“Mr. Darcy has sold his commission very recently, Wickham,” Carter added. “He has inherited.”
The speed of gossip in this part of Hertfordshire was truly dizzying. He trusted that the information would not have come from the Bennets. He must assume at least one of the other families had learnt of it from the London papers. They had all known before the assembly that he and Fitzwilliam had fortunes, but now they knew what the inheritance was and could estimate how much. He was unsure how Bingley knew. He wanted to growl at the man for revealing the source of his funds. Although it would have been discovered eventually, he had hoped to escape Hertfordshire before it did.
“So you are the old man’s heir!” Mr. Wickham cried. “My hearty congratulations, sir.”
Darcy treated the man to an icy stare. “One does not typically offer felicitations upon the death of a relative.”
“Oh, come now,” Mr. Wickham said gaily. “You cannot have been close. If anyone ought to be offended, it would be me, for I grew up at Pemberley. Old Mr. Darcy was my godfather.”
“You knew old Mr. Darcy?” Bingley cried. “How remarkable that you should meet here by chance!”
Darcy narrowed his eyes and glared at his new friend.
“Indeed it is,” Mr. Wickham agreed. “My father was old Mr. Darcy’s steward. Having no children of his own, I was quite a favourite. He treated me almost as a son. He even sent me to school and then to university.”
Darcy was certain the charming but sadly obvious Mr. Wickham desired to guide this conversation to a request for funds. He determined not to speak, but to allow Mr. Wickham to spin his entire tale. Better to know what his game was and hopefully to let the man hang himself.
Bingley had other ideas. “How wonderful! Not many men would sponsor the son of their steward for his education. You are a very fortunate man.” The master of Netherfield Park was all affable innocence.
Still, Darcy said nothing.
Mr. Wickham paused at Bingley’s outburst of pleasantry. “True enough,” he said with a trace of irritation. “But he promised more than that.”
Ah, here it was. Money? Position?
“I hesitate to say, but . . .”
“Go on, Wickham,” Carter encouraged him. His words were echoed by the other officers who had gathered around. “I am sure Mr. Darcy here would like to know.”
Darcy said nothing, but he did lift his gaze across the room to catch Fitzwilliam’s eye. His cousin immediately excused himself and began to wend his way towards them.
“Your great-uncle promised me the family living at Kympton when it fell vacant. And it has.”
“Is that so?” Bingley asked buoyantly. “Then why are you here in the militia?”
Darcy nearly laughed, but the seriousness of the situation kept him from doing so.
“Well, there was an informality in the bequest,” Mr. Wickham began, but then hesitated as Fitzwilliam at last reached their group.
“Very informal indeed,” Darcy cut in at last. “For it appeared nowhere at all in my great-uncle’s will.”
“Bad luck, that,” Bingley said, commiserating with the disappointed lieutenant.
The lieutenant pressed on. “Surely you will honour my godfather’s intentions, Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Wickham said smoothly and a touch above the din of the room. “No honourable man could deny them.” He withdrew a folded letter from his jacket pocket and held it out to Darcy.
Darcy took it and read what was an overly eloquent promise of the living to one George Wickham. This time, he did laugh. “What are you playing at, sir?”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Wickham responded, all genuine offence.
“This letter is not from my great-uncle,” he said. “Although I had not seen the man in many years, we were regular correspondents. This is not his hand, and it is certainly not his voice. The man was once a judge. He did not wax poetic.”
Fitzwilliam leaned over to see. “It is not even close,” he agreed. “My cousin has many letters in his effects at Longbourn that would prove this.”
Darcy nodded. “And surprisingly, not one of them has any mention of you, Mr. Wickham.”
“Shall we send someone to fetch them?” Fitzwilliam asked genially.
Mr. Wickham shook his head and affected a sad mien. “I am sorry to find you so resolute,” he said. “I am sure you might produce a dozen letters you might claim to be your great-uncle’s. You are now a wealthy man, and I have little other than my position in the militia to support myself.”