A/N: The spycraft of the story is somewhat pell-mell. That's intentional These are not outsized movie superspies, but human-sized spies, doing their best in pressurized circumstances, with a constantly shifting timetable and a never clear, never final list of dramatis personae.

Pride, Prejudice, and Pretense

Chapter Seven: Prophets and Losses

Darcy turned from the checkerboard to face Lizzy, and when he did, his stooped, pondering posture became ramrod straight. He was frowning, his eyes dark.

"So, we need to prepare for tonight. Ready ourselves. Sooner, not later." He was facing her, speaking in the first-person plural but she was unsure he was speaking to her.

And then he seemed to catch himself and he focused on her.

"Bingley was supposed to have put some tech equipment in the bedroom closet. Since you'll be with Wickham but without me, we'll need to make sure we can track you, track what's happening. He should have heard the call and recorded it, so he'll know to be getting the other tech preparations underway."

Darcy gestured for her to lead the way to the bedroom.

She did. In the closet, pushed all the way back on the top shelf, was a large, used-looking cardboard box labeled Photos. Lizzy had not yet noticed it; it was pushed too far back to be visible to her without craning.

Darcy reached up and pulled it down. He placed it on the bed and opened it. Inside were photographs of a dark-haired girl with a man and woman, presumably her parents. Fanny's parents. There were also photos of Lizzy from her high school and college days, all photos altered so that the backgrounds were non-descript, featuring nothing that would identify the place the photograph was taken. Lizzy recognized the photos as ones the CIA had used before when constructing a cover for her, other covers. Darcy nodded at them.

"The usual. Fanny's prior life. They're all also on your phone, but more, since hardly anyone has hard copies of photographs anymore. These are really here for the atmosphere."

"Like my new used books?"

That got a brief grin from Darcy.

He dug deeper into the box and, beneath the photos, found a smaller cardboard box, long, narrow, and flat. He opened one end and shook it.

A paper holding tiny discs fell out, looking like thick white stickers, along with a necklace — a heavy gold pendant with a topaz gem in the center — and three pairs of earrings, each pair still attached to a decorative, flat piece of cardboard.

Lizzy knew what it all was without Darcy explaining: the discs, adhesive, were to allow her to be tracked, slipped into a purse or a jacket or a shoe and fastened in place. The necklace contained the latest CIA high-tech camera, and the earrings were equalling cutting-edge listening devices. Darcy glanced at her and she nodded her recognition.

"Be sure to stow two of the disks away tonight, one on your person and one in your jacket or your purse, and, of course, wear the necklace and one of the pairs of earrings. Bingley will tell you more about it in the video conference he mentioned. To be honest, I hadn't expected Wickham to act so quickly. I figured we'd have all day today to prepare."

His words contained a tincture not just of disappointment but of disapproval. The disappointment Lizzy thought she understood, but she did not know whom or what he disapproved of. He put his hands in his pocket, looking for a moment at the items on the bed, and then for a moment at her. Shrugging, he pulled his hands from his pocket.

"I'm going to go and help Bingley. He'll video conference with you soon. — Oh! One thing that I haven't mentioned since it wasn't available until today. Between the parking deck below your building and the one across the street where Bingley and I are staying, there's an underground tunnel. It's part of the reason I chose this location. But it took us time to get the building owners to give us the keys to it. The keys arrived last night while we were at the party."

Darcy put a hand back in a pocket and produced a worn, thick brass key, which he handed to her.

"The door's heavy steel, gray, with no markings, only a round brass lock. Just follow the tunnel and it will take you to a matching door in our parking deck. The key will open that door too. I checked them both this morning, and walked the tunnel a couple of times. The tunnel's not in regular use and it's dark, so be careful. But the floor is smooth, free of debris. So far as I know, there'll be no need for you to use it, but it will allow Bingley and I to move between the buildings without being visible." He paused. "If — when — Wickham's in your apartment, one of us will be in the building too, nearby."

"That sounds good. Thanks to you both."

"Like I said, I'm going to go help Bingley. He'll be in touch soon."

