Darcy and Deception

by Victoria Kincaid

  Lydia made a little moue of disgust. “Denny is nice enough, I suppose. But he isn’t a gentleman. Not like Wickham.”

  I must be more direct. “Mr. Wickham is not a gentleman either. He has gambling debts—serious debts. He told us many untruths about his relationship with Mr. Darcy, who never treated him unfairly at all. Quite the contrary.”

  “Lizzy!” Lydia squeaked. “I thought you liked Wicky! I cannot believe you would devise such falsehoods about him.”

  “I am telling you the truth.” Elizabeth spoke through gritted teeth.

  Lydia put her hands on her hips. “Then why do you flirt with him?”

  Elizabeth would not have described her actions as flirting, but it was unsurprising Lydia viewed them in that light. “I am not flirting; I am simply being friendly.”

  “I have never seen you be so ‘friendly’ with any man!” Lydia exclaimed.

  Elizabeth let out an exasperated sigh. If only she could explain the truth! But Lydia could not be trusted to keep such a secret. “Believe me, Lydia, I have no aspirations to make Mr. Wickham my beau. He is far too—” She just barely prevented herself from uttering the word “dangerous.” “—too unstable. You should not get close to him.”

  Lydia tossed her head. “You are not Papa. You cannot tell me what to do. Wicky likes me better than you anyway. And I shall prove it!”

  With that declaration, Lydia climbed to her feet and hurried to join the cluster of people conversing with Mrs. Forster. Elizabeth did not follow; they could not continue such a conversation in front of others.

  She was unsurprised that Lydia had not heeded her warning, but she had hoped to at least give her sister cause for reflection where the man was concerned. Elizabeth sighed; she would simply have to watch her sister carefully around the militia officer.

  At the moment there was nothing to do but savor the sights and smells of the seaside. Waves rolling onto the beach created a hypnotic rhythm. The sun was bright, but a brisk breeze kept it from being too warm. Growing drowsy, Elizabeth slid down on the blanket until her head was pillowed on her arms, and she fell asleep.

  The sun was past its zenith when she awoke; Elizabeth judged it to be early afternoon. Her stomach reminded her forcefully that she had not enjoyed any luncheon. Perhaps she could persuade the other women to return to the house for some refreshments.

  Sitting up, she shaded her eyes to scan the beach, which had fewer inhabitants than earlier. Lydia was fast asleep on the blanket beside Elizabeth, snoring lightly. But Mrs. Forster was nowhere visible. She was not walking on the beach or talking with any of the women Elizabeth could see. It was possible she was in one of the bathing machines trundling deeper into the water, but would the colonel’s wife subject herself to such treatment twice in one day?

  Elizabeth stood, shaking sand from her shift, and surveyed the beach more fully. There still was no sign of Mrs. Forster. Would the woman have returned home and left them sleeping on the beach?

  She climbed up a slight incline of piled sand, heading toward the grassy area near the road. Perhaps Mrs. Forster had taken a stroll along the street in search of refreshment. Rounding the corner behind a cluster of small huts, Elizabeth located her quarry. Several yards away, Mrs. Forster was in urgent conversation with Mr. Wickham.

  Elizabeth quickly hid behind the huts. Mrs. Forster might be sufficiently clad, but Elizabeth wore only a shift, and Mr. Wickham was the last man she wished to see her so attired. Why is he so close to the ladies’ beach? Is he hoping to catch a glimpse of partially clad bathing beauties? If he is only indulging his prurient curiosity, why is Mrs. Forster allowing it?

  The two conversed quietly, their heads together and Mr. Wickham’s hand on Mrs. Forster’s arm in a rather familiar way. With all his attention on the woman beside him, he made no effort to spy on the ladies’ beach. A row of trees would conceal them from the sight of nearly everyone on the beach or street. Unfortunately, Elizabeth could not approach the couple and listen to their conversation without being observed.

  Before they could notice her, Elizabeth hurried back to the blanket, considering the import of what she had seen. Mrs. Forster flirted with every man in the regiment. It flustered some officers, and many ignored it, but Mr. Wickham seemed to enjoy the attention and returned her flirtatious banter. Such was the nature of their characters that Elizabeth had thought little of it. Today, however, they had conversed intimately in a location that would conceal them from sight. Were they conducting an affair?

