“Terms,” he repeated.
Wickham leaned back, as though easing into the luxury of his own depravity. “Do not look so offended. I am not entirely mercenary. I could have sent them to your uncle weeks ago. Imagine what the Earl might have done with them—”
“You would not.”
Wickham tilted his head. “Would I not? Why ever not? Because we were boys together? Because your father believed in me?”
Darcy stepped forward. “Because if you had sent them, you would have nothing left to bargain with.”
Wickham blinked, and for a moment—just a breath—he looked amused. Then it passed.
“Well reasoned,” he allowed. “Still, I am not unreasonable.”
“No,” Darcy said, teeth set. “Only gutless. You have no claim, no case, no weapon except cowardice.”
Wickham’s smile slanted. “Cowardice has served me tolerably well.”
Darcy’s breath left through his nose, controlled. “What do you want?”
Wickham shrugged. “What I always wanted. Security. Opportunity. A commission in a better regiment. Somewhere with prospects.”
“Which you squandered twice already.”
“Because they were not properly funded.” Wickham tapped the folio once, casually. “I do not need much. Enough to establish myself. I have always wanted a post abroad—Cadiz, perhaps. Warm breezes. Far from prying eyes.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to pay you off.”
“I want you to solve your problems,” Wickham said, as if bored by the obviousness. “You want Georgiana’s letters. I want the means to disappear.”
Silence settled between them again, longer this time. He could feel Dyer’s gaze drifting uneasily across the ledger.
“You will give me every letter,” Darcy said at last. “And anything else you have. Names, drafts, threats. All of it.”
“And in return?” Wickham asked, the picture of civility.
Darcy did not flinch. “You will never speak of her again.”
Wickham grinned. “And my passage?”
Darcy turned to Dyer. “Draft the agreement.”
Wickham stretched, as if it had cost him nothing. “A pleasure, as always, Darcy.”
Darcy stared at him, all iron. “Go to Spain. Or the devil. But if I hear your name again—anywhere near hers—”
“You will what?” Wickham asked.
Darcy stepped forward, voice low and clear. “You will pray it is only my uncle who finds you.”
Wickham chuckled, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “I see your time in Town has not dulled your sense of drama.”
Darcy did not answer. He would not trade barbs.
Dyer dipped his pen, scratching lines of legal phrasing onto parchment. “A simple agreement, Mr. Wickham,” he said tersely. “Release of all materials, permanent withdrawal from contact. Compensation to be rendered upon delivery.”
“And safe passage to Cadiz,” Wickham added smoothly, eyes on Darcy.
Darcy inclined his head once.