With that, Darcy left, leaving Lizzy standing in the living room, thinking about what she would wear, and trying to psyche herself up for what was ahead. She found it hard to do. The nature of this mission and her lack of downtime after her previous mission made it hard to summon the energy she needed.

She felt worn, threadbare, wrong from the start.

"So," Bingley said, drawing out the monosyllable obvious self-consciousness, "Darcy told you about the tunnel, gave you the key?"

The question was rhetorical but Lizzy answered anyway. "He did. Said he'd already scouted it, used it."

Bingley nodded, a faint look of significance on his face. "He did. He woke the roosters this morning. I'm not sure he slept at all; I know he didn't sleep much if he did."

Lizzy nodded. Darcy had told her as much but without any hint of significance. Except he had bought her books and a cactus. The cactus was on the marble counter, on the far side of her laptop screen. She smiled at it.

Bingley cleared his throat: "So, Darcy also showed you the equipment for tonight?"

"Yes, the trackers, the necklace, and the earrings."

"Fine. You're comfortable with all of them?"

"I am. I've used versions of them before. What's the range?"

"Pretty amazing," he said, "a mile, give or take a few yards. Darcy and I will divide the backup today since he's not with you." Bingley's manner was subdued, cloudy, not his usual sunny. Did Darcy dress him down?

She was certain that would be uncomfortable, given Darcy's native gravity, the typical weightiness of his manner.

Lizzy wondered where Darcy was but she did not ask. Perhaps he was just off-screen.

"Darcy will be stationed here, working the tech. I will be in a car, tailing you. A brand-new, Cavalry blue Camry." Bingley grinned.

"Appropriate," Lizzy laughed.

"I'll do my best to keep you in eyesight the whole time, Darcy's car, anyway, and I'll have a tablet in the car, keyed to your tech so that I can keep track of you and at least hear the audio. Don't worry, I'll be around. Just stay out of deserted places, dark corners."

Lizzy shuddered. "No worries. Besides, this is his opening salvo, his attempt to soften me up for eventual infidelity. I doubt he'd have followed up so fast if he thought I would immediately yield to him. That would suggest I was already corrupted — the causal power would not be his."

"That sounds right, but I will worry. So will Darcy. He's meeting with the security guard who talked to the priest this morning, questioning him. They're meeting in the parking deck below your building."

"And you believe we can trust the guards?"

"I do. Unless money starts changing hands from the priest or Wickham or Lady Catherine, overtopping what we're paying, we're good. We haven't asked much more of them than their job already requires. But now that someone's been to the desk, I'm going to bug it tonight when no one's on duty. That way, we'll know what's happening there. We'd planned to do that all along but we've had to hurry the schedule, given the priest and Wickham. You know the story: the longer a bug's in place, even if the placement is ideal, the more likely it becomes that someone will find it by accident."

"Accident. The great equalizer."

Bingley smiled. His spirits seemed to be on the rise. "Tell me about it. Accidents have nearly gotten me killed a few times."

"Me too. Me too. But there's no making the mission accident-proof."

"No," he said with a self-deprecating grin, "or foolproof."

"Don't, Bingley," Lizzy said kindly. "No harm, no foul. Don't let Darcy's imperious manner make you believe that was anything but a hiccup."

"He was always able to make me feel foolish, even when we were in school. Darcy displaces a lot of water, existentially. A battleship. Me, I know I'm really a light cruiser, way less displacement."

"Maybe," Lizzy said, tilting her head as she entertained the image, "but that doesn't make you superficial, or any less seaworthy. Don't let Darcy browbeat you with that high brow of his."

Bingley laughed out loud. "You're one of the few spies I know, Lizzy, who's genuinely funny. Like, you're the Anti-Darcy."

"I don't know," Lizzy said, thinking about the text exchange about her pedicure, "I suspect he can be funny — when his dignity isn't in the way."

Bingley shook his head, unconvinced. "So, the CIA has tapped into the Chicago traffic cams. Darcy will be monitoring those two. They'll back up my systems, should I somehow lose track of Wickham's car. Are you planning to take any weapon?"

"No, although I always have mace in my purse, so now Fanny does too. But there's no reason for him to question that if he were to see it. It's part of the uniform for urban women."

