“Keep working on that goddess bit,” I tell him, though my ego preens at the stroke. “I’m still on the vengeful side. A few sacrifices should edge me somewhere less volatile.”

He holds a fist to his heart, bowing low. “I am ever your humble servant.”

“Don’t grovel. We’ll meet at Clover Club at six thirty.” I dismiss him with a regal wave.

“I look forward to it.”

Head high, I gesture to the coffee stain on his leg. “And change your pants, acolyte.”

Wickham waves me over to the bar and I settle onto the vacant seat beside him. Clover Club’s tufted leather stools are beasts, twice the size of a normal seat. Not an efficient use of space, but I like the way they keep the bar from getting too crowded.

“First,” he begins. “Let’s see the nails.”

I extend my hand with a flourish, and he makes a show of inspecting the bright red polish. I got them done over lunch anyway.

“Excellent work. Your cuticles look exquisite.” He gives my fingers a little squeeze. He changed his pants, the red chinos switched out for a teal pair. Lord. Does the guy not know about jeans?

I open the drink menu. “You’ve completed your first act of contrition, making the pilgrimage to the BK. I’ll consider that a sacrifice of time. Are you prepared to sacrifice your financial stability?”

“If that’s what it takes to regain your favor, Your Holiness.”

“What did I say about groveling?”

The bartender takes my order and Wickham requests another Manhattan, finishing off the one he’s been holding. Facing me, his lighthearted demeanor is gone. “What do you know about Pemberley?”

I watch him, unsure what to make of the sudden one-eighty. “More now than I did when I booked it. It turns out that the owner is buddies with my roommate’s boyfriend. Will Darcy,” I explain, enjoying the flutter I get at the name. “He inherited it and isn’t sure what to do with it, so he’s renting it out for events for now.”

Wickham nods, expression dimming further.

I lose a little elevation. “What’s this history of yours?”

The bartender hands us our drinks. I raise my glass for a toast, but Wickham’s already taking a long pull from his Manhattan. He returns his drink to the bar with a loud clank of glass and shifting ice and asks, “How well do you know Will?”

“Not very.” Though that’s not quite true. I know he carries a hanky, what he studied in school, and that he went out of his way to hook that waiter up with an internship. If Charles is any indication, he cares a lot about the people he’s close to, and while he can be snooty—and confounding—as hell, that eye contact of his is staggering.