Author's note: I've gotten so far ahead in my writing that it does not seem out of line to publish the next chapter a bit early.

"Dad!"

Mr Wickham whipped around at the sound of that voice. "George my boy! Welcome home!"

The younger Wickham carelessly threw the reins of his horse in the direction of a nearby boy, and ran into his father's arms. "Dad! It's been far too long! How have you been?"

"Fine, fine. How about you?" He held his son at arm's length. "You look very well indeed! A real gentleman!"

The younger Wickham bashfully averted his eyes at that praise. "Well, I try."

"And how are your studies going?"

"Never better. In fact, I'm near the top of my class!"

"That's my George!" The proud father slapped his son on the back. "I always knew you would go far in life. You couldn't be so smart for nothing."

The younger man's face sobered. "It's just such a shame that old Mr Darcy did not get to see the results of his generosity. Imagine him paying for my entire education, and then leaving this world shortly before my graduation!"

"Yes." A sigh. "He has been very generous to us indeed, Son. With all your mother's debts, I could never have afforded to send you to such a good school – let alone to university."

"I know." A contemplative silence. "And apparently, his generosity stretches even past his death. I received a message from Darcy, saying that my godfather had left me a bequest in his will. Do you know what it is by any chance?"

The older Mr Wickham shook his head. "Apart from you being included in his will, I have not been made privy to the particulars. From what I hear though, old Mr Darcy has been very generous."

The younger man's face brightened. "We should all be excessively grateful then. Did he leave you something as well?"

"Yes: enough money to finally pay off the last of your mother's debts – God rest her soul." He laughed – a laugh of relief. "For the first time in nearly twenty-five years, I am a debtfree man!"

The younger man however looked rather taken aback at that news. "That was all?!"

A sigh. "It was nearly three thousand pounds, Son."

"And you used it all to pay off those stupid debts?!"

"Each and every one of them. Take it from me, Son: debts are a menace. It may seem like a good idea to buy on credit, but in the end, it's far more expensive than cash on the nail." He looked keenly at his son. "I do hope you have not run up a lot of debts of your own?"

"Well… some," the younger man confessed.

His father turned to face him squarely. "In that case, if Mr Darcy has left you any money, you had better pay off those debts at the first opportunity. The longer you leave them, the more interest they accrue, and creditors are usually not the most pleasant people. Remember that, Son."

"I will," the son promised. "So I guess I had better go and see Darcy then, to see what the good old man has left me."

His father shook his head. "It will have to wait; he is out on the estate somewhere." It wasn't even a lie. "Why don't you come inside and freshen up a bit? You can go and see him when he comes back."

It was approaching the noon hour by the time Darcy decided he really ought to return to his company. But for starters, he would go and spend the afternoon with Georgiana; that was bound to be calmer than dealing with his aunts and his cousin Agnes. Besides, Georgie needed his attention; that much he had definitely deduced from his interrupted night. What they were to do together all afternoon he had no idea, but he hoped she had some suggestions.

But first he had to change. He reeked of sheep and dung, and his clothes were positively filthy.

He didn't get far though. A footman – Ben – caught him going up the stairs and informed him that Mr George Wickham was waiting for him in the hall.

Darcy groaned inwardly. Well, better handle that first then. "Alright. Tell him I will see him in… say twenty minutes. You can escort him to the study then, but leave him in the hall for now. And tell Fitzwilliam to meet me in the study in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"And Ben?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Keep the girls out of the hall – just to be on the safe side."

Ben the footman blinked in surprise. "Yes, sir."

When he entered the study a good fifteen minutes later (in clean clothes at least, though he had not had time for a proper bath), Fitzwilliam was already waiting for him.

His cousin peered at him, but then a big smile broke through. "Good to have you back, Darce."

Darcy grimaced. "Yes. Only to be confronted with George Wickham of all people."

Fitzwilliam's expression soured immediately. "What is that bounder doing here?"

"Come for his bequest, I assume. I did send him a message after all."

