“Fine,” said Wickham. “Shall I deliver the letters now, or are you sending a footman to frisk me?”
Dyer looked to Darcy.
Darcy folded his arms. “Now.”
With a dramatic sigh, Wickham reached into the inner pocket of his coat. From within, he withdrew a packet, folded and sealed. “Do take care with them,” he said as he placed it on the desk. “They were quite sentimental.”
Dyer picked them up without ceremony. “I shall examine them before the transfer is approved.”
“Oh, do,” said Wickham. “Their authenticity is beyond doubt.”
Darcy remained still, though his pulse thundered.
“You might even learn something,” Wickham continued, tone light. “Georgiana always had an eloquent way of admiring you.”
Darcy’s fist struck the desk before he could stop it. The crack reverberated through the room. Wickham’s smile faltered—not because he feared the blow, but because Darcy never lost control. Not like this.
“I would advise you,” Darcy said evenly, “never to speak her name again.”
Silence followed.
Wickham adjusted his cuffs. “Well. We are all men of business here.”
Dyer cleared his throat. “The sum shall be paid upon verification. Passage arranged within the week.”
Wickham stood, smoothing his coat. “I shall await word at the Green Lion.”
He turned, half-bowing to no one, and left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Darcy remained frozen, staring at the empty space Wickham had filled.
Dyer stacked the papers, careful not to meet his eye.
“I shall arrange the transfer immediately,” he said quietly.
Darcy nodded, still not trusting his voice.
His hand hovered for a moment over the desk where Wickham’s letters from Georgiana had lain. He did not touch the packet. He would never touch it again. Let Dyer burn them, bury them, seal them in stone. It would not undo what had been done. Or what it had cost her to write them. The damage, the cost, the final insult—paid in full.
He turned to Dyer. “See that he boards the ship. I want no reports of him lingering.”
Dyer inclined his head. “Of course.”
Darcy gathered his walking stick and hat, each motion measured, restrained. His limbs ached with restraint. The urge to pace, to strike something, to shout the full fury that clawed at his ribs—he buried it.
Instead, he adjusted his cravat.
“Thank you, Dyer,” he said with precision.
Dyer offered a stiff bow.
Darcy walked out into the brittle winter sunlight. His coat flared at the steps. Behind him, the door shut with a finality that felt like a hinge turning in the structure of his life.
Wickham was leaving.
But Elizabeth—he could not even imagine how to reach her now.
