They spent a few more minutes hammering out the finer details and then broached the most distressing topic of all.

“What about Wickham? I am not crying at his demise, but he was, well…”

“Family,” Darcy spat bitterly, “yes, I know.” He paused for a large swallow of coffee. “What did you do with his body?”

“We took it to the yard, placed in the morgue for now. No questions will be asked, yet, but I cannot keep him there forever. May I make a suggestion?”

“By all means do.”

Richard leaned forward. “From what I have deduced, the only person on this planet who will miss the wretch is Mrs. Wickham. I do sympathize with her loss since she appeared to love him. Therefore, I see no point in multiplying her grief by learning the truth about the man she was married to or how he died. Certainly knowing you were involved will add unnecessary strain that benefits no one.”

“No argument there. I am not looking forward to telling Elizabeth he died at my hand, let alone sharing that with Mrs. Wickham and the Bennets.”

Richard barked a laugh. “I would not worry about Elizabeth’s reaction. Somehow I think she will show her gratitude and pride enthusiastically. As for the rest, here is what I propose: We know he left Mrs. Wickham over a week ago, sending her home or wherever while he came on to London. It does not matter what story he concocted for her benefit. All you have to say is that he was discovered dead on the side of the road, neck broken as a result of falling from his horse as far as can be ascertained, and you were contacted because of this.”

Richard pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket, placing it into Darcy’s hand. The parchment piece was yellowed with age and torn along the edges, the creases grimy after years of being stuffed into pockets, and the charcoal drawn faces smudged in places, but there was no doubt who the two smiling young men were even if their names had not been written underneath.

“I remember sitting for this,” Darcy whispered mouth agape in shock. “We were days away from leaving for Cambridge. Mr. Wickham was proud that his son was to attend with me, intelligent enough to pass the entrance exams even though younger. He held such high hopes of his son’s success.” Darcy coughed around the tightness in his throat, not every memory involving Wickham an unhappy one, especially where Pemberley’s previous steward was concerned. “Mr. Wickham requested his wife draw us. She was talented with charcoal, although not as much with paints. I have to admit that during this time, especially noting how happy his family and my father were, I completely forgot my misgivings where Wickham was concerned. For a while he was George again, my boyhood friend.”

“It was among his papers, the only personal item. He did not even have a drawing or reference to his wife.”

“Mr. Wickham had this framed. I remember it sitting on his desk. After he died, Wickham came for the funeral. I fulfilled Mr. Wickham’s wishes in giving everything to his son, other than a few trinkets specified for others. I gave the picture no thought. Why do you think he carried it?”

“I do not know, Darcy. Perhaps in a twisted way he held a modicum of affection for the past. Or then again, maybe it was so he could look at your face and heap curses, Gypsy style. We will never know and I beg you not to let it distress you. For the sake of the present, it provides a reason for why you learned of his death and were left to handle it. And we can point to this and his past connection with your family, positive as far as most know, as a way to deflect any rumors that may arise.”

“I find it difficult to believe he held any affection, so more likely the curse theory is the correct one.” He folded the paper, handing it back to Richard. “Nothing ties him to Orman?”

“Nothing that I can see. Even my spies drew blanks on that count.”

“What about Geoffrey Wiseman?”

“I will look into anything here in London, but he will disappear with no one the wiser, I suppose, except for your housekeeper, but I leave that in your capable hands.”

“Next on my morning’s agenda,” Darcy said dryly. “The matter of Wickham can wait a day or two, can it not? I would like to talk to Elizabeth before contacting her family. Her insight will be invaluable, especially where Lydia is concerned.”

“It is sensible to wait on this matter anyway. Two odd events, one a death and the other a crazed lunatic out for blood, involving you in the same week might raise an eyebrow or two. Best to space out the fodder for gossip.”

Darcy frowned, scandal, even hinted, being something he abhorred.

“Do not worry too much, Cousin. Orman’s madness will be the topic of choice, with vivid descriptions I am sure, not the death of a man no one knew. Wickham will not generate more than a sentence or two. As for Mrs. Wickham, with all due respect to Elizabeth and no wish to offend, I somehow doubt the widow will be grief stricken or lonely for long.”

Darcy shook his head, unable to hold in a smile. “No, I doubt she will. Her mother will welcome her home with tears of joy, Mr. Bennet will probably be relieved, and I will make sure that her husband left a settlement to provide until husband number two is ensnared.”

“That is generous of you, under the circumstances.”

“Trust me, generosity has nothing to do with it, nor do I really care about Lydia, if you must know. I do, however, care deeply for my wife. And speaking of my wife, I need to check on her. Keep me informed.”

“I always do. That is my lot in life, cleaning up your messes as usual, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy waved his cousin’s gibe and grin away. “I think we are tied for rescuing each other, but you better watch your step or I will give erroneous parenting advice on purpose.”

Darcy had refused to think of the housekeeper and her role in the abduction during the night. He did not ask George of her whereabouts until that morning after bathing and dressing, knowing that the incensed rage would interfere with the calm he needed for his family. Thus, it was mid-morning after talking with Richard and then spending time with his peacefully sleeping wife before he felt in control enough to broach the subject with his uncle and then confront the woman. The time allotted gave his mind the opportunity to rationalize the subject, deciding on the best course of action.

George had gleaned little of interest. Mrs. Smyth had been so shaken by her master’s threatening anger that she was a puddle of tears and incoherency. In disgust he had given up on any questioning, banishing her to her quarters and assigning a footman to ensure she stayed put until Mr. Darcy said otherwise.

In truth, Darcy could care less how Wickham had finagled his way into Mrs. Smyth’s good graces and thus into his house. Knowing the skill Wickham wielded at deception and charming women, he was not surprised and wondered why the possibility had not occurred to him. He might have been able to feel some pity for the obviously lonely, mislead woman, but the fact is that she had willingly allowed a stranger into his house and fornicated under his roof, rules that were broken in blatant disregard of his authority. Couple that with her ongoing, albeit suppressed hostility toward his wife and children, and his extensive patience was at an end.

What he was not prepared for, especially after George’s description of how distraught she was the day before, was the blaze of defiance he was greeted with.

She marched into his study, Mr. Travers trailing, her face set into a haughty pose with spine stiff and hands boldly clasping the chatelaine of keys indicative of her office. Darcy sat in his imposing leather chair, composed and coldly authoritative. His momentary startlement at her demeanor did not show outwardly, nor did it cause his disciplined core to waver. Rather, it steeled his resolve.

“Mrs. Smyth, I am no longer interested in the details of your involvement with Mr. Wickham. Your misjudgment which led to your crimes is for you to bear. The proofs of your transgressions against the rules of this household, my rules, are more than sufficient to warrant your immediate dismissal. I order you to pack your belongings and vacate my house by this afternoon. My only concession, my last act of kindness if you will, for years of service will be to offer the availability of a carriage and driver to take you to a destination of your choosing. Under the circumstances I judge that more than fair.”

“And what of my future livelihood? Am I to be given no recommendation for employment?”

Darcy’s brow rose reflexively. “You cannot be serious? Do you honestly anticipate that I would write a letter of recommendation after what has transpired here?”