Page 201 of A Question of Character

Darcy ignored both of them. “Who is this man?”

Georgiana’s mouth tightened. “Mr. George Wycombe.”

“Not George Wickham.”

“No.”

The simplicity of the answer nearly undid him.

All these months.

Elizabeth’s doubts. Wickham’s bewilderment. His own conviction, wielded like law.

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I was going to. At Ramsgate. Then you came in angry and dreadful and said Mr. Wickham’s name before I could explain. After that...” She swallowed. “After that, you dismissed Mrs. Younge, and I knew you would never hear me. You had already decided everything.”

Mrs. Younge lifted her chin. “Miss Darcy is of age enough to know her own mind.”

“She is fifteen,” Darcy snapped.

“Nearly sixteen,” Georgiana cried.

Wickham closed his eyes briefly, as if the distinction pained him.

Darcy looked at Mrs. Younge. “Your role?”

Her expression faltered.

Wycombe answered for her, with a smile that never warmed. “Mrs. Younge is my godmother. She has been a most devoted friend to Georgiana.”

“Devoted,” Wickham said, “to her fortune.”

Wycombe laughed. “You always did resent another man’s success.”

Wickham stepped nearer, and for the first time Darcy saw the anger he had expected all along. “I resented your using my name. I resent it more now.”

“Your name was already of little value.”

“Enough value that you borrowed it.”

The words struck. Wycombe’s mouth hardened.

Darcy’s hand closed around Georgiana’s letter inside his coat. “We will continue this inside.”

“No,” Georgiana said.

“Yes.” Darcy lowered his voice. “You have risked your reputation in every way possible. You will not add a public quarrel in an inn yard to the account.”

That reached her where affection had not. Her face crumpled briefly before pride restored it.

They entered a private parlor after Darcy paid the landlord enough to remove curiosity from the passage. Mrs. Younge attempted to sit near Georgiana; Darcy placed himself between them. Wickham remained by the door, hat in hand, muddy from the road and grim as a witness at trial.

Wycombe stood by the mantel with practiced ease.

Georgiana sat rigidly upon a chair, hands clasped too tightly in her lap.

“Begin,” Darcy said.