The Plight of the Darcy Brothers (37 page)

“Is there something we should say? At this point?”

Darcy and Grégoire stood on that bright fall afternoon in front of the gravestone of Geoffrey Darcy, who had died on that very day, ten years before. In the graveyard behind Pemberley, no one would disturb them.

“I'm not a priest and, therefore, cannot say a Mass,” said Grégoire. “Nor do I have the implements to do so.”

“He was… a wonderful man.”

“A loving father.”

“An excellent gentleman. In… most respects. He did everything in his power to steer me correctly. And you are a hopeless cause anyway.”

Grégoire smiled.

“He did do what was in his power to… bring us together.” Darcy knelt beside the grave. “He taught me everything he knew. Except how to deal with Mr. Wickham.”

“No one told me I was invited.”

They turned to the approaching figure, the person in question. Just getting off his horse, still in partial regimentals, was George Wickham.

George Wickham did not consider himself a selfish man. By definition, that would imply he thought only of himself, and he did not. He had many other people on his mind. Granted, he wasn't always handing out money to others, but he liked to interpret the word to mean he never thought of other people— which he did, quite a lot. For one, his wife was a talker, though he blamed Darcy for that one. Not for making her the country horse that she was, but for forever tying her to him in some kind of sadistic plan of revenge for some perceived slight. He had also been responsible for turning Darcy into the man he was, quite literally, in one night with a fancy lady in Cambridge.
And I paid for that out of my own pocket! Never asked for it back! Ungrateful little brat!

All right, so he envied Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire. The most prim and proper of men, except when he was drunk
or locked in a room with a whore
while
drunk, but honestly, most of the stories Wickham couldn't tell most of the stories he knew out of fear of self-incrimination. Darcy had had one dirty evening after Wickham left Cambridge and that he had heard of in passing, but he never knew the full story. The only one who knew it was Charles Bingley, the First Mate on the Darcy Ship and stupidly, stupidly loyal. Emphasis on
stupid
. He would never get a word from him.

Since becoming Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, Darcy had been the most upstanding and proper man, to the point that Wickham wondered the precise height and width of the stick up his arse. Darcy waited until he was nine and twenty to marry Elizabeth Bennet, that courtship behind guarded with such traditional Darcy secrecy that not even that squealing, gossipy wife of his could account for it. Wickham had tried to learn the truth of it himself on the wedding day, only to be rewarded by having his last remaining fine suit stained with cow droppings when Darcy reacted to his presence by pushing him out a window and into the manure pile below. Darcy would have nothing to do with him, and that was that.

But not everything on Wickham's end could be severed. While technically they were brothers-in-law, Wickham was never permitted entrance anywhere near Pemberley, even when his wife was, and she so rarely was that it was barely worth trying. And he did miss Pemberley, he begrudgingly admitted to himself when he was drunk enough to do so. It was not just the money practically dripping from its ancient walls, either. The happiest years of his life had taken place there, even after the death of his father, when Mr. Darcy had taken him in and treated him like a king. His son did not show the same kindness. Yes, he'd given
him the worth of the living, but surely Darcy had enough intelligence to know he'd lose it all and come crawling back? Why couldn't he just shut up and beg his way back into Pemberley? The plan with Georgiana had been a last resort. The plan with Mary King had been the last resort of a… last resort.

Maybe he should have taken the church living. Celibacy was not expected of a vicar. But then he would have to deliver boring sermons. Caught between a rock and a hard place. As if Darcy ever found himself in that position.

Wickham was nibbling on that piece of gristle—and an actual piece of gristle—when a letter arrived from Lydia. She did love to gab, but sometimes that was to his benefit, especially when it involved the Darcys. And this time, it was. When Lydia had gone to Chatton to see to the birth of her unmarried sister's bastard child (scandal enough, but not worth a penny in Newcastle), she had also been introduced to a monk who was Darcy's bastard brother. It seemed the senior Mr. Darcy, whom they both had regarded so highly, had had his own little extramarital dalliances.

Perhaps that was why, Wickham pondered as he sped to Pemberley, Mr. Darcy had been good enough to turn a blind eye to all of the maids he fired for mysteriously becoming “with child” as soon as Wickham learned of the bounty of feminine delights. The old fool was no fool, but he was apparently not practicing what he preached. Mr. Darcy would have made a terrible vicar, as well.

With that consolation, Wickham expertly bypassed the guards and the field workers. He would not be admitted to Pemberley itself. His only hope was to catch Darcy visiting his father's grave on the anniversary of the senior Darcy's death. If
not, at least Wickham would visit the graves of his own parents, as the private graveyard had a section for the beloved Wickhams. He hadn't been bothered in years—in fact, he couldn't think of a time he'd seen the stones since the one for his father had gone up, and he'd never known his mother—but it seemed as good a time as any.