"So, architectural tour?"

"That's what Wickham said. At the party, he told me he had studied architecture, but there was nothing on that in the file Darcy gave us, was there?"

"No, I'll ask Darcy about it. He said he put in a request with MI-6 for the full Wickham/Wicker Man file. I suppose we should be glad of that interest. It'll keep you two in public."

Lizzy nodded. "So," this time she elongated the monosyllable, "why do you want to keep your new girlfriend a secret?"

Bingley's jaw slackened. "Huh?"

"Oh, come on Charlie, we're friends. Share. Promise I won't tell Darcy."

He examined her for a moment, clearly indecisive, his ears reddening. "It's a workplace thing, and although we're not breaking any rules, we both want…time for things to…stabilize between us before we make it public. You know how hard it is for an agent to have anything real, much less lasting."

"Spies don't fall in love?"

His eyes widened. She was sure he had heard that from Darcy, probably not long ago. "Yeah, and even if that isn't how it ought to be or needs to be, it's how it is. We want to nurture this while it's tender, so maybe it can grow into something sturdy enough to last."

She understood. "Have you ever thought about quitting, Charlie, walking away, leaving the whole shadowy mess behind you, all the awful people, some supposedly the good guys?"

Bingley hesitated. "No, but I believe I would for her. If she asked."

Lizzy felt almost jolted, almost envious. "Wow! Well, I'm on your side, Charlie. And hers."

He gave her an enigmatic smile, not an expression she was used to on his candid face. "That means a lot, Lizzy."

'Oh, Darcy said to tell you that if there's a problem or an emergency, he'll text you as Ned: Miss you. If you get a text like that, get away from Wickham as soon as you can."

"Will do."

Lizzy had chosen a pair of jeans and a red sweater.

After she put the sweater on, it occurred to her that it was exactly the shade of her toenail polish. It was snug but not tight and it had a high collar. It exposed no skin, nothing like the dress she had worn to the party. She put on her boots and grabbed a beret that was hanging in the foyer closet. Last, she donned her leather jacket.

She had inserted a disc into an interior pocket of the small purse she was carrying, and put another inside one boot. She put on the necklace and a pair of the earrings, topaz, matching the necklace.

Opening the computer, she waited for Bingley. A moment later, he was on the screen. "I've got strong signals from the trackers. Say something for me."

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."

Bingley stared at her. "Where the hell did you hear that?"

"My mom. She repeated it to me every day the summer before I started at Haverford. She's a throwback, way back: the only degree she cared about me getting was my M.R.S."

"Christ, that must've been some fun for you."

Lizzy smiled with bitterness. "Still is. Every phone call."

"Okay, I hear you and see what you see."

Lizzy laughed. It's strange to have a man's eyes on my breasts, but looking away."

Bingley shook his head. "Be safe, Lizzy. I'll be around. Count on it."

She headed downstairs at 245 pm. Lizzy had texted Wickham the address shortly after Darcy left. He had responded:

Looking forward to seeing you and the sights

Carefully worded, George, she thought to herself, the final three words modulating the earlier ones but not negating them. By the time she got downstairs and waved to the security guard, who waved back and smiled, her phone vibrated.

Car outside. Look for the limo

Lizzy had not expected that. He had said he would have a car but that was not what Lizzy, or Darcy or Bingley, expected. Still, it was good in one way: easier to tail, harder to hide. But it was bad in another — too much room inside. She steeled herself as she walked outside.

A black limo shined in the afternoon sun. Wickham stood beside it, on the inside of the open rear door. A large man in a chauffeur's uniform held the door from the outer side.

Wickham watched her walk to him, watching her the whole way. He tried to disguise it, but his eyes explored her. He thought he had more control over his features than he did, at least where lust was concerned. Lizzy filed that fact away and made herself smile at him.

"Fanny, welcome. This is Rook, my driver. Or, I should say, with less pretense, Lady Catherine's driver, lent to me along with the car."

The large man smiled but it did not make him seem any more or less friendly. It was like a boulder smiling — who knew what such a thing might portend if it happened?