  Elizabeth gasped at the thought. Mr. Wickham was younger and far more handsome than Colonel Forster; she would not be the first wife to stray from an older husband. But Mrs. Forster would take a terrible risk by forming an intimate relationship with another officer. If the colonel discovered them, Mr. Wickham would lose his position and could be brought up on charges. Dallying with other officers’ wives was strictly forbidden. The colonel could sue his wife for divorce if she had been unfaithful. Quite a scandal would ensue.

  Taking her place on the blanket beside the still-slumbering Lydia, Elizabeth wondered if she should mention her suspicion to the colonel. But what could she say? That Mr. Wickham was at the ladies’ beach? That might earn him a mild reprimand. Without seeing how intimately the two had stood, the colonel might not understand her concern. Their conversation was probably completely innocent but conducted in a flirtatious manner. Most likely any report would only cause the colonel heartache, sowing doubt without providing any certainty.

  Elizabeth’s mission was to observe Mr. Wickham for treasonous activities; she had not been asked to concern herself with the state of the colonel’s marriage. He might not thank her for any interference. Yes, it would be best not to say anything.

  Chapter Four

  Darcy thought he might be ill.

  Upon arriving in Brighton, he had secured lodgings at the Crescent, one of the more elegant buildings in town. His next task had been to call upon Colonel Forster and hopefully Elizabeth. The hour was rather late in the afternoon for a call, but he could not bring himself to wait until the morrow. Elizabeth and Wickham had already been in Brighton for four days without his supervision.

  The colonel’s lodgings were on the corner of two streets not far from the beach. It was not the most fashionable neighborhood but eminently suitable for a militia officer. As Darcy strode up a side street toward the front entrance, he happened to get a glimpse into the garden, where someone had carelessly left the rear gate open. This provided Darcy with an unobstructed view of…Elizabeth sitting with Wickham on a garden bench.

  The sight had struck fear in Darcy’s heart, and he had stifled an impulse to remove Wickham bodily from Elizabeth’s vicinity. Instead, he reminded himself it was an opportunity to gather more information about Wickham’s intentions. Even while berating himself that such devious activities were beneath him, Darcy had stolen closer, peering through a hole in the fence.

  What he saw nearly made him toss up his accounts on the dirt of the back alley. Elizabeth and Wickham sat side by side on a wrought iron bench before a low rose bush, facing a weeping willow tree. However, neither appeared to be appreciating the garden’s beauty. Wickham spoke with great animation, although Darcy could not discern the words. Elizabeth regarded him with rapt attention, a soft smile on her lips. Worse, she clung to one of Wickham’s hands with both of hers while he gesticulated vigorously with the other.

  The sight sickened Darcy, and yet he could not tear his eyes away. In the weeks since he had seen Elizabeth, he had done his best to convince himself that his memories exaggerated her beauty. But in truth, memory had not done Elizabeth justice. Soft, dark curls fell around her face, and the faintest tinge of pink colored her cheeks. Her deep emerald gown echoed the sea green color in her eyes. Darcy would gladly have admired her all day.

  However, he did not like the besotted expression on her face. Darcy would have given his entire fortune if she would direct such an expression of adoration at him. Seeing it bestowed upon such an unwo
rthy recipient was…provoking another bout of nausea.

  The low murmur of feminine voices alleviated Darcy’s anxiety that the pair was alone. Solitude would give opportunities for many kinds of mischief, but the colonel’s wife and a few women were nearby. However, Wickham behaved as if they were unchaperoned, taking Elizabeth’s hand and brushing it with his lips.

  Pressing his eye to the hole in the fence, Darcy clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. More than anything he wanted to race into the garden and wipe Wickham’s cocky smile from his face with a well-placed right hook. But a violent reaction would only provoke sympathy for Wickham and confirm Elizabeth’s worst opinion about Darcy.

  Even as Darcy observed, Elizabeth laughed—a high shrill sound he had never heard her make. Nor had he ever glimpsed such adoration on her face. She always spoke to Darcy with an arch and teasing manner, with glances full of cleverness and understanding.

