“Then he passed . . .” He sighs, shaking his head. “Nothing. Will claimed no changes had been made to the will. I was devastated.”

Wickham looks at me expectantly. I’m unsure what to say. It’s all too dramatic, like I’ve been pulled into some epic feud. Is this how I sounded when I talked about my internship?

I straighten. “This is what you meant the last time we went out. This is your fall.”

He gives me a wan smile, raising his palms my way. “No scars, but, yeah. Darcy tossed me a few grand to keep me from tarnishing his name. I should have used it to get a lawyer, but I was so broken down by losing that property, I had to get out of here. That’s how I ended up in California. It’s been the better part of a decade but”—another sigh—“it still kills.”

“That’s . . . really messed up?” It comes out as more of a question than a statement. Can all this be true? It certainly fits more comfortably with the pompous Darcy that first night at Meryton, rather than the amiable, human Pemberley Darcy. The disappointment is stunning.

My watch buzzes. “Excuse me,” I say, though Wickham is already back to his drink, and I flick to the message at my wrist. It’s Tonic, asking if I’m home. She left a lyra at our place and needs to pick it up. I get a twinge of guilt at the prospect of an easy exit and flit my eyes toward Wickham, who studies his now-empty glass.

I don’t know what to do with this information about Darcy. If it’s true, it’s horrible. Even if Wickham’s a flake, who would lie about something like this? Then again, who would deny someone their inheritance? Barring sociopathy in one party or another, neither makes sense.

“Shoot. A friend needs something from my apartment. I don’t want to bail, though. Are you up for a walk?” I’m not sure what answer I’m hoping for but give him an apologetic smile.

“Another sacrifice for a vengeful goddess?” He raises his hand for the check. “My pleasure.”

I sit on the rim of the bathtub, tapping my teeth together. Wickham’s in my room. It’s a more intimate setting than I would have preferred, but that’s the downside of my arrangement with Jane: other than the kitchen, there’s no neutral ground. At least I picked up my undies before leaving for work.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with the guy. The business with Darcy isn’t his fault, but Saturday established a higher flake factor than I’m willing to tolerate. Even the novelty of our exchanges has worn off. It’s fun to banter with someone at the show, but going back and forth one-on-one like we do is exhausting.