I’m stunned.

I read the letter a second time and still come away feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. Both times, reading that he “undermined” Charles’s faith in Jane sets my teeth on edge, and the confirmation of what he alluded to last night—that he thought I may have been in on the imagined scheme, too—lands like a slap. But after reading the rest of the letter, I can’t be mad at him. Yes, he directed Charles away from Jane, but he was confident he was doing so in his friend’s best interest, and as much as I hate to admit it, I see how he came to that conclusion.

I scrub my hands over my face. Damn it all. I haven’t let myself consider Darcy’s explanation last night, his insistence that Jane’s behavior was a performance, but Ming was right. Jane’s exuberance, Andrea’s tactlessness, Charles’s uncertainty, and Darcy’s experience with Wickham’s duplicity collided with the worst possible outcome.

That he was afraid I might have been involved in some Charles-swindling plot isn’t exactly sunny. But—I flip to page 3 and his admission that any suspicion was no match for his attraction to me. Given the origin of his cautious tendencies, that’s actually a solid compliment.

He’s apologized for the things I took offense to personally, and well, I might add.

And he’s looked at my card. A lot.

Wickham, on the other hand . . . I feel like a dupe. The guy’s only gotten shadier each time I’ve seen him; he was downright hostile when he came by with the Twins. Given what I now know of both men, that Wickham could take advantage of an infirm senior Darcy is more believable than any malice Wickham ever claimed on Darcy’s part. The sheer depth of Wickham’s betrayal of his childhood friend, someone who had trusted him with the care of his own father, makes me nauseous. That Wickham would go so far as to cause Darcy to lose out on whatever last, precious time he could have spent with his dad? It’s irredeemable.

I look at the pair of business cards beside me on the bed. Irredeemable, and easily corroborated. But I don’t want to think about Wickham. That’s its own mess, and I’ll have to decide what to tell the Twins about his past.

I scan the last paragraph of the letter a third time, giggling aloud at the overwrought invitation to dinner as I recall just how thoroughly I “softened” to him in the coat check.

I trace the five letters above his signature.

I’ve been wrong about so much.

And I couldn’t be happier about it.

CHAPTER

19