Page 68 of Penned By Mr Darcy
Darcy had placed it on the desk after Miss Elizabeth had returned it to him. There had been no cause to be more careful; after all, she had already seen what was inside. Now, Wickham eyed it greedily, taking broad steps. Darcy tried to block his way, but was shoved to the side.
Wickham snatched up the diary with greedy fingers, riffling to a random page. His eyes skimmed the lines in silence, his other hand raised in a mocking command to keep Darcy back. Darcy did not move; a lifted palm would never deter him, but he let Wickham bask in his illusion of triumph.
“Good God, Darcy—aren’t you dull?” Wickham sneered. “There’s scarcely anything of interest in here. Does it improve, Miss Elizabeth, if I read further?”
“I do not...” she began, but he cut across her with a sly smile.
“Oh, come now. You had your turn. It is only fair I should enjoy mine.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “And what would you do with it? You cannot counterfeit Mr Darcy’s hand. Your tales are too wild for anyone to believe.”
“Not so,” Wickham replied with a shrug. “Doubt is a powerful thing, Miss Bennet. In the right scandal sheet, the story would sell handsomely. None know me, and none shall. But Miss Darcy and her sanctimonious brother would shine through any pseudonym the writer cares to give them to save from slander. Can you not imagine the coin that would be pressed into my hand at such a tale?”
Elizabeth’s voice was steady.
“Do you truly suppose we shall stand aside, and let you walk away with it?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling thinly. “I do.”
“Give me the diary, Mr Wickham.” Elizabeth stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “This is absurd. Why should I fear you? You are nothing but a cad with a half-baked plot for extortion.”
Wickham’s laughter rang sharp. His hand slipped into his pocket, as casually as though he were retrieving a book of matches. With horror, Darcy watched as he pulled a small pistol, outside of normal military issue, and proffered it towards Elizabeth. Darcy surged forward at once, dragging Elizabeth behind him, his body a shield.
“One might call it excessive, bringing such a weapon to a friendly conversation,” Wickham said with mock deliberation, turning the weapon in his hand as if admiring its craftsmanship. “I hadn’t counted on you being here, Lizzy. It was Darcy I came for.You are a delightful surprise; I was meeting your sister later, but you are far more pleasing. And as for you, Darcy… I know you wrote to the Colonel telling him of my sins. Trust you to fuck up my life once more.”
Darcy’s voice was taut, furious.
“There is a lady present. Mind your tongue.”
“Threatened with a pistol, and still prattling about propriety?” Wickham laughed. “You are a strange creature. And Miss Elizabeth, do not think about calling for help, or I will shoot you both before it can come.”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver from the barrel aimed at his chest.
“What is your plan, Wickham? Shoot me and then parade my diary about when I am dead? Who would care? And how would you leave here, a house full of people, having slain someone in the library?”
“Semantics,” Wickham sighed. His eyes gleamed. “I have dreamt of this day, you know. I have always wanted to humiliate you, Darcy. It has been a lifelong dream – and here you are, in front of the lady you simper after hopelessly, looking like you’re about to piss yourself with fear. That is quite satisfactory.”
Darcy closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. He felt the years of mockery fill him, the daily humiliation that came with being Wickham’s friend.
“Shut up.”
“I’m sorry?”
Darcy stepped forward, his hand pushing Elizabeth further back. He approached Wickham, his steps broad as Wickham began to step back until he hit the desk.
“I am tired of listening to you,” Darcy hissed. “All my life, I have allowed you to talk down to me, to belittle me. You are ridiculous; the pistol is probably not even loaded, for I doubt you have the coin for gunpowder. You have no doubt spent it all at the ale house, for the smell of alcohol upon you is sickening. You come here, to my friend’s home, and deign to threaten me?”
“I will ruin her,” Wickham spat back. “Your precious Georgiana. Did she tell you what she and I did together?”
He surged forwards, grabbing Wickham by the collar and hauling him towards him. Their faces were an inch apart, Darcy speaking with venom as he stared into those wretched, soulless eyes.
“I will see you dead before you have the chance.”
He was not a violent man, and it went against his very nature to threaten a man in such a way. threats were the only language men like him would understand.
“Oh, big words, Darcy.”
Before Wickham could react, Darcy shoved him in the shoulder, knocking him backwards onto the desk. The pistol slipped from his fingers, and Darcy seized his chance. He grabbed it, the metal cool beneath his frantic fingers. Wickham railed against him, arms flailing as he tried to regain control.