  Why was her manner so different with Wickham? How was it possible? Was Wickham the one she wanted? Had she rejected Darcy because of her infatuation with the militia officer? Perhaps she was so besotted with the man that she simply had not believed a word of Darcy’s letter.

  Darcy’s stomach threatened rebellion once more, and he focused his thoughts on not disgracing himself—the better to avoid a sense of grief that threatened to engulf him and drag him to the bottom of the ocean. If Wickham were the one she wanted, if she were infatuated with the man, then it was possible she was not the person Darcy believed her to be. His heart contracted painfully. He had not thought it possible to feel worse after her rejection in Hunsford, but this sight was proving him wrong.

  Additional activity in the garden drew Darcy from his musings. Wickham whispered in Elizabeth’s ear while she simpered and edged closer to him on the bench. His smile held a hint of a smirk. She was completely fooled, and he knew it; he was enjoying the charade.

  I have been a fool. Well, that was not news—not since Hunsford. But now he was recognizing new depths to his foolishness. Not only had Darcy deceived himself about Elizabeth’s feelings, but he had also mistaken her character—and even her judgment.

  Why was she so blind to Wickham’s lies? Surely she had burned Darcy’s letter. Damnation!

  Darcy turned away from the sickening sight in the garden to stare at the cobblestones of Church Street. He would retreat to his lodgings, pack his belongings, and return to London. No one would ever know he had been to Brighton—after he swore Bingley to secrecy. He would leave Elizabeth to the consequences of her own folly. She was not the woman he had believed her to be, and thus she was not the right woman for him.

  Perhaps she was not capable of loving Darcy. If she preferred a man like Wickham—handsome, smooth, and easy of manner—someone like Darcy would never satisfy her. Darcy’s hand shook violently where it grasped the edge of the fence, and his eyes burned. I must escape now, he warned himself, before someone notices me, and I disgrace myself further.

  The street beckoned, offering a quick escape. He could leave Brighton today and find some coaching inn on the road where he could get utterly foxed. Forget about Elizabeth…for a time.

  Yet he could not bring his fingers to release the wood of the fence—nor compel his feet to walk toward the street. He could not abandon Elizabeth to her fate. I am pathetic. She has rejected me. She is not the woman I thought her to be. And yet I cannot let her go.

  Oh, he could tell himself that he was being chivalrous or that he felt responsible for not warning her family about Wickham—both of those things were true. But the real truth was that—despite evidence of her lack of discernment and her infatuation with another man—Darcy was still desperately in love with Elizabeth. Perhaps the sight in the garden should have altered his sentiments, but it had not. Not one whit.

  His only solace was that nobody knew the depths of his shame. He must take care to keep it that way.

  He wheeled around, again peering through the hole in the fence to torture himself with the sight of Wickham whispering into Elizabeth’s ear while she giggled. Giggled! Had Darcy ever provoked a giggle from Elizabeth? He was quite sure he would never touch food again.

  But he could not abandon her to Wickham’s clutches. She might not be his, but he still must save her from Wickham. Even if he could not win her love, he could thwart Wickham’s plans and keep Elizabeth safe. That must be enough.

  But how could he rescue her from the blackguard?

  Paralyzed without an answer to this question, Darcy was a horrified witness as Wickham kissed his way up Elizabeth’s bare arm while she giggled and blushed with pleasure. The officer skimmed over the puffed muslin sleeve of her dress and stole a few kisses along her collarbone and the long pale column of her neck.

  Then his lips brushed hers. Once. Twice.

  Darcy slapped his hand over his mouth against the impulse to roar his outrage. He wanted to race into the garden and tear Wickham bodily from the woman he loved. Those should be my hands on her skin! My lips brushing hers! Darcy wanted to punch Wickham, but he equally wanted to punish himself. Why could I not make her giggle and blush in such a way?

  Fortunately for the state of Darcy’s nerves, Elizabeth demurred, turning her head away from Wickham and murmuring something softly, her hand resting at her throat. Wickham nodded and pulled away. Her discomfort with such intimacy was a slight balm to Darcy’s heart.