Wickham was wearing a navy blue wool bomber jacket, beautifully made, expensive. He had jeans and dark brown Chelsea boots. Beneath the jacket, he had a light blue button-down. He was wearing a subtle musk; she smelled it, not strong but present, pleasant, before she reached him. She understood his power — he was nicely built, if slim, and his countenance was pleasing; it beckoned the eye. In the sunlight, she thought he was perhaps more beautiful than handsome, as some women are more handsome than beautiful — but there was no doubt that, whatever the precise term, he was downright attractive.

Wickham stepped away from the door and took Lizzy's hand, helping her to slide inside. She could feel his eyes again. A moment later he was in and beside her, and Rook closed the door.

Wickham rubbed his long hands together. "Since we don't have a lot of time, I've picked just two places, of very different sorts. They're a few minutes from us, but not that far from one another, we should be able to see them both comfortably, especially since I had Lady Catherine call in a favor."

He sat back without further explanation, careful to leave ample room between them on the couch-like, giant backseat.

He gestured to the driver. "To Marina City, Rook."

Rook's nod was an avalanche.

Wickham was talking quickly, excitedly. "So, Marina City. You've probably seen pictures, and it's hard, I've heard to really take it in unless it's on one of the long architectural boat tours but we don't have time for one of those, still we might be able to manage.

"I believe the architect, Bertrand Golberg, was a minor genius, a prophet of sorts, and his predilections were already moving him in the direction of sustainability, although no one was operating with that concept, as such, as we know it, at the time, in the early and mid-twentieth century. Of course, Marina City won't make you think that, or I doubt it.

"Still, when he planned and built it, 1959-1964, he conceived of it as a city within a city, sort of a microcosm of the larger city, Chicago, the macrocosm. A smaller City of Big Shoulders."

Lizzy looked at him. She had not quoted that part of Sandburg. Did Wickham hunt down the poem? She did not know what to make of that. It seemed he had.

"I confess, I know next to nothing about architecture."

"Not a problem, and tell me if I'm boring you. Great buildings, at the end of the day, should speak directly to the soul, but I'll have a hard time not interrupting."

So far as Lizzy could tell, his enthusiasm was genuine. "How did you get interested in architecture in the first place?" It seemed like a natural first question, innocuous.

He looked at her. "It's hard to say. I can't remember a time when I was indifferent." He was pensive for a moment, then he went on. "I've always preferred buildings to people, although perhaps I should not admit that. People are so changeable, not just in response to externals — buildings are that, too, weather and sun and planned alterations — but people change internally, inside out, all that pesky…psychology." He smiled. "It's messy and complicated and the laws that govern the changes are more complicated, of a different sort, not like the laws of physics. Give me things, not people." He laughed as if trying to undo any sting the remarks might have had. "Not that I'm indifferent to all people."

"I look forward to seeing it."

Rook slowed the car when the towers of Marina City came clearly into view. Wickham leaned across the seat, crowding Lizzy slightly, his musky cologne much stronger as he did, and he pointed.

"There! The 65-story towers. Sometimes they've been called the corn cobs, for obvious reasons, although that's ungenerous. It's an unparalleled formal aesthetic. Marina City was the first building to be constructed using a tower crane, and built on the Chicago river."

He studied the building in rapt fascination.

Lizzy leaned farther back and toward her window, away from Wickham, and stared out at the building, the towers. The towers did look like corn cobs, after eating and not before, — or at any rate, they looked futuristic, even now and they must have looked even more so when they were built. They seemed familiar to her, though she was sure she'd never seen them before, not with her eyes.

"It was the beginning of the residential renaissance in American inner cities. As I said, Goldberg was a sort of prophet."

Rook increased the speed of the car, taking them closer, and Wickham leaned back with a long sigh. He put a hand softly on her forearm. "Do you ever have the feeling that everything worth happening already has?"

The question expressed a sense of loss that Lizzy could not fathom.

Since she had no ready response to the question, she kept her eyes steady on Marina City, as if she had not heard what he asked. Wickham removed his hand after a lingering moment when Lizzy made no effort to remove it herself. He did not return to his previous place on the seat but remained close to her. She gave him a small, unsure smile.

