Wickham paused, pacing behind a side table to pour himself a glass of something, but he never offered Darcy one. “Well, perhaps that was my one mistake. But I could not resist, you know—the chance for you to see your old friend doing well for himself. I like to think George Darcy was smiling down at my good fortune.”
“You are a fraud!” Darcy spat. “A bought man, spending another man’s fortune to buy votes! You think my father would have been proud of that?”
Wickham’s fingers tightened on his glass. “He wanted a gentleman’s life for me. He treated me like a son, like I was his own… in every respect but one. And now I have the one thing that was denied me by birth.”
Darcy flung a hand towards the outer hall. “And that is why the first thing you did was have a painting commissioned? To try to legitimize yourself?”
Wickham smiled faintly. “A masterpiece, is it not?”
“What are you trying to prove? What do you think it changes? Georgiana told me,” Darcy growled. “She told me everything.”
Wickham resumed pacing, clicking his tongue. “I imagine shethinksshe told you everything, but the one who really learned everything was I. Fascinating girl, Darcy, truly. If she did not think of me like a brother, I think I should have pursued her.”
“She thinks of you as a cheat and a liar,” Darcy hissed. “And if you go within a mile ofher—”
“But that is not for you to say, is it, Darcy?” Wickham rounded to face him once more, wearing a mock frown of concern. “You cannot imagine my shock the first day you turned up on Netherfield’s doorstep—pale, shaking, and a full stone underweight. You looked like you had a foot in the grave already, but I will confess, you do mask it decently well—provided your audience is as self-absorbed and unobservant as most people are.” Wickham paced closer. “But what will you do when time runs out, Darcy? When the secret can no longer be kept, and pretty Miss Georgie is all alone? Grieving her lost brother?” He smiled and shook his head. “You would not deny her the comfort of a childhood friend, would you?”
Darcy’s pulse was drumming in this throat so tightly, he felt he might choke. He wanted to choke anyway, listen to this snake. But letting Wickham gloat was purchasing time—the time needed for Bingley to reach London, for Elizabeth and Mr Bennet to be found by a friendly face.
He took a deliberate breath, steadying himself. “Leave Georgiana out of this. If influence—respect of your peers and my name behind you—is what you seek, I will write to Matlock on your behalf,” he said, his tone cool and precise.
“And say what? This is no mere game of popularity, Darcy. I am accountable for a vast deal of money, and I must see it bear fruit. You will have to offer something substantial.”
Darcy clenched his teeth. “I will vouch for Sir Anthony’s character and his political views. That should suffice for your purposes.” He let his words hang, knowing Wickham wouldn’t find them enough. It was a starting point, a calculated move.
As he anticipated, Wickham snorted. “A letter? That’s all you offer, Darcy? Don’t insult me. I need more than words on paper.”
Darcy’s gaze remained steady, hiding his satisfaction at Wickham’s predictability. He needed to press Wickham further, making the next concession seem like a reluctant step. “What more, then? My name, spoken publicly in endorsement? A grand display of support?”
Wickham’s eyes gleamed as he sensed a victory. “Exactly. Your presence, your words. You will stand beside Sir Anthony and myself, convincing your acquaintances—especially that meddlesome Bennet—that Sir Anthony is the right choice. Your voice must be heard, Darcy, your influence seen and felt.”
Darcy’s gut tightened, but his face remained stoic. “Very well,” he replied, allowing a trace of fatigue to colour his words, as if conceding reluctantly. “I will use my connections with Matlock and speak to Mr Bennet, Sir William, and whatever other gentlemen youdeem necessary. I will arrange the meetings and make the necessary introductions in London, as well.”
He paused, his eyes locking with Wickham’s, and added with a firm edge, “But you must bring them here to Netherfield yourself to secure their initial support. Immediately.”
Wickham laughed. “Darcy, I think you forgot! You are in no position to make demands.”
Darcy allowed a faint smile to crack his features. “And as you so astutely pointed out, I am also in no condition to gallivant about the countryside. Time is, as you have guessed, of the essence. If you want my help, go to Longbourn in person and ask for Mr Bennet. Then bring Sir William and Mr Philips and Mr Purvis and Mr Long and whomever else you like to join us here.”
Wickham studied Darcy’s face, his expression sceptical. “Why not just send a servant?”
“Because you do not understand an academic cynic like Bennet. I do. If you want the man’s support, you will not get it without showing up in person,” Darcy shot back, his voice edged with irritation.
Wickham hesitated, clearly weighing his options. “No,” he decided after a few seconds. “You shall come with me. What better way for you to prove your sincerity?”
That… that was not possible. Mr Bennet would not evenbeat Longbourn, but if Wickham had gone there on an unsuccessful attempt to invite the gentleman to Netherfield, the delay might have been enough for Darcy’s needs. But why would he expect Wickham to just conveniently agree to his plan? He needed some other impetus, some means of forcing Wickham’s hand…
Darcy blinked hard, trying to clear his vision as a familiar wave of dizziness swept over him. The telltale signs were there—the increasing tremor in his right hand, the sudden pounding in his skull. Another episode was imminent; he could feel it creeping up on him, threatening to rob him of control.
Panic clawed at the edges of his thoughts, but with it came a sliver of inspiration. He could feel the weakness overtaking him, but he was not yet helpless—he could use this. Wickham thrived on exploiting vulnerabilities, but perhaps, just this once, Darcy could turn his own frailty to his advantage.
He let himself sway slightly, his hand rising to his forehead as if succumbing to the pain. His vision blurred, the room spinning ever so slightly, but he steadied himself justenough to make it look intentional. If he could make Wickham believe he was losing control, perhaps he could prompt a decision before his body truly gave out.
Darcy groaned softly, letting his knees buckle a fraction, his hand gripping the edge of the mantel for support. The movement was small but deliberate, a calculated performance that played on Wickham’s curiosity. If he could keep Wickham focused on him, on his supposed decline, he might still have a chance to influence the outcome.
“Darcy?” Wickham’s voice hinted only at mild interest. “What, er… what say you?”
Darcy looked up, his face pale, his breath ragged. “I do not have time for this, Wickham,” he rasped. “If you want my support… you need to act quickly. My condition… I cannot waste what little strength I have left.”