  He watched the couple converse for a few more minutes, but then Elizabeth rose and called out to the other women in the garden. They answered, and soon—thankfully— Elizabeth and Wickham had disappeared into the house.

  Darcy could not have borne another minute. I am the last man in the world she would marry, and yet she allows this wastrel to kiss her! Darcy’s heart had been flayed with a whip.

  He waited a moment for his jagged heartbeat to slow and for his hands to cease shaking. Then he silently picked his way through the refuse strewn about the alley and hurried back to his lodgings. He had plans to make.

  ***

  Darcy spent the remainder of the afternoon pacing the floor of his elegant rooms in the Crescent. The carpet in both the bedroom and sitting room was quite lush—an exotic oriental pattern of some kind. After hours of perambulation, Darcy was intimately familiar with the pattern and not much closer to a plan for how he might rescue Elizabeth from Wickham.

  At first he considered writing another letter about his dealings with Wickham but immediately discarded the idea. An unguarded moment to transfer such a missive was unlikely to occur, and he had no reason to believe she would read a second letter. No need to provide additional kindling for her fire.

  He might also relate the story in person, but they would need a reasonable degree of privacy given the sensitive subject. Georgiana’s reputation could not be jeopardized by sharing the tale before others. Obtaining any time alone with Elizabeth would not be a simple matter. He did not expect her to be pleased at his sudden appearance in Brighton, and she would not be inclined to grant him a solitary audience. He fully anticipated that even public attempts to speak with her would be…awkward.

  And he had experienced enough awkward encounters with Elizabeth Bennet to last him a lifetime.

  Darcy had considered and discarded many other schemes, including reporting Wickham’s debts to his superior officer, arranging for Wickham to be posted elsewhere, or even—in desperation—challenging the man to a duel. But any of those actions were likely to provoke Elizabeth’s sympathy for the blackguard and her antipathy toward Darcy.

  Clenching his fist, Darcy thumped the wall. Damn Wickham for being so insufferably likeable! He charmed wherever he went, pleasing everyone with his manners and wit. In his younger days, Darcy had longed for one-quarter of Wickham’s easy ways with people; now he had accepted that he would always be doomed to be awkward in company. At least his fortune compensated for his lack of ease—until he met the one woman who was indifferent to his fortune.

  How could he convince her of Wickham’s perfidy? If they we
re simply friends, he might find some way to convince her, but they were not even that.

  I myself am the biggest obstacle. Elizabeth does not like me.

  She considered him offensive, unmannerly, and—the deepest cut of all—ungentlemanlike.

  Also, he was the last person in the world she would consider marrying. But at this point he would settle for having her ear.

  How could he persuade her to listen to him when she disliked him so intensely? After his farce of a proposal, she would undoubtedly avoid his presence. He cringed recalling how he had insulted her family, condescended to find her attractive, and confessed he loved her against his will. He was fortunate indeed that she had not slapped his face.

  Perhaps she would listen to the story about Wickham if someone else told it? Maybe Richard? No, his cousin was ten times more charming than Darcy himself, who hardly needed more competition for Elizabeth’s attention. Furthermore, Richard could not be in Brighton for days.

  Darcy slumped in a chair. I must find a way to warn her about Wickham. But how will I speak with her alone? And how do I ensure she will believe my story?

  Pushing himself from the chair, he resumed pacing—then stopped as a horrible thought struck him, paralyzing him in the middle of the room. Wickham might make Elizabeth an offer of marriage. I can do nothing to prevent it.

  No, surely not. Elizabeth had no dowry to speak of, nothing to tempt Wickham. Unless the man was aware of Darcy’s interest in her…and made her an offer just to spite his childhood rival. Darcy bit down on his knuckles to stifle a moan. How would he bear it?

  But surely Wickham remained unaware of Darcy’s interest. He had been discreet with his attentions to Elizabeth in Hertfordshire.

  Was it possible Elizabeth might tell Wickham about the marriage proposal? Darcy’s knees threatened to collapse, and he grabbed the back of a chair to prevent a fall. Had they laughed together over tales of my inept proposal? Darcy’s stomach threatened rebellion again. No, Elizabeth is an honorable woman; she would not betray my trust.