Page 8 of Pride, Prejudice, & Pretense

It doesn't quite say that.

A curious feature of her mother's recent life was that she had joined a local Anglican church and sang in its choir. Lizzy had thought it a net positive…until her mother started taking to (mis)quoting scripture. It was disconcerting.

"Lizzy, you'renotlistening."

"I've got to go, Mom. Bye!"

Charlie did not ask any more questions about the call, for which Lizzy was grateful. She would never have answered the phone within the hearing of almost any other agent, but she felt comfortable?comfortable enough, anyway?around Charlie. There had always been a sort of sister-brother dynamic between them.

She did notice that his expression had grown somber. She wondered about his family, whether the job had taken a toll on it as it did on almost all agents' families. The sister-brother dynamic was not strong enough for Lizzy to ask without any invitation.Is his love life as non-existent as mine?

"So," Charlie said after a quiet few minutes of driving, "what did you make of Darcy?"

She did not face him but answered immediately, needing no time for deliberation. "An ass. Arrogant."

He smiled and nodded his head. "He comes off that way. Did even as a boy. Around strangers, it's like he's a statue. A disapproving statue. As if Rodin had sculpted him: The Frowner. But he'snot. At least"?Charlie’s clear eyes clouded a bit?"at least he used not to be…"

“A statue, or disapproving?” Lizzy quipped in question. He just blew out a breath.

They arrived at the private tarmac used by small government jets. The wind was blowing as they parked. Darcy stood on the tarmac, large and frowning, dressed in a Bible-black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and black leather boots. It was a change from the black suit he had worn in Langley but made Lizzy remember it.

His wavy hair was waving in the wind. As she reached to open her car door and he stepped toward it, reaching out, she realized that he had not shaved. A heavy blue afternoon shadow colored his cheeks and chin. She pulled on the handle as he pulled the door open. She stepped out, facing him, and took off her cap.

Darcy blinked as if staring into a sudden riot of white light. He took a step back, and Lizzy smirked inwardly. "Told you I would be blonde…"

He stared, dumbstruck. "But—" he started, stopped. "Butsoblonde! Like Jean Harlow inRed Dust."

The remark drew Lizzy up short. Harlow. Starlet and harlot, at least in that film "You're an old movie fan?"

He continued to stare at her hair…her…and didn't answer. Lizzy glanced at Charlie, who had gotten out and was watching the scene eagerly, chuckling. After another pause and with a spark in his eyes that might have been irony, Darcy glanced at Charlie, too. "Let's board. I'll brief you on the plane."

He looked back at Lizzy, now composed, his eyes dark again. "Still not voluptuous, though."

Soon the plane was in the air and heading for Chicago. Darcy had three files, a copy for each of them, on a small table. He handed one to Charlie and one to Lizzy. "Myfile on George Wickham."

Lizzy took her folder and opened it. Surprisingly, it was not thick.

Inside, on the top of the few pages, she found a surveillance photograph. Wickham. The shot was a good one. It showed him head to toe, walking. He was elegant—elegantly dressed without seeming a dandy. Slim, but with broad shoulders. His face was narrow, his features fine. He was handsome and knew it, lived secure in that knowledge. The smile on his face was the smile of a man used to creating responses in others. Artful and masterful.

Lizzy studied the photograph for a few minutes, disquieted by it.

Darcy said nothing, letting her and Charlie investigate their files.

She put the photograph aside and thumbed through the papers. They detailed the various places where Wickham had lately been: Berlin, London. The information on his activities in those cities was dense, detailed, and professional.

But nothing in the file predated Berlin.

Lizzy was still smarting from Darcy's comment about her not being voluptuous, which had put her in a mood to quarrel, find fault. "Why is there so little in this file beyond Berlin? Did he just come into existence spontaneously in Germany? How did you find him there?"

Darcy passed over her question. "We're focused forward. I know where he's heading in Chicago. There's a woman there, fabulously wealthy, and I suspect she is a crucial part of The Wicker Man's network. Lady Catherine de Bourgh."

House of Lords.For a moment, Lizzy thought Darcy was joking. "Lady?"

"Yes, she's a Brit. Her husband, much older than her and now dead, was Lord de Bourgh. After his death, she transplanted herself and his fortune to the States, to Chicago. Many years ago.

"She has a massive house north of the city, a mansion she callsRosings.She rarely leaves it except for selected cultural events, concerts, and operas. Art’s the centerpiece of her life?her public life anyway. Even though she doesn't leave Rosings often, she manages to exert an enormous influence on the cultural life of the city. Her money often leaves Rosings, even if she rarely does herself.

"Wickham has no notion that anyone is suspicious of him. His confidence is his greatest weakness. His cover is the wealthy playboy on vacation—and takes everyone to believe that. The CIA was able to tap his calls in D.C. After buying his airline tickets, Wickham made a call to Rosings and spoke to Lady Catherine, arranging a visit. On the phone, it was all perfectly innocent. They supposedly met when she visited England a few years ago and kept up a friendship. People who move in her circles gossip about them sleeping together and call herCougar Catherine. She's certainly his type in look”?Darcy glanced at Lizzy?“but not his type in years."

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