To his great luck, Darcy was there. He was not alone, but guards did not flank him, either. Beside him was a young man in grey monk robes and sandals, his long string of beads hanging off his rope belt, and his brown Darcy hair in a ridiculous tonsure. The hair style probably had been implemented to make the balding abbots feel better about their hair loss. But the familial resemblance was undeniable, especially when Darcy put his arm over the monk's shoulders as they mourned their father, a rare gesture of affection that made it all the more affectionate.

A pang of jealousy struck Wickham. When they were boys, he and Darcy had been friends, even like brothers. When they were very young boys, before all the jealousy and rivalry set in. This stupid Papist had missed all of the taunts, the spars, and the rides, and instead had the same affection bestowed on him that Darcy probably showed Georgiana. He looked that age, too.

They had not noticed him, but when he was mentioned in their conversation, Wickham felt obligated to announce his presence. “No one told me I was invited,” he said.

Shock and alarm described Darcy's reaction as Wickham dismounted and approached him.

“Darcy.” Wickham bowed and turned to the monk. “And I do not believe we have been introduced.”

He did believe, unless Darcy chose to lie outright, that the scandal would be revealed now, in front of the grave of the man
who had wrecked the family. Or had potential to. Surely Darcy would put up a sum of money just to keep Wickham's mouth shut about a stain on the house of Pemberley.

By his estimation, a
great
sum of money. And he intended to get every shilling of it.

DARCY LOOKED AT HIM with levels of barely controlled rage. Wickham was more than familiar with this. While Darcy was a mystery of a man to everyone else, Wickham knew him better. And one of the surest things he knew was that the man knew how to keep grudges. When Darcy intruded on his absconding with Lydia, Wickham was fairly sure (at the time) that it was more about getting his revenge for Georgiana and doing that white knight thing he loved so much to do.

Only later Wickham found that Darcy's actions had been more about maintaining Lydia's sister's social standing so Darcy could marry her, which was not a huge surprise, either. Darcy cared about social standing. He would pay a lot of money to protect a family's honor, an astronomical amount to protect his own. And here Darcy was, cornered with proof of his own father's indiscretions in the form of a church mouse, and all he could manage was a deeply intoned, “
Wickham
.”

“I suppose I'm not going to be introduced. Well, I don't know your name, but Lieutenant George Wickham at your service.” He bowed politely, taking off his regimental hat.

“Brother Grégoire,” said the monk, bowing in innocence. “Grégoire Bellamont, sir.”

“Bellamont? Wasn't that… wasn't that the name of one of Mrs. Darcy's maids? From when we were young. Fitz?”

“Yes,” Darcy growled. “Your attempts at civility are tiring. Yes, he is our half-brother.”
Of course
, he was referring to himself and Georgiana, who was not present.

“At least I was trying. Live and let live? Forgive and forget? Isn't that one of your people's teachings,
Brother
Grégoire?”

“Yes,” said the monk, or more accurately, the pawn, overshadowed by the two much larger players with more moves. His accent was partially French. Darcy must have picked him up on the Continent like a souvenir, then brought him home because of some ridiculous honored notion that a son should see his father's grave or some such nonsense. “We are all poor sinners.”

“Well, I only know two people here who are poor,” Wickham said. “And it seems the Darcys are responsible for that.”

“You are mistaken by his pious appearance,” Darcy said. “Unlike you, Grégoire has not squandered his inheritance gambling.”

“Inheritance?” Wickham laughed. “You call three thousand pounds to buy me off when your father passed away an inheritance? Do you know how long that lasted?”

“And the ten thousand to settle your gambling debts and provide you with a living in Newcastle. The thousands Father spent raising you, educating you, and sending you to Cambridge. At least you had the decency to be sent down in the first semester, since all you were going to do was—”

“Brother!” Grégoire interrupted, a look passing between him and Darcy that Wickham could not observe from his viewpoint.
So the monk was to be his advocate? He was going to make this even easier? “Tell him.”

“Tell me what?” Wickham said, curious.

Darcy sighed, and it was not a sigh of annoyance. Wickham knew Darcy's frustrated sighs well enough. This was almost sadness. It crept into his voice when he spoke, more civilly this time, directly to Wickham. “It seems… you are my half-brother as well.”

George Wickham blinked. “Are you daft?”

“Surely your scheming mind can work your way around that one,” Darcy replied, stepping closer to him in front of his father's grave. “I admit Father had me fooled, too, while he was alive. But why else would he raise you 'as his own son' and give you a living that you proved over and over again was undeserved? A living in the church, of all places! His last attempts to hope to reform you, even when that was beyond hope. How many maids did he have to dismiss? How far did you spread the Darcy seed around?”

To say that Wickham was flabbergasted was putting it mildly, but he knew that Darcy could be as tricky as he could. “You are a fool if you don't think I see your strategy. You are trying to draw me into your own little family scandal so that I cannot ask for money for my silence, and you apparently would go as far as slandering your own father to do so.”