Wickham’s brows rose. “Touchy this morning. Do you speak so to all your former friends?”
“You are nothing of the sort.”
Wickham stood, brushing his coat as if Darcy’s presence had soiled it. “Well, then. Shall we get on with it?” He gestured to the desk, where a thin folio lay. “Or would you prefer to circle each other like scandalized aunts?”
Darcy did not move. He looked at the folio. His pulse ticked once at his temple.
The letters were in there.
Georgiana’s handwriting. Her hopes, her girlish flourishes. Lines never meant for any eyes but one pair—and not even that, now. He could picture them too clearly. Could feel the sick twist in his stomach at the thought of Bingley’s sister passing them around a drawing room like curiosities.
And Wickham knew it.
Darcy drew a breath. Controlled. Leashed.
“Return them to me.”
Wickham smiled slowly. “For what?”
Darcy stepped closer, his boots silent on the worn rug. “For the decency you abandoned long ago. For her dignity. You will return them.”
Wickham laughed—quietly, but it rang too loud in the narrow room. “Decency? Come now, Darcy. You cannot possibly still think that word applies to either of us. I may be a villain, but at least I never pretended otherwise.”
Darcy’s jaw ached from clenching. “You cannot keep them.”
“I can,” Wickham said pleasantly. “And I might.”
He crossed to the desk, fingers grazing the edge of the folio. “But I will admit,” he went on, “their usefulness has rather… peaked. Caroline Bingley was a charming little conduit, but not a patient one. She wanted quick results—names in mouths,blushes on cheeks. But you, Darcy, you are playing a longer game. And I confess, I find that far more interesting.”
Darcy said nothing. He had said all that mattered already.
Wickham flipped open the folio. A corner of parchment curled up like it wished to flee. “Two letters. But you knew that, did you not? You saw them. You recognized her hand.”
Darcy did not blink.
“They were sweet little things. Not scandalous on their own, of course. But with the right… frame—” Wickham gave a theatrical gesture, “—one might almost think she begged me to elope. That she proposed the arrangement, rather than the reverse. Girls are such passionate writers, are they not?”
Darcy’s hand curled into a fist inside his glove.
“You have read them enough,” he said, voice flat. “You will return them now.”
Wickham looked amused. “You speak as if I only have the two.”
Darcy stilled.
Wickham’s smile widened. “She wrote more, you know. You were in Scotland when I left. She sent several before the truth caught up with her.”
Darcy felt something sharp and cold lance through his ribs.
“You do not have them,” he said quietly.
Wickham shrugged. “Perhaps not. But perhaps I do. And perhaps the Admiralty would find her phrasing… vivid.”
He leaned forward, hand resting on the folio.
“So let us not quibble about decency. Let us talk terms.”
Darcy did not move.
