Page 5 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

The thought was untenable. He knew my worth and qualities and respected me. He expressed his pride and belief in me as Pemberley’s future master.

No, he was certain his father had used it only rarely, on those he did not know and could not yet trust, on those whose true characters needed illumination.

As shall I.

THREE

Wickham arrived four days later. Darcy could hear him—could hear his ingratiating voice, assuring whoever was within earshot that the loss of Mr Darcy was so profound an event that Parliament should adjourn and the sea might rise. “Such an eminence, but I am certain my dear friend and brother, the stalwart young Darcy, will one day emerge from his father’s shadow.”

He watched from the threshold of his study as Wickham sauntered down the corridor, masking whatever grief he might have felt with a simpering look, his eyes wide and sad as an undermilked cow.

“Ah, Darcy. Nigh on two months and I remain in disbelief that your father, the best man of my acquaintance, is gone.”

“There is no lack of sadness here, but our disbelief departed when his chair remained vacant at the dining table and his horse restless for its rider.” Darcy expelled a breath, struggling to control his anger over the nonchalance Wickham had shown in insulting his own father to laud Darcy’s. “Your father has been ill. Have you any news⁠—”

“Yes, yes, my auntie tends to him. I shall pay a visit anon.”

Wickham’s jovial expression turned dark. Darcy suspected it was irritation with him and with the ‘burden’ of having to visit his dying father that was responsible for the change. Sighing, he ushered Wickham into the study.

“You have been away some time.”

Wickham nodded, raising an eyebrow as his gaze fell on the letter-strewn desk. “Grief takes different forms. You, of course, have buried yours in work.”

“Gambolling and gambling are a means to lessen yours?”

Wickham laid a hand on his heart. “Ah, we all must ease sorrow and misery in our own way. You wallow in yours. I prefer the warm embrace of a pretty woman.” Laughing, he sauntered over to the table in the corner, lifting a decanter of brandy, then one of port. “Your father had only the best. Shall we drink to his memory?”

Angered by the sight of Wickham touching his father’s things as if they were his own, Darcy stepped towards him, took the decanter, and set it down. “No, I would prefer we attend to the business you came here for.” He stepped back to his desk and gestured at the chair across from it.

“The business of mourning my godfather, your father, the master of Pemberley.” Wickham slid into the chair, looking relaxed and comfortable as if it were his own study. “It is odd to see you sitting there, in his chair behind his desk. Do you believe you can take on his mantle here alone or do you require my advice and guidance?”

“Your advice?”

“Do not look so affronted, Darcy. I have always been more skilled than you in appreciating Pemberley’s stables and horses. I can manage those and keep an eye on the horseflesh on auction at Tattersall’s while you run the properties and farms⁠—”

“And you will do this while undertaking your living in the church?”

Wickham startled momentarily but then quickly grinned. “Old friend, you know I am not cut out to be a man of the cloth. I had hoped you understood that. I never wished to disappoint your father, of course, nor mine.”

Naturally, you urged me away from or concealed all you did that would have disappointed or enraged them. Wickham’s actions—gambling and carousing—were inexcusable; Darcy knew his own actions in protecting him were regrettable. No more. At least the purse-leech understood himself to be ill-formed for the church.

Darcy reached into his desk and pulled out a piece of paper. “You are for London?”

Wickham’s expression fell. “I do have business in town, yes. And of course, I shall be glad to manage Pemberley’s dealings at Tattersall’s.”

“That will not be necessary.” Darcy tapped his pen on the inkwell and began to write. “You have come for your inheritance. My father, who died anticipating you would take orders, set aside a legacy of one thousand pounds for you.”

“One—” Wickham suddenly rose, and when Darcy looked up, he saw his old friend glaring at him. “A pittance for his beloved godson.”

“A godson whose education he supported and whose profession was set out for him.” Darcy sighed. “It is written in his will, as my solicitor will tell you if you desire to call on him to verify the amount.”

As he signed the letter and sanded it, Wickham stalked back to the corner table, seized the decanter, and poured himself a generous amount of brandy, which he immediately drained before pouring another portion. “A share of Pemberley’s cellars should be mine as well.” He lifted the tumbler and gestured at Darcy. “What is a thousand pounds to you, a man with all of this?”

His expression narrowing, he stepped towards the desk. “Devil take it,” he cried, pointing at the quizzing glass hanging round Darcy’s neck and chuckling meanly. “Your eyes have gone weak, Darcy? Used them too often reading your bloody books? What is next to fail? The nose you keep in the air whilst sneering at those beneath you?”

As Wickham took another swallow of brandy, Darcy folded and sealed the letter. He had had enough of the man’s grasping behaviour and wanted only to remove him from Pemberley. He stood and walked past Wickham to the study door.

He held out the letter. “Take this with you to my bank in London. They are aware you will be coming for the funds.”