Behind the desk, slouched in the leather chair once reserved for the Earl of Pemberley, sat George Wickham. His boots were crossed lazily on the blotter, scuffed soles resting where the elder Mr. Darcy once signed official documents. A crystal glass—brandy, likely—glistened in his hand.
“Well, well. If it is not dear Fitzwilliam. Come to buy back the house, have you?”
The agent blinked between them. “Ah... it seems you are... acquainted. I shall give you both a moment.”
He stepped back quickly, the door clicking shut behind him.
Darcy did not move. His hands were at his sides, clenched tight, but otherwise, he remained perfectly still. Wickham’s presence—his very ease in the chair, the way he tilted his glass in mock salute—was a provocation. An insult. A desecration.
Darcy’s gaze swept the room. His father’s desk, once so meticulously kept, was scattered with playing cards and empty glasses. The shelves, where once had stood volumes on estate law and history, now held cheap knickknacks and half-filled decanters. A cravat had been discarded over the arm of a chair like a soiled napkin.
It was filth. Disrespect. A house turned inside out by a man who had never been invested in it. And yet here he sat.
Wickham raised the brandy to his lips and sipped leisurely. “You look well. A bit thinner than I remember. Heard you were sick. Something about a bullet? Two?”
Darcy said nothing.
“Oh, come now. We used to be such friends.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit down, do. Let us reminisce.”
Darcy did not sit. He stepped forward once, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the wreckage of the study—the ruined papers, the smeared ink, the ring stains on the walnut surface. His father’s nameplate was gone. The brass lamp that had stood in the corner for decades was missing. In its place was a gaudy crystal monstrosity.
Wickham watched him take it all in. He seemed to savor every flicker of disgust.
“I heard about your little petition,” he said lightly. “Stirring up trouble again, are you? Still hoping for a royal pardon? Or just trying to get back what is no longer yours?”
Darcy’s voice, when it came, was quiet. “You have no right to this house.”
“Oh, but I do,” Wickham said, lifting the brandy glass to his lips again. “Gifted by the Crown, no less. That must sting.”
Darcy’s jaw flexed.
Wickham leaned back further in the chair, arms wide. “You always had the land. The name. The fortune.” He grinned. “Or so you thought.”
Darcy’s fists clenched until they trembled, but he locked them at his sides.
Wickham’s smile widened. “Lady Catherine wrote to me, you know. Weeks ago. Thought I should be warned about you. Said you were making a mess of things up in Hertfordshire. Cavorting with gentlewomen well above your station. Trying to stir sympathy in the court.”
Darcy’s heart went still.
“Some girl, she said. Claimed a connection to one of the local families. Mysterious little thing, too well bred for country stock, but nobody could pin down exactly who she was.”
He tilted his head, watching Darcy closely. “Funny, that. You, showing up in the country just as a pretty, unknown ‘cousin’ appears? Lady Catherine seemed convinced you were using her for something. Stirring up sympathy. Playing the country hero. Or was she just a bit of fun before you came crawling back to London?”
He gave a low, deliberate laugh. “Always had a knack for choosing your amusements carefully, did you not?”
Darcy’s biceps were now quivering, his jaw ticking.
Wickham smiled wider. “What is this? Touch a nerve? She must have been some little piece of flesh.”
Darcy moved before he even registered the decision. He crossed the room in three strides and struck Wickham across the jaw.
The brandy glass toppled to the floor and shattered. Wickham reeled, crashing against the desk before surging upright. For a moment, he looked stunned. Then his expression darkened. He swung wildly, catching Darcy with a blow to the shoulder.
Darcy gasped, his injured side collapsing inward with pain. He staggered, gritting his teeth, trying to right himself—but Wickham was already on him.
They went down hard, grappling, fists flying. Wickham was stronger, and Darcy—still weak, still recovering—could not keep pace. A punch landed to his ribs. Another to his already bruised temple. His vision went white.
And still Wickham snarled insults in his ear. “Always so bloody noble,” he spat. “Still fighting battles no one asked you to.”