Fitzwilliam scowled. "Well, let's get this over with then, and then we can throw him out."

Darcy chuckled, but had no chance to reply, for there was a knock on the door, and Ben the footman announced that Mr George Wickham was here to see them.

"Send him in."

And then he was there. "Darcy, my friend, I was devastated to hear that your dear father had passed away! How are you? And how is dear Georgiana?" He came at his 'friend' with outstretched arms, and hugged Darcy like a brother, despite the lack of any invitation to such.

Darcy remained standing like a salt pillar under the unwanted intimacy, but took a step back as soon as Wickham let go of him.

"I am most, most sorry, Darcy. Your father truly was the best of men. He certainly died far too young."

"Thank you," was Darcy's stiff reply.

"And Fitzwilliam! I should have known you would be here, too. I haven't seen you in ages though. How is life in the army? Does it meet your expectations?"

"Perfectly." Fitzwilliam stood at his most impressive, with his shoulders back and his arms crossed over his chest. And his face dripping with disdain. "In fact, I believe it would suit you very well, too. It's great for learning discipline."

"Oh no." Wickham laughed pleasantly. "I'm afraid not, my friend. I'm allergic to bayonets and bullets."

A derisive snort. "Why am I not surprised."

"Well." Wickham rubbed his hands and eyed the decanter on the side table. "Perhaps we should drink to the reunion of the Three Musketeers, eh?"

"I'll pass," Fitzwilliam declined curtly. "I'm here on business only. Sit down, Wickham." He pushed him down in a chair.

Wickham merely chuckled. "Fine. Let's get down to business then. I understand my dear godfather has left me something in his will?"

"Yes, he did." Darcy picked up the paper in question and read, "To my other godson, George Bernard Wickham, of the parish of Kympton, Derbyshire, I bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds, in the hope that…"

"What?!" Wickham interrupted him. "You cannot be serious! I rode all the way from Cambridge to Pemberley for a measly thousand pounds?!"

Fitzwilliam smirked. "Patience, Wickham. There is more. Don't you want to hear the rest?"

Wickham gave him a glare, but settled back down in his chair. "Yes. Proceed, Darcy."

Darcy cleared his throat. "… in the hope that it will give him a good start in whatever career he chooses to pursue. Furthermore…"

"You hear that, George? There is more!" Fitzwilliam taunted.

"Furthermore," Darcy repeated with a glare at his cousin, "Should he choose to take orders in the church…"

"What?!"

Darcy sighed. "That was what he always hoped for you, Wickham. You know that as well as I do; he hardly made a secret of it."

"Let Darcy finish reading now first; then we can discuss the particulars," Fitzwilliam suggested.

Darcy nodded. "Where was I… Oh. Yes. Should he… (That is you, Wickham.) Should he choose to take orders in the church, it is my wish that the living of Kympton on the Pemberley estate shall be his as soon as it is vacant." He put down the paper and looked at his childhood friend turned stranger. "That is it, Wickham. A thousand pounds, plus a living that is worth about two hundred per annum – provided you get yourself ordained."

"Which seems like a reasonable requirement for holding down a living," was Fitzwilliam's opinion.

Darcy nodded in agreement, but Wickham was close to exploding with anger.

"Dammit, Darce – this is your doing! You know perfectly well that I haven't been focusing on theology!"

"How is that Darcy's fault?" Fitzwilliam bristled.

"You are the one who kept regaling my father with those tales about your theology studies! What did you expect him to think?"

"I was just trying to keep the old man happy!"

"By lying to him?!"

"Oh, aren't we holier-than-thou!" Wickham mocked. "It's just a means to an end!"

"Nobody likes being lied to!"

Wickham sneered. "Well, that's where you're wrong, Mr Blurt-Out-the-Truth-and-Hang-the-Consequences. Everybody likes being lied to – as long as they get to hear what they want to hear. That's how you make friends in this world. But I suppose that's beyond the grasp of your inbred little toff brain. The only way you know how to make friends is through money and connections. And even that skill you've barely mastered."

