“I am quite serious,” Darcy continued, his voice lower now, but no less firm. “Miss Bennet is not a prize to be competed for nor a property to be valued by what she brings with her. She is an intelligent, principled lady, and she deserves to be regarded as such. If you mean to pursue her, you must do so with sincerity—or not at all.”
For a moment, Fitzwilliam studied him in silence, the levity in his expression giving way to something more assessing. Then a slow, knowing smile curved his mouth.
“Very well,” he said at last. “I take your meaning. You have my attention.”
Darcy met his gaze steadily. “Then I ask you to give her the same.”
Fitzwilliam’s smile widened—not mockingly, but with unmistakable interest at his cousin’s challenge. “Oh, I shall,” he said lightly. “Indeed, I should be most remiss not to.”
He paused, long enough to let Darcy wonder whether he would say more, then added in a deliberately casual tone, “Still, I cannot help observing that you speak less like a disinterested cousin and more like a man whose feelings are already very much engaged.”
Darcy stiffened, the movement slight but unmistakable. “You mistake me.”
“Do I?” Fitzwilliam replied, folding his arms and regarding him with open amusement. “Because from where I stand, you appear rather more invested than you would ever willingly confess.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, a familiar sign of restraint rather than anger. “What I feel is of no consequence here. The earl has made it clear that Miss Bennet is to have her choice—and that his preference lies with you. I will not interfere with that, at present.”
“At present,” Fitzwilliam repeated mildly—and then laughed, the sound brief and untroubled. “On the contrary, that only serves to make matters far more interesting.” His eyes gleamed with unmistakable mischief. “Very well, cousin. I shall endeavour to conduct myself with all the seriousness you require. But I warn you—I have no intention of making this easy for you.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, his eyes closing for a heartbeat before fixing sharply upon Fitzwilliam. “I would expect nothing less.”
“And neither,” Fitzwilliam added, with a grin, “I suspect, would Miss Bennet.”
Darcy frowned at him then; Fitzwilliam doubted the displeasure ran very deep. “Truly, Richard,” Darcy said, “I am pleased to see that you have returned to England yet again, unharmed. You have been away for too long, and though I know this is the lifeyou have chosen, it does pain me to think of you so far from home—and so close to battle. I know what you write to the family cannot be the whole of what you experience. If you wish to speak of it while you are here, I would be glad to listen.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head, his expression sobering at once. He shifted his weight, the easy posture of a man long accustomed to assessing rooms and people alike. “Thank you, Darcy,” he replied quietly. “I would offer you the same. I know the last months have not been easy for you, and I should like to hear what you have done regarding Wickham after his most recent attempt to bring trouble upon our family.”
Darcy sighed, running a hand briefly across his brow before lowering it again. “To my shame, I know I have not done enough,” he admitted. “At the time, it seemed unwise—if I wished to keep Georgiana safe. He holds too many secrets, and I feared that any action against him might provoke retaliation. I do not know where he is now.”
Fitzwilliam studied him for a moment, noting the tension held in Darcy’s shoulders and the care with which he chose his words. It was the look of a man accustomed to command, now constrained by love. At last, Fitzwilliam’s mouth curved—not in amusement, but in quiet satisfaction.
“As it happens,” he said mildly, “I do.”
Darcy looked at him sharply. “Where?”
“This morning,” Fitzwilliam replied, his tone unchanged, “I passed him on the road outside Meryton—newly fitted in the red coat of a militia soldier.”
“In Meryton?” Darcy exclaimed, the words escaping him before he could restrain them. Fitzwilliam raised a brow, the faintestgesture of reproach at the lapse. “Did he see you? Does he know you are here?”
“No, he did not see me, but yes, he is in Meryton,” Fitzwilliam replied evenly, “which simplifies matters considerably.”
“How so?” Darcy demanded.
Fitzwilliam turned slightly, as though considering the matter finished already. “He cannot leave the area without being guilty of deserting, a crime punishable by death,” he replied casually. “If I, or anyone who is a superior officer, gives him an order, he cannot question it and must follow it or face consequences.”
He looked back at Darcy then, his expression cool, assured. “Wickham is a mere lieutenant and will not be missed, particularly when he cannot possibly go long without making an enemy of someone within his unit or in the neighbourhood itself. He will be more easily dispatched as a soldier than he would have been as a civilian.”
Darcy stared at him. “You mean to have him… dispatched?”
Fitzwilliam met his gaze without flinching. “I mean,” he said calmly, “that he will be prevented from causing further harm—promptly, decisively, and with as little noise as possible.”
“You will not duel him, will you?” Darcy asked, feeling a bit hesitant.
“No, what I will do to him will be far worse,” Fitzwilliam replied, his gaze sharpening tightly. “I will make him regret that he was ever born.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At dinner that evening, Darcy could not help recalling his earlier conversation with Richard. The knowledge that Wickham rode freely through Meryton had sat like a stone in his mind all day.
