Page 154 of Honor Requires

This was not entirely untrue. After revealing all, Brisby’s future employment with ‘the count’ had been discussed at length.

The coroner regarded him through narrowed eyes, then inclined his head. “In that case, it would appear that the man could not have administered the poison at the time suggested.”

“Indeed.”

A pause followed. “Then we must consider another possibility,” the coroner said slowly. “That someone seeks to place the blame upon him.”

Darcy met his gaze. “That is my conclusion.”

The coroner nodded. “Then I shall amend my inquiries accordingly and release the valet into your custody.”

Matlock House did not enter into mourning.

The decision was neither formally declared nor openly discussed, but it was understood all the same. Wickham had not been a man to inspire affection among those who knew him best, and whatever ties might have bound him to the family through Georgiana did not extend to a display of grief they did not feel.

Elizabeth told him as much when next they met.

They walked again in the gardens, though the air seemed altered now, touched with a tension that had not been present before. The news had spread quickly, as such news always did, and with it came speculation, curiosity, and the stirrings of scandal.

“Jane will not speak of it,” Elizabeth said. “Nor will Lady Matlock. They consider it…unnecessary.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I cannot say I am surprised.”

Elizabeth’s expression was troubled.

“I have been to Darcy House. To see her.”

Darcy’s attention sharpened. “And?”

“She is inconsolable,” Elizabeth said. “I have never seen such grief. It is not merely sorrow. It is confusion. She does not understand what has happened, nor why.”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “And Mrs. Younge?”

Elizabeth hesitated.

“She presses her. Papers, documents—she urges her to sign, to settle matters without delay. She grows more insistent each day.”

Darcy’s expression hardened.

“She says it is necessary. That it is for her protection.” Elizabeth shook her head. “There is a quality in her manner that—”

The words died away.

“It is not right.”

“No,” Darcy said. “It is not.”

Elizabeth looked at him. “What will you do?”

He met her gaze steadily. “What I must.”

He did not make the call alone. When Darcy called at the house that had once been his own, he did so with a man whose presence lent authority beyond question. The magistrate—introduced as an acquaintance formed at a gentleman’s club—accompanied him with composure, his manner unremarkable, his purpose anything but.

The house admitted him without hesitation. Mrs. Younge received them. She entered the drawing room with the same careful propriety Darcy remembered, though time had altered her in ways both subtle and unmistakable. A harder quality marked her expression now, a rigidity that had not been present before. Beneath it, he saw at once the woman he had once employed to care for his sister—the same keen eyes, the same calculated composure.

“Count Vendicarsi,” she said, her tone smooth. “I regret to inform you that Mrs. Wickham is not receiving callers at present.”

Darcy inclined his head. “On the contrary,” he said evenly, “it is not Mrs. Wickham I have come to see.”