Play the game, Lizzy. Let him win a little at a time. She thought of Darcy and checkers, losing battles for the sake of the war.

She wondered what Darcy was making of all this, listening to it, seeing much of it. Bingley was listening too.

Rook took them by Marina City, and Lizzy and Wickham saw it up close. He stopped the car and let them out. Wickham led Lizzy down to the Marina level, next to the water. They went through the door of the Chicago Electric Boat Company.

"George? What are we doing?"

"A little surprise. I didn't think I could lure you into the full-scale architectural boat tour, so I reserved one of these small electric boats. We'll be able to go out on the river and get a better view of the towers. We won't be out for long, and the boats are quite safe, easy to steer."

She thought of her image of him as a ship's captain at the party, dashing. Going onto the water with him wasn't the best idea, but it was daylight and they couldn't go far, and would be in clear view of anyone along the riverside.

The man at the counter took Wickham's name and then led them out to a small, docked boat. It looked like a giant inner tube, with a kind of table in the center, a steering wheel, and an umbrella that shaded the seating inside the tube, around the table. Opposite the steering wheel, you can't call that a helm with a straight face, was a step for entering the boat. Wickham helped her aboard.

For Darcy and Bingley's sake, as soon as the salesman had shown George how to operate the boat, she asked: "How long will we be out?"

"Not long. I want to see Marina City from the river. We'll get a good look then hurry back. Remember, Fanny, we have another stop before we eat."

Wickham started the boat and maneuvered it masterfully out of the dock and into the river. The electric motor ran with a hum more felt than heard. The boat did not move quickly, but Wickham managed to move it out into the water and position it where they could, looking up, see Marina City, the towers. The view was splendid, overwhelming. The city was above them and reflected around them in the glassy river.

Wickham pointed up. "See the cars. There's a parking deck built into the towers. In a movie called The Hunters, bounty hunter Steve McQueen is in a car chase and follows the villain up the spiral parking ramp. The villain loses control and his car plunges into the water," Wickham reported, pointing again, breathlessly, obviously replaying the scene in his mind.

He stood looking up for a moment, then he dropped his hand. "Are you a music fan, Fanny?"

"Yes, sure. Why?"

"You might remember that the towers are on the cover of Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album."

Lizzy did remember. That was why the towers looked familiar, although she had not been able to account for her feeling that she had some not-in-person memory of them.

"Are you a Wilco fan?"

He shrugged. "I've listened, mostly on flights. I don't know if I'm a fan of any band. I haven't had much time to invest in music. Lady Catherine believes it makes me a philistine. What about you?"

"I like Wilco, but they aren't my everyday listening. A little dark and heavy. But I listen to music as much as I can. It helps me stop chasing thoughts around, trying to organize them."

"Ah, a librarian's occupational psychosis, I suppose." He grinned and Lizzy laughed.

"I suppose." Or an agent's.

He chuckled at her and then steered the boat around in lazy circles, staying more or less in the same place, taking long looks at the towers.

Lizzy looked at them too, but snuck a glance at the marina level and she saw Bingley standing back among the shadows there.

Darcy would likely be unhappy about the boat, but Lizzy estimated there wasn't much danger — it was too public, and Wickham had definite plans for her (she was surer of that now than before he picked her up, and she was sure then), none of which she could satisfy as he would want if she were dead — or injured.

She tightened her jacket around her.

Rook was driving again, and they were on their way to the second architectural site. Wickham did not name it to Rook, merely gave him a wave of the hand and Rook started in that direction.

"Where are we going?"

"A change of pace. Nothing quite so massive and overwhelming, something more…actual size."

"Oh, good. That was impressive but a bit much. Like housing in Valhalla."

He laughed softly. "You're a funny woman, Fanny. I do like a sense of humor. It helps a person cope."

Lizzy agreed. Rook drove on for about twenty-five minutes, into a residential neighborhood. Wickham seemed happy enough to sit mostly in silence, looking out the window and occasionally smiling at Lizzy. He made some small talk about the weather and then assured her that although the temperature was dropping, and it had been chilly on the river, they would be inside for most of the next stop, warm.

