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Cecile Preston lifted the steaming cup to her lips, contentedly admiring the general splendour of her drawing room. The townhouse had been left to her in her late husband’s will, provided she remained a widow. If she remarried, the house would pass to Owen’s youngest brother, Marvin; but for now, it was hers. She mentally inventoried the room’s valuables for possible use as payments on her debts, and her head tilted in reflection.

Though I dearly love it here, I shall not repine the loss of it, for I shall have even grander houses when I marry Mr. Darcy.

Reflecting on Darcy House, she recalled her one visit there before she married Owen Preston, and how she was smitten with Fitzwilliam Darcy from that point on. Her uncle, Lord Tierney, the Earl of Whiteshall, had been invited to a dinner party hosted by Mr. Darcy and the Fitzwilliams, and she had convinced him to ask if he might bring a guest. They had been detained and arrived rather late. Due to the large crowd in attendance that evening, she had never actually been introduced to the man she had most wanted to meet. She still flushed at the memory of seeing him that night—she a tongue-tied two and twenty, too shy to coax an introduction with a dashing man of six and twenty.

For his part, Mr. Darcy had ignored her, as he had most of the women in attendance. She shrugged. She knew she was no beauty—even Owen had married her for her dowry. Though Mr. Darcy’s inattention may have hurt then, her present good fortune had certainly made up for her former disappointment.

Yes! All is well now. I am free of Owen Preston, and I have encountered Fitzwilliam Darcy just when he is most vulnerable. His sister is insisting he marry, and he is tired of beautiful women throwing themselves at him. He seems ready to settle for a marriage of peers, and I am his peer. How providential that I am finally in the right place at the right time.

The lengthening shadows on the wall served to remind her that she would have to begin dressing for the dinner party at the Fitzwilliam’s residence before long. She poured herself another half cup of tea and finished it off with brandy.

If I were a man, I would dispense with the tea altogether, but drinking tea is more ladylike than gulping down a glass of brandy.

Mr. Potts suddenly appeared at the door. “Madam, a Mr. Wickham to see you.”

Quickly looking to the doorway, she observed that no one was behind Mr. Potts. Putting a finger to her lips to silence him, she motioned for him to come forward. Glancing behind as though he thought she might be talking to someone else, the portly man saw no one. Realising then that she indeed meant him, he moved in her direction as quietly as possible.

As he drew nearer, she whispered, “Is Mr. Wickham aware that I am available to receive him?”

The butler said softly in reply, “No, madam. I told him to wait, and I would see if it was convenient.”

“Then, please tell him I am not able to see him today, and it would be best if he return later this week.”

The butler frowned. Mr. Wickham was not an easy man to put off, and he had become noticeably more surly in the last few weeks. Having no choice in the matter, he responded, “Yes, madam.”

Listening as his footsteps crossed the foyer, Cecile cringed when they abruptly stopped, and she could hear the raised voice of Mr. Wickham addressing Mr. Potts. Though she could not tell what he was saying, she could discern anger in his tone. Finally, the closing of the front door allowed her to breathe again. She was not surprised to see Mr. Potts reappear at the drawing room door a few seconds later.

He coughed self-consciously, and his eyes studied the floor as he delivered a message. “Mr. Wickham asked me to tell you that he will be here tomorrow evening, quite early, and he will expect you to be available.”

“Thank you, Mr. Potts.”

As the butler made his way back to his post, he wondered at the strange relationship between Mrs. Preston and the flashy Mr. Wickham. No gentleman would act or dress that way, nor would he think of addressing a lady in the manner in which he addressed Mrs. Preston.

Mr. Wickham had begun calling on the Mistress immediately following Mr. Preston’s death, though his visits had become more frequent in the last few months. Shaking his head, Potts decided he would think of it no more tonight.

Nothing done by the wealthy surprises me!

~~~*~~~

Cecile Preston’s hands shook as she fingered the delicate diamond creation, trying to fasten it about her neck. She sighed at the thought of having to hand it to Mr. Wickham in payment of her latest promissory note. This was the last costly piece of the Preston jewels, as she had used all the rest to pay previous bets. How would she ever appear at proper social functions without her jewels? Then remembering that she could always borrow from her friends under the pretence of admiring one thing or another, she relaxed.

Her light-heartedness did not last. Wickham’s bold declaration had dashed her hopes of putting him off until she could become Mrs. Darcy. When he arrived tomorrow, she would have to admit her inability to pay what she had lost or his excessive usury—at least not at present. She would assure him that if he gave her a little more time, she would have sufficient resources to settle her debts and perhaps even to make an occasional bet in the future.

Surely the prospect of my future wealth and further wagers will convince him.

The truth was that she was so far in debt that she feared being able to settle the balance, even if she secreted money from her allowance and household accounts as Mrs. Darcy. No, she would have to ask Mr. Darcy for the ten thousand pounds, pretending the debt was for something legitimate. As long as she laid the responsibility on Owen Preston, Mr. Darcy would feel pity for her.

Perhaps tonight will be the night Fitzwilliam Darcy realises that we would be an excellent match. God knows he has had enough encouragement from his family and plenty of time!

She tried to study her reflection in the mirror, but her thoughts drifted back to the handsome rogue who held her debts. From the start, she knew Wickham was not to be trusted. After all, he had been Owen’s gaming partner before becoming hers. It was not a month after her husband’s death that she became involved in a torrid love affair with him. He had convinced her to make more and higher wagers until she was, for all practical purposes, impoverished. She stamped her foot in frustration.

Now that I am destitute, I hold no interest for that blackguard! Well, no matter. I shall be Mrs. Darcy ere long and shall look down my nose at him!

Throwing the necklace onto her dressing table, she screamed, “Martha!”

Grabbing the combs that were to adorn her hair, she began putting them in place. “I should never have let Suzette go to save money. Martha knows nothing of being a lady’s maid.”

A young woman quickly appeared behind her, curtsying and holding out the freshly pressed gown she had gone to retrieve.