Page 113 of A Question of Character

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You refuse?”

“I refuse to abandon Miss Lydia because you have decided I am guilty of some plot I do not understand. If you have proof, bring it. If you have questions, ask them like a gentleman. But I will not let you walk into Longbourn and destroy my future with a word because you once had the right to think badly of me.”

“You gave me that right.”

“Yes.” Wickham’s throat moved. “I did. I will answer for what I have done. I will not answer for what I have not.”

“Pretty distinctions from a man who has made evasion into an art.”

Wickham flinched, then drew himself up. “Think what you like. I cannot prevent it. But Miss Lydia’s family knows my situation. Mr. Bennet knows I mean to wait. Mr. Philips knows my work. I have hidden nothing here.”

“You have hidden yourself.”

“No. I have begun again. If you know the man you believe guilty, tell me his name.”

Darcy scowled. “Do not attempt to deceive me. You know very well of whom I speak!”

The door behind them opened a little, then closed quickly. Someone had thought better of intruding. Elizabeth, perhaps. The possibility struck Darcy harder than he welcomed. Elizabeth would ask. Elizabeth would defend the man if she believed him injured. Elizabeth, who prided herself upon judging character, had likely already judged Wickham and found him worthy.

The thought sharpened his voice.

“This is not over.”

Wickham’s expression hardened. “I did not suppose it would be.”

“I will protect those I love, and all those connected to them.”

“As will I.”

The answer was unexpected enough to hold Darcy in place for one more second.

Then he stepped past Wickham and into the hall. The maid had vanished. The drawing room door stood open, and within it he heard Mrs. Bennet’s anxious whispering, Lydia’s raised question, Jane Bennet’s attempt at soothing, and Elizabeth saying his name.

He could not go back in.

Not yet.

If he saw Elizabeth now, with concern in her eyes and Wickham’s name upon her lips, he might say everything. Or worse, say enough to wound without convincing.

Darcy took up his hat and gloves from the hall table.

The housekeeper appeared, startled. “Mr. Darcy?”

“Inform Mrs. Bennet I was called away on urgent business. I beg her pardon.”

“Yes, sir.”

As he crossed the yard, two stable lads ceased their conversation when he approached. One tipped his cap with exaggerated respect, but the other’s eyes drifted toward the front windows of Longbourn before settling upon Mr. Wickham’s horse. Darcy dismissed the exchange as idle curiosity and rode away.

He left Longbourn with more haste than courtesy and mounted before anyone could follow him.

The demand followed Darcy all the way back to his horse.

Tell me his name.

Had the fellow truly spoken in ignorance, or merely discovered another means of deceit? Darcy could not decide. Yet until Georgiana herself possessed strength enough to recount every particular without breaking beneath the recollection, he would not expose her pain merely to satisfy a man already capable of every falsehood.

As he rode toward Netherfield, his hands tightened around the reins until the leather cut into his gloves.