She considered Wickham after more extended exposure.

He was attractive — and keenly intelligent. Except for her initial walk to the car, he had remained in control of himself, his expressions. She could feel his desire for her intensifying but he was doling it out slowly, showing it in measured stages, in the one lingering touch and in his smiles and compliments.

He reminded her of a boy she had dated in high school, a fabled bad boy. Predictably (and in hindsight), he hadn't been all that bad — mainly, he had been reckless: a street racer, he smoked unfiltered Camels and his grades were deliberately bad. Lizzy liked that he was her mother's aversion; he made Mrs. Bennet crazy. Lizzy liked that more than she liked him. But he had been stereotypically rebellious, a latter-day James Dean, gripped by a need to answer to norms other than those of parents and school. Wickham was no teenage rebel, no bad boy in that sense. He was certainly a grown man. And for all Wickham's beauty and intellect (and he was smart), his almost unfailingly careful handling of himself and her, there was a threat in him, an internal thundercloud, a slow-gathering, dark storm. He was exciting and ominous all at once, the two interpenetrating. His charm was laced with menace, but it was present, coercive, and actively operating. Deadly allure. He combined an overshadowing strangeness with low-key but intelligible gallantry.

Lizzy had not missed the fact (at the party, at Marina City) that every woman's head turned, posture shifted slightly, when Wickham passed.

She tried again to summon up the energy she needed to contend with Wickham. He was more challenging than any mark she had ever had. Incomparably so. But she was finding it hard to regain the pitch of concentration she had managed at the party.

Regaining it was crucial. Wickham was aware, very aware of her, attending to every expression, gesture, and word. Let one be mistaken, and he would be done with her, the mission would fail. She would lose her hold on him and her chance of dismantling the Wicker Man.

The next stop on the tour turned out to be the Robie House.

"Frank Lloyd Wright," Wickham was saying, "built the House for the Robies but they only lived in it for fourteen months or so before debts forced them to sell it. Wright not only designed the house but he created the interiors and selected the furniture, lighting, and other elements. It's Wright all over." Wickham again rubbed his hands. "I've always wanted to get inside and today, although it was closed for some repairs, we will. Lady Catherine made a call."

Rook stopped the car and came around to open the door. As Lizzy got out, taking Wickham's proffered hand, she noticed a cavalry blue Camry parking far down the block.

Wickham led her to the house. "It's Prairie School. See the long, box-like sections that meet in the middle? Wright was echoing a Midwestern landscape, the strong exterior horizontal lines. The roof is cantilever and the wood details inside are legendary. And look at those long bands of windows!" Wickham stopped rambling and turned to Lizzy. "There's a funny story about Wright. I may get it wrong and maybe it's only apocryphal, but it's good. He was visiting the University of Pittsburgh and they wanted to show off the best of their campus architecture. So they showed him the Heinz Chapel and then they showed him the massive, towering Cathedral of Learning. Have you ever seen either?" She shook her head. "Well, they were standing high up in the Cathedral next to a window and one of Wright's tour guides, curious about his guarded, subdued reactions, just asked: 'So what do you think of our Cathedral of Learning?' Wright paused, pointed out the window, and down to the Heinz Chapel nearby. 'The one good thing about it is that if it fell, it would destroy the Heinz Chapel.'" Wickham laughed out loud at his own story. Lizzy laughed too, although it made her less interested in the Robie House.

A woman, nicely dressed and in her late fifties or early sixties met them at the door. "Mr. Wickham?" she asked.

Wickham nodded. "Lady Catherine called."

"Yes, please come inside. I'm busy with other things, but I'll be around if you have questions, otherwise, feel free to look around.

They walked slowly through the house, Wickham acting as eager, engaged guide, and Lizzy found that if she perhaps did not like Wright, she admired the house. The art glass windows particularly captivated her, their subtle filtration of light that somehow blended the external world of the city with the internal world of the house. It was all impressive.

As they were finishing, Wickham shook his head. "It's art you can inhabit. Like a painting that suddenly allows you to step into it, that stretches from two dimensions to three dimensions."

