible for me to get to your carriage without attracting his notice. I could sneak back through the servant’s passage. Mrs Nicholls could get word to Longbourn, and I could—”
