A Perilous Match

Chapter 22

T he morning sun bathed the rolling hills of Ashburn’s estate in a warm, golden glow as Darcy and Phillip rode together in companionable silence. The rhythmic beat of the horses’ hooves against the earth provided a soothing cadence, yet an undercurrent of tension seemed to pervade the air, unspoken but palpable.

“Tell me, has Miss Bennet at last chosen which suitor shall claim her heart, or does she remain undecided?” Phillip enquired as they rode.

“I am of the belief that there was never any true competition between Bingley and Richard, although it was not my place to say so.”

“It is unlike you not to voice your opinion, Cousin,” Phillip replied with a laugh.

“I have learnt to keep my thoughts to myself when it comes to such questions. My involvement is the reason Elizabeth and I almost lost our chance at happiness, and I will not squander it now,” he replied, though Phillip clicked his tongue.

“It seems all has worked out well for the both of you,” he said from just behind Darcy, for he had allowed Darcy to take the lead. Before Darcy could reply, his horse suddenly whinnied, rearing up with a force that caught him unawares. The powerful creature bucked beneath him, hooves striking the air as if reacting to some unseen threat. Darcy’s grip on the reins faltered, his body lurching forward as he struggled to maintain his balance.

“Steady, boy, steady!” he called out, his voice taut with the effort of calming the frantic animal.

But the horse was beyond control, its wild eyes rolling as it continued to rear and twist. Darcy’s heart raced, adrenaline surging through his veins as he clung to the saddle, every muscle straining to remain mounted. Time seemed to slow, the world around him narrowing to the frantic pulse of the horse beneath him and the cold sweat trickling down his spine.

“Fitzwilliam!” Phillip cried. “Take heed!”

He heard his cousin’s words but could not react. For a fleeting moment, he felt his centre of gravity slip—his body pitching precariously to the side. The ground below loomed with terrifying proximity, and he knew that a fall from this height could be catastrophic. He braced for the impact, the bone-jarring crash that seemed inevitable.

But just as suddenly as it had begun, the horse’s frenzy abated. With a fierce tug on the reins, Darcy managed to bring the animal back under control, the wild bucking reduced to a nervous prance. He took a deep breath, willing his racing heart to steady, his hands gripping the leather reins so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Phillip was beside him in an instant, his face flushed with a mixture of concern and something that almost resembled amusement. “By Jove, Fitzwilliam! That was a near miss!” he exclaimed, though there was a lightness in his tone that belied the gravity of the moment. “It seems your luck has taken a rather unfortunate turn of late.”

Darcy forced a smile, though the unease from earlier now clung to him like a shadow. “Indeed, it would appear so,” he muttered, his voice strained. The near accident had unsettled him more than he cared to admit, and Phillip’s nonchalance only deepened his growing discomfort—especially as Elizabeth’s words of caution entered his mind.

As they resumed their ride, Darcy could not help but replay the incident. The horse had been well-behaved before—what could have startled it so abruptly? He cast a glance at the trees, searching for any sign of danger, but found nothing out of the ordinary. The seeds of doubt, planted by the earlier fencing mishap and Phillip’s curious behaviour, began to grow with disquieting speed.

By the time they returned to the house, Darcy’s mind was a storm of suspicion and unease. The path wound back through the estate’s gardens, the fragrance of blooming flowers doing little to soothe his troubled thoughts.

As they dismounted and began to walk towards the manor house, Darcy broke the silence. “There is something I have been meaning to ask you,” he began cautiously. “Regarding Wickham.”

Phillip’s casual demeanour faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “What of him?” he replied, his voice carefully measured.

“You were once friends,” Darcy continued, his gaze fixed on his cousin’s face. “But I was under the impression that your friendship ended after the… incident with Georgiana.”

Phillip nodded, his expression inscrutable. “Indeed, it did. Wickham and I have not been on familiar terms since that time. Although, I must confess, he did call upon me to request a loan, as your wife rightly surmised. I refused him, of course. If he has any sense, he will have left Town by now, the scoundrel.”

Darcy scrutinised him closely, searching for any sign of deception. “Had you encountered him more recently, here in Ashburn? I only wonder who might have informed him of your whereabouts.”

“How he learnt of my presence here, I cannot say. However, I did cross paths with him by chance some weeks ago,” Phillip admitted, his voice cool. “He was on leave, much as he is now, and we encountered one another in Town. I did not seek him out, Fitzwilliam, but neither did I wish to cause a scene by ignoring him.”

“And what did he have to say on that occasion?” Darcy pressed, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

Phillip hesitated briefly before shrugging with an air of nonchalance, as if dismissing the matter. “He spoke highly of your wife, in fact. He implied that Elizabeth had a certain fondness for him before you came into your title.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the reins with renewed tension. “That is a baseless insinuation, and Wickham knows it.”

“Of course,” Phillip responded smoothly, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “I merely relay what was said. Wickham has always been adept at twisting the truth to his advantage, and I would advise you not to take his words to heart.”

But the damage was done. Darcy’s thoughts churned with anger and doubt, old wounds reopened by Wickham’s insinuations, now tainted with the suggestion of Elizabeth’s supposed affections. Rationally, he knew Elizabeth harboured no such feelings for Wickham—but the mere suggestion was enough to unsettle him profoundly.

As they neared the house, Phillip added, “You know better than anyone what manner of man Wickham is. But remember, Fitzwilliam, not everyone is as they seem. It would be unwise to let the words of a rogue like Wickham drive a wedge between you and those you hold dear.”

Darcy nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere, lost in the tangled web of suspicion and unease that now ensnared him. As much as he wished to dismiss it all as mere coincidence, the shadow of doubt lingered, casting a pall over the bright morning and leaving him with a foreboding sense that he could not easily shake.