“Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth curtsied, steadying her expression despite the awareness of half the street observing the exchange.
Darcy’s gaze settled upon her with quiet warmth. He extended his hand.
“Miss Elizabeth.”
There was nothing improper in the gesture; yet when he bent over her gloved fingers in greeting, the courtesy felt marked—distinct. Lydia gave a suppressed giggle behind her.
Elizabeth withdrew her hand with measured calm.
Darcy then turned.
For the briefest instant, something sharpened in his expression before smoothing into civility.
“Wickham.”
The other gentleman stepped forward.
“Darcy.”
The tone was neither cold nor effusive—merely restrained, as between relations who had known one another too long to pretend at surprise.
“You are visiting?” Darcy inquired. “I was given to understand you were to clerk for Mr. Harcourt this Michaelmas.”
“Ah. Yes. That was the intention. To my disappointment, however, I found the law to be… intolerably dull.”
“Dull?” Darcy’s voice was flat.
“I discovered,” Wickham continued with easy candor, “that while the income from the investment you made into my education proved most comfortable, the study itself lacked vigor. I had just about resigned myself to gluing the barrister’s wig to his head when I ran into Denny here one evening at a pub.”
Lieutenant Denny beamed.
“He is an old acquaintance, and he spoke of the militia,” Wickham finished, “and I thought a commission might provide a degree of amusement. For a time.”
“And my father’s bequest?”
“The five thousand Uncle George left me in his will is safely in the four-percents, as is the three thousand you granted me in lieu of the living. Not a farthing of the principal has been spent.”
Darcy studied him a moment longer, then gave a slight nod. “And so, Hertfordshire profits from your search for diversion.”
“It appears so.”
Elizabeth watched the conversation with interest, having only now remembered why Wickham’s name was familiar—he was Darcy’s cousin on his mother’s side.
“And you, Darcy?” Wickham continued. “What brings you so far from Derbyshire?”
Darcy gestured toward his companion. “Mr. Bingley has taken Netherfield for the season. I am here as his guest, assisting him in learning about estate management.”
“Darcy has determined that I must not be permitted to confuse turnips with timber,” Bingley declared cheerfully. “He lectures me daily on drainage and rotation, whether I request it or not.”
Wickham stepped forward. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“Likewise,” replied Bingley with a grin, extending his hand and shaking it.
Before conversation could resume, a sharp voice rang out from above.
“Lizzy! Jane!”
