The coachman broke the silence at last, his voice steady but laced with an edge of impatience. “Much obliged if you’d begin chopping that tree, lads. Your master gave you orders, did he not?”
The workmen scoffed. “And where do you think you’re going, then?” one of them sneered, taking a step closer to the carriage. “We’re not lifting a finger till we’re paid. And we don’t get paid ‘til Mr Wickham’s satisfied.”
Elizabeth’s grip on the curtain tightened, her breath catching in her throat as the men edged closer. The second workman jeered, waving his axe in the air with a mocking grin. “Why don’t you get down here and show us how it’s done, eh? Get those pretty hands of yours dirty for once.”
Inside the carriage, Mr Bennet’s movements were slow and deliberate as he raised one of the pistols, his expression grim. Through the slit in the curtain behind her, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the coachman’s hands tightening around his own pistol, his body tensed and ready. The workmen’s patience was wearing thin, and their taunts grew more aggressive as they hovered near the carriage, their greed and frustration clearly getting the better of them.
“How long does it take to dispatch one weakling dandy, eh?” one of the workmen spat. “It’s been an hour already. You’d think they’d be done by now.”
Dispatch?Exactly what did Wickham want with Darcy? Elizabeth’s pulse quickened, her mind racing with the possible outcomes. The situation had become a stalemate, and it couldn’t last much longer. Something had to give.
Then, the sound of hooves clattering on the wet road reached her ears, growing louder with each passing second. Someone was coming.
Her father tensed beside her, his grip tightening on the pistol as they both peered out through the window. The rider came into view, and Elizabeth’s father hissed in dismay when he recognised him.
“Sir Anthony Mortimer.”
Darcy barely managed tofind his feet as he slid off the rough-hewn workhorse when they reached Netherfield. The dizziness still swirled through his head like a thick fog and the middle fingers of his right hand twitched involuntarily, but he clenched his fist, determined not to show any further weakness. Wickham dismounted with ease, his smirk firmly in place as he motioned for Darcy to follow him inside.
As they stepped into the study, Darcy’s patience was wearing thin, and his nerves frayed to the point of breaking. Wickham’s untroubled demeanour only deepened Darcy’s frustration, adding fuel to the simmering anger within him. Wickham closed the door behind them, then turned, a calculating look in his eyes as he regarded Darcy’s taut posture.
Darcy wasted no time. “Enough of this. I have had more than I can bear of your games, Wickham. State your intentions, and let me be on my way.”
Wickham smirked, clearly enjoying the power he held in the moment. “It’s not that simple, Darcy. You know that.” He moved to the fireplace, casually leaning against the mantel as if they were discussing the weather. “I need your support for this vote, and I am willing to do whatever it takes to secure it.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly do you think you have that could force my hand? We both know what I overheard.”
Wickham’s gaze sharpened, his smirk widening. “I’m not the only one with secrets, and you’re not as inscrutable as you like to think. I’ve seen the way you’ve been hiding your little… ailment. The spasms you thought no one noticed, the way your right side betraysyou when you’re under strain. And the headaches—oh yes, you’re not as good at hiding them as you believe.”
Darcy’s expression hardened, though inwardly, he felt a cold chill. Wickham had been watching him more closely than he had realised.
“I’ll not waste any more time, Wickham. I want to know exactly what it is you intend. Bring out Bingley and speak your piece, and then I will be on my way. Unless you do not have him at all. You do not, do you? Else, I would have been greeted by him sitting here, bloodied and trussed up like a Christmas ham.”
Wickham leaned against the mantelpiece, inspecting his fingernails with mock disinterest. “Whether or not I have him is irrelevant. What matters, Darcy, is that now, I have you. And I know you’re not feeling quite yourself these days.”
Wickham pushed away from the mantel, circling Darcy slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. “What is it, Darcy? Sick in the liver? No, it cannot be that. You were always a temperate fellow. It cannot be consumption, for you never coughed a day in your life. Falling sickness? That can be a blasted nuisance.”
Darcy remained stone-faced, refusing to give Wickham the satisfaction of a reaction. But Wickham’s grin widened, his eyes glinting. “Oh, no, it’s something terminal, is it not? You’re dying. What a pity.”
The air between them grew heavy as Darcy kept his features schooled, but the brief flicker in his eyes betrayed him. Wickham’s expression shifted into a knowing sneer. “I see I have guessed correctly.”
Wickham studied him, his smile fading into something more serious. “Let me make this simple for you. You will rescind your objections to Sir Anthony and use your influence to ensure his election. In return, I will see to it that your loved ones are left unharmed once you’re… gone.”
He… he woulddarehint at that? It was a clear threat to Georgiana, and probably even Richard, if Wickham could get to him. Darcy’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent.
“What, nothing to say to that? Oh, I know you like to take your time. Think things over, seek advice from someone you trust. And who could be more valuable than Fitzwilliam? It must be difficult, knowing your cousin was reassigned to Chatham just when you needed him most. Bloody shame, that.”
A cold prickle ran along Darcy’s spine as the pieces began to fall into place. Somehow, this had all been orchestrated for months—since long before Darcy came to Netherfield. Wickham had taken steps to separate Darcy from the one other person who would seethrough his lies. But obviously Wickham had connections—powerful enough ones to pull strings at Whitehall—so why would the man now be saying he needed Darcy’s help?
Perhaps Wickham had only been hedging his bets in case the one man most likely to expose his little sham should happen to discover him. Darcy clenched his fists, his temples throbbing with each passing second, Wickham’s eyes boring into him, probing for any hint of hesitation.
“Why?” Darcy finally asked.
Wickham raised a brow. “Why what, Darcy?”
“Why did you invite me here to try to work upon me? Why involve me further? I haven’t half the political power that you have somehow tapped into.”
“Oh!” Wickham laughed. “As to that, why, I should say it was a bit of luck, finding out that Bingley was the man who tried to lease the estate first. He may not have remembered me from school, but I certainly knew whohewas, and a more useful chap for my purposes was never born. Why, anyone I could not charm, he could, and I had all the benefit of the connection. As toyourinvitation…”