Lizzy understood that. "Like Bert's chalk drawings in Mary Poppins!"

But, to her surprise, Wickham responded with a blank look. "What's that?"

"A famous movie. Everyone has seen it, at least once as a child."

His face contracted. "Not me. But then, I had an odd childhood." He scowled for a moment, not at Lizzy but at something neither of them could see. "Shall we go to dinner? We can walk from here."

"Really?"

"Yes, it's a neighborhood place. Rook will pick us up when we finish."

They walked a short distance and Lizzy was puzzled when they ended up at a corner diner, a Greek place, Salonica.

Wickham held the door for her. "I hope you don't mind. I have a soft spots for diner food, and Greek food, so this place seemed a natural choice. And it was near our last tour."

They went inside and sat down in one of the worn booths. A waitress, a small, elderly woman with hair that should have been gray but was jet black brought them small glasses of water and asked if they wanted anything else to drink.

"Coffee," Wickham said. "Are you still serving breakfast?"

The woman shrugged as if they might or might not be but could provide it anyway.

"Water's good for me," Lizzy said.

The woman trudged away. They studied their menus, already on the table.

Lizzy felt Fanny's phone vibrate in her purse. "Oh, pardon me." She took out the phone. She had a text from Ned.

Sorry again about having to leave, hope you found a way to entertain yourself

"Is there a problem?" Wickham asked, his tone slightly irritated at the interruption. Darcy. Good thought.

She turned the phone so that Wickham could read the text. He sighed and shook his head. "Ned's loss is my gain." He looked right into Lizzy's eyes as he said it, and she held his gaze for an extra second before looking back at the text.

"I wish he hadn't had to leave," she looked up at Wickham, "but I'm enjoying myself. Thanks for this afternoon."

The waitress came back with coffee. "What will you have?"

Wickham let Lizzy go first. "A gyro and fries."

"And I'll have the Greek omelet."

Lizzy chuckled as the waitress trudged away again. "I had an omelet this morning. Made it myself." But I didn't eat it myself. She thought of Darcy, first at breakfast and now listening to her talk to Wickham.

"So, Ned. How did you two meet? I'm assuming there were books involved?"

Lizzy chuckled again. "Yes, there were. Actually one book in particular. We met in a used bookstore in New York, both of us looking for a copy of the same book."

"What book?"

"Elizabeth Gaskell's last novel, Wives and Daughters. She was writing it when she died and did not complete it. It's missing the final chapter, although the trajectory is clear enough."

Wickham nodded slowly. "So, Ned was looking for Wives and Daughters? Isn't that a little…I don't know…piano?"

Lizzy hadn't expected that phrasing but Darcy had anticipated the sentiment when they built their backstory. Lizzy shrugged. "Ned's so sweet, a gentle soul…"

Wickham grinned, deviltry curling the corners of his mouth. "Maybe a little too gentle?"

For some reason, Lizzy blushed a real blush. But it worked perfectly. Wickham saw it and his grin grew big. He sipped his coffee.

She did not answer but Lizzy knew Fanny's non-answer was Wickham's answer. Another loss for Fanny, a win for Wickham.

He was sure of her now, his surety in his posture — all that he thought remained was the time it would take to reach the goal that was already but not yet his. Her. Fanny.

When they returned to her apartment building, Wickham got out when Rook opened the door and Wickham again helped Lizzy out. But he made no move to enter the building or ask about a nightcap.

"Thanks for a lovely afternoon, and for putting up with my diner choice for dinner."

"I liked it. The gyro was good but I couldn't eat it all."

He caught her eyes. "Would you be interested in dinner tomorrow night, Fanny, someplace fancier this time?"

She made herself hesitate, visibly dither. "Um, okay. Sure. Text me." She displayed Fanny's self-division for a moment in her stammer, then she smiled, and spoke with more decision. "Yes, text me."

The deviltry returned but not to his lips, to his eyes. A fire was banked there. Wickham bent down and kissed her cheek. "I will."

She turned and walked away from him. Tomorrow will be harder.

A/N: More soon. Next time, a debrief with Darcy and Bingley, Collingwood reappears, and a bit more.