An Unexpected Ally

Part 16

Richard's anger had barely dissipated by the time he had marched back across the threshold of his private study in the bowels of the barracks. He threw his case down onto his desk with more force than he meant to, sending the pile of reports it contained skittering in all directions. Cursing, he bent to retrieve them, piling them all back together higgledy-piggledy before stalking over to his drinks cabinet and pouring himself a measure of brandy.

How dare Darcy...how dare he!

He took a sip of his drink, allowing his eyes to slowly come back into focus on the room around him. His stomach turned over as he thought back over their argument. It had not been like speaking to Darcy at all. It had been like...like speaking to his brother. He kicked at a cabinet but instead of giving any vent to his feelings all it did was send pain shooting up his leg and he staggered back to his desk, sinking heavily into his chair and beginning to sort his reports back into a chronological pile. The slow, methodical work calmed him and by the time it was done he was rational again. Rational, and irritated.

This is not Darcy's fault, he reasoned. It is mine. No, it is Wickham's. If there was one man in all of England upon whose shoulders blame for Richard's current predicament could be placed it was George Wickham's. He had been the one to trifle with Georgiana's affections, after all. And whose fault was it that he even met Georgiana?

With a scowl and a sigh, Richard pushed his work aside and turned back to his brandy. He had spent the better part of a year trying to swallow the truth that would not be swallowed. George Wickham might have set his sights on Georgiana with nefarious intent, but if Richard had not been the one to make introductions - or, as the case turned out to be, to renew their acquaintance - would things ever have progressed as far or as quickly as they had done?

If I had confessed the truth sooner, perhaps Darcy and I would be on better footing now. This was supposition only, but Richard had no cause to doubt it. He knew he was prone to seeing prejudice from Darcy where there was none because he felt a pre-emptive degree of guilt whenever mention was made of either Wickham or Georgiana for the role he had played in their disastrous courtship.

Yet Georgiana did not seem to bear any kind of grudge against him. As soon as she had been safely returned to Pemberley and George Wickham went to ground, Richard had retreated across the ocean, seeking to work out his anger and anxiety on the battlefield and it had worked for a time. Georgiana had written to him, at last, pleading with him to come home, and at last, when leave was granted and his service required in England he had come home, but he had not yet reconnected with Georgiana. He was not quite sure he dared to. Would she be the same Georgiana she had been in Ramsgate? Before Ramsgate? Before Wickham? Or would she be changed, as Darcy was changed?

He had not acknowledged as much about his cousin, for Darcy had always been aloof, but since Georgiana, he had bordered on antisocial with anyone except those he knew well.

Now, Richard feared, even old friends - family members - were at risk of permanent estrangement.

Deservedly. Richard clenched his hands around his glass, draining its contents and refiling it with a second drink almost without being aware of doing so.

He would make it up with Darcy in the morning, he told himself, leaning back in his chair and rolling his face towards the ceiling. They had fallen out before and made amends. They would do so this time.

And I will tell him the truth, Richard thought. I will explain it all. That he, too, had been deceived into trusting George Wickham once and been blackmailed into trusting him again. He knew better, and from now on he would do better.

With a sigh, he placed his glass down carefully, sliding it just out of reach, lest he drink too much, too quickly, and turned his attention back to his work. If he no longer had the excuse of spending time with his cousin there was no reason to waste the evening in rumination. Better to work and have something to show for his hours of isolation.

Ignoring the grumble in the pit of his stomach, he threw himself into his work and barely noticed the hours ticking by as evening slid into night.