Darcy turned back to face his solicitor, comprehension dawning like a cold sunrise. “When would that birthday fall?”
“November first,” Blythewood replied. “Less than a fortnight hence.”
“And under the terms of the fee tail female,” he said slowly, “what would that entail?”
“Full legal possession of Pemberley and associated properties.” Blythewood’s tone was grave. “Your grandfather was quite specific. The entail favors the eldest child of John Darcy, regardless of gender. Upon reaching majority, Elizabeth Rose Darcy would become the legal owner of the estate, with you retaining only such properties as were directly bequeathed by your father.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken implications. Darcy felt his father’s dying words echo through his memory with sudden, chilling clarity:Never trust a Bennet. At his father’s death, bewildered by grief, he hadn’t even been sure which Bennets his father was referring to. Now, with Martha Wickham’s machinations and Elizabeth Bennet’s suspicious inquiries laid before him, the warning took on prophetic weight.
“You believe Miss Bennet may be attempting some form of… imposture?” The words tasted bitter in his mouth.
“I believe,” Blythewood said carefully, “that you are being targeted by individuals who possess knowledge they should not have, at a time when such knowledge could prove most advantageous to their purposes. Whether Miss Bennet is a willing participant or an unwitting tool remains unclear.”
“What remains unclear to me is if Miss Bennet is truly my aunt Rose’s niece,” Darcy said grimly.
“That remains to be seen,” Blythewood added. “Did you say Miss Bennet is from Hertfordshire? If so, then her father, Thomas Bennet, is Rose Bennet Darcy’s brother. She may very well have obtained this detailed information from him.”
“She is named Elizabeth Rose Bennet.”
“Then that’s your connection,” Blythewood added. “Mr. ThomasBennet may have become acquainted with the Wickhams during his visits to Rose Cottage.”
Darcy’s teeth clenched. “My father never trusted Martha Wickham, although he made me promise to provide for Ralph’s widow.”
“My advice is to remove Mrs. Wickham from Rose Cottage immediately. She was the eyes and ears, sliding around the servants’ entrances. I wouldn’t be surprised if she listened behind walls.”
“She and her son George are incredibly self-serving.” Darcy absorbed this counsel with the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth. He had prided himself on fair treatment of his tenants, particularly those who had served his family faithfully. To discover that such kindness had been twisted into an opportunity for deception cut more deeply than he cared to acknowledge. “I suspect Mrs. Wickham has been cultivating this situation for some time, possibly waiting for the right moment—or the right young woman—to implement whatever scheme she has devised. As for Miss Bennet, what do you suggest?”
“I would encourage her to return home to her parents,” Mr. Blythewood replied. “A young gentlewoman not yet one-and-twenty is still under the authority of her father.”
“Yes, and if I evict Mrs. Wickham, Miss Bennet will have no place to live.” Darcy hated what he was about to do. From his observations, Elizabeth appeared to have run away with nothing but a valise. Knowing Mrs. Younge, she was probably left close to penniless. “I shall, of course, provide the travel funds and hire a companion to take her back to Longbourn.”
His stomach twisted at the thought of sending her into an unwanted marriage, but she was a Bennet, and she was not his concern.
“In any case, we have nothing to fear,” Mr. Blythewood assured him. “Your cousin was killed in the fire, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet would find it impossible for anyone to provide a witness to herheritage.”
“Mrs. Wickham can provide a false witness,” Darcy said, unwilling to entertain the remote possibility that Elizabeth could be his long-lost cousin.
“She has no credibility. I shall have no problem countering her testimony,” Mr. Blythewood said, getting up from the chair. “Is there anything else?”
The study door swung open with a bang, and Charles Bingley swept in.
“Darcy! Capital to find you at home.” Bingley’s gaze shifted to Blythewood. “I hope I do not intrude upon important business.”
“Mr. Bingley.” Blythewood rose with professional courtesy. “I was just concluding my discussion with Mr. Darcy.”
“Excellent! Then Darcy will be free to join our little party.” Bingley’s face was flushed with an unusual air of excitement. “Shall we repair to the drawing room?”
As Blythewood departed, Darcy spied Caroline in the hallway, along with her sister, Louisa Hurst, and Mr. Hurst.
“Very well,” he said, not in the mood to entertain but curious about their presence. “This is unexpected.”
“Is it not splendid?” Bingley strode forward, grasping Darcy’s hand in enthusiastic greeting. “I could not bear the thought of you enjoying Pemberley’s comforts alone while we remained at Netherfield, so I convinced Caroline and the Hursts to join me in pursuit.”
Darcy extricated his hand, struggling to shift his thoughts from potential inheritance fraud to the social niceties required by Bingley’s arrival. “You abandoned Netherfield without notice?”
“Not abandoned—merely departed temporarily,” Bingley corrected cheerfully. “I left my steward to manage affairs. We can return after enjoying Derbyshire’s hospitality for a fortnight or so.”
“Mr. Darcy.” Caroline glided forward, executing a perfect curtsy. “How kind of you to receive us with such… spontaneity. I do hope we are not imposing unduly.”