To that, Darcy had no ready rejoinder.

Fitzwilliam noticed how hard his cousin's breathing had become as he valiantly tried to control his temper. He could tell that Wickham's words hurt – probably because they hit too close to home. For it was true: Darcy did not easily make friends, or even just recommend himself to strangers. And indeed he was often too honest for his own good. But despite all that, he was a good man through and through, and that was far more than Wickham could say of himself.

His fists itched to wipe that triumphant little smirk off the bounder's face – but he knew that was not the way to go. There were more effective ways to get at the worm – if perhaps not quite as satisfying. "So let's get things straight, Wickham. You led your godfather to believe that you were preparing yourself for a life in the church. It seems no more than a logical consequence then that in his will, he did his best to generously provide for you in that career."

"Generously…" Wickham spat. "Oh yes, very generously indeed. It's a mere pittance!"

"I would hardly call two hundred pounds per annum plus one thousand outright a pittance," Fitzwilliam pointed out.

"That's not the point! What good is that stupid living going to do me?! I have no intention of getting ordained!"

"You were the one who misled my father about your studies and your career wishes, Wickham!" Darcy bit back. "The only one you have to blame for this misguided bequest is yourself!"

Wickham sulked, but had no reply.

"Well, Wickham, what do we do?" Fitzwilliam asked, wanting to move things along. "I suppose you do want those thousand pounds at least?"

"Yes," Wickham groused. "It's nowhere near what I expected – or deserve! – as his godson. But I suppose it's better than nothing." He paused as a thought struck him. "Say, who is the current rector of Kympton?"

"A Mr Emmett," Darcy supplied darkly. "Why?"

"Old? Young?"

"Fortyish," Fitzwilliam recalled. "And hale and hearty at that. He is expected to hold the living for another twenty years at least." He grinned in blatant schadenfreude. "That gives you plenty of time to change your mind and get ordained."

Wickham swore like a sailor. "I had no idea the old man would be so stingy! And to think that my father got three thousand pounds!" He looked up, and regarded Fitzwilliam with a calculating eye. "How much did you get? You're his godson, too."

"I don't see how that is any of your concern," Darcy cut in.

"Oh really? What was it, Richard? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Or perhaps even thirty thousand, like little Georgie?"

Fitzwilliam looked him calmly in the eye. "As a matter of fact, it was five thousand – with some strings attached, just like you."

Wickham snorted contemptuously. "Pet."

"Now be fair, Wickham," Darcy felt obliged to point out. "In twenty years as rector of Kympton, you would have the same as Fitzwilliam got – provided you are willing to put in the work."

Wickham blew out an exasperated breath. "Alright, I'll see what I can do about getting bloody ordained."

Startled, Darcy threw his cousin a worried look as Wickham continued, "But what am I to live on until this Emmett guy kicks the bucket?"

Fitzwilliam smirked. "You could try work. How about the army?"

Wickham gave him a dirty look.

"And you have a thousand pounds to start with," Darcy reminded him. "Used prudently, you would not have to starve."

"Fine, fine." Wickham heaved himself out of his chair.

"So you are indeed accepting all of the bequest? Including the living?" Fitzwilliam asked – just to be sure.

"Yes," Wickham growled. "And it better be worth it."

Fitzwilliam grimaced. "I'm sure it will be."

Darcy picked up his pen, but it took a reassuring nod from his cousin before he was willing to write out the thousand pound check and filled out the receipt.

Wickham signed without a word, and put the check together with the copy of his bequest in his inside pocket. "I expect to hear from you then, Darcy, as soon as your Mr Emmett is pushing up the daisies." A bow bordering on insolence, and out he walked.

"Fitz," Darcy began, the worry evident in his voice. "Do you think he really…?"

"He won't," his cousin brusquely cut him off. "Too much…"

In turn, he was interrupted by the door being opened again and Wickham's head appearing around it. "By the by, I'll just pop over to say hello to dear little Georgiana, too. We were always such dear friends; I'm sure she'd be delighted to see me."