Page 112 of A Question of Character

“My sister was within an hour of being taken to a wedding while I was absent.”

Wickham recoiled. “What?”

“To you.”

“To me?”

The incredulity in his tone enraged Darcy more than denial would have done.

“You will not pretend innocence.”

“I am not pretending anything. I am courting Miss Lydia Bennet.”

Darcy gave a short, humorless laugh. “That will end when this family learns what you are.”

Wickham’s jaw stiffened. “And what am I?”

“A reprobate and a spendthrift. A man who has lived for years upon charm, falsehood, and every advantage my father’s generosity placed within reach.”

Several words gathered in Wickham’s face before he discarded them. When he answered, his voice was lower. “I have not lived well. I will not claim otherwise. I was idle, vain, and foolish with money. Worse than foolish at times. But I have been working to become a better man.”

“Since when? This summer?”

Wickham looked at him sharply. “What is that meant to imply?”

“You know precisely what it implies.”

“No, I do not. I have seen no one from your circle in years, except you now. I have been occupied with my studies and with Mr. Philips’s business.”

Darcy laughed again, unable to help it. “Your studies.”

“Yes. The law. You may despise the effort if you like, but it has occupied my days rather more effectively than old sins did.”

Georgiana’s account rose before him with cruel clarity: the secret letters, the growing attachment, her confidence that George intended marriage, Mrs. Younge’s encouragement, the packed trunks awaiting departure. Too many particulars. Too many details no frightened girl could have invented. Whatever innocence Wickham now assumed, Darcy would not purchase it at the price of doubting his sister.

“So, you were not in Ramsgate this summer?”

“No.”

“Convenient.”

“I remained in Surrey through much of June. I came to Hertfordshire in July. Mr. Philips can attest it, as can the gentleman with whom I lodged while preparing for the position.”

“Then there is an entire month for which you give no accounting.” Darcy could have pursued the matter. Richard would gladly have ridden to Surrey, questioned servants, or sought out the gentleman Wickham claimed as a witness. Yet every instinct revolted against the idea. To investigate was to admit the possibility that Georgiana had mistaken the man she believed she loved. She had already suffered enough. He would not add disbelief to her humiliation. He would not lower himself to give credence to Wickham’s lies.

Wickham spread his hands. “Because I did not imagine I would be required to produce a record of every mile traveled for your satisfaction.”

“You will produce one now.”

“I owe you many debts, Darcy, but I do not owe you my obedience.”

Darcy’s restraint nearly failed him. He could see Wickham as he had been at Ramsgate without ever having seen him there: smiling, plausible, cruelly patient with Georgiana’s fears, aided by Mrs. Younge’s whispers and his sister’s innocence. The picture was so vivid that no denial could dislodge it. Georgiana had described too many particulars for innocence to explain them away. Whatever Wickham’s performance, Darcy would not betray his sister by doubting her now.

“Stay away from the Bennets.”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly.