“How dreadful, but I believe you are my cousin,” Georgiana insisted. “Even if—by some strange circumstance—you’re not, I should like you to be my sister.”
“You do know what that means, don’t you?” Elizabeth asked, arching an eyebrow, though her tone remained light. “It would require either you marrying one of my brothers—except I haven’t any—or…”
“You marrying Fitzwilliam.” Georgiana’s voice rose with such excitement that several birds took startled flight from a nearby bush. “My brother regards you, Elizabeth. I know it.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth found herself oddly captivated by the girl’s romantic notion. “And you discern this from his decided avoidance of my company and abrupt departures whenever I attempt conversation?”
“That’s precisely how I know!” Georgiana insisted with the conviction of the very young. “He tries to hide it behind his formality and dignity, but you should have seen his sour expression when Mr. Bingley tried to take your arm yesterday. I thought he might crush his wine glass.”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure why Georgiana’s observation gave her such unexpected pleasure. She certainly hadn’t traveled to Pemberley to secure a husband, least of all the current master whose position she might legally challenge. She had come to claim her birthright, to seek justice for parents who had suffered horrible deaths at the hands of murderers who had prospered in their absence.
And yet, unbidden, the memory of Darcy’s gentle voice in the portrait gallery returned:Never apologize for genuine feeling.How did a man so rigid in his formality, so guarded in his manner, know exactly the right words to offer comfort in her moment of vulnerability?
“You’re smiling,” Georgiana observed with evident satisfaction. “You like him, too.”
“I find your brother a complex study in contradictions,” Elizabeth replied diplomatically. “But my presence at Pemberley has a purpose beyond analyzing its master’s character.”
“Of course,” Georgiana agreed, though her smile suggested she remained unconvinced. “Our investigation continues. Where shall we go next?”
“Perhaps in the library,” Elizabeth suggested. “Who knows what secret notes might be tucked between the pages of a book of poetry.”
“You read that one too?” Georgiana raised a finger excitedly. “The Purloined Book of Sonnets?”
“I confess it’s one of my favorite mysteries. My father calls such novels ‘horrid nonsense,’ but I find them wonderfully entertaining.”
“Life imitating art,” Georgiana said with surprising insight. “Though I hope our adventure ends more happily than poor Miss Ravenscroft’s.”
“Indeed.” Elizabeth’s smile dimmed. “Gothic heroines often faced terrible dangers before achieving their happy endings.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE INHERITANCE OF DISTRUST
Darcy departedthe breakfast room with perhaps too much haste. The presence of Elizabeth Bennet—or Darcy, if her claims proved true—had become unbearable. Her attempted apology had almost unraveled his carefully constructed composure. The warmth in her eyes, the sincerity in her voice—these were weapons far more dangerous than her earlier anger had been.
He could not afford such weakness. Not when Georgiana’s future, Pemberley’s legacy, and generations of Darcy stewardship hung in the balance.
His sister’s obvious delight in Elizabeth’s company was another complication he should have foreseen. Georgiana had been so lonely since the Wickham debacle, so withdrawn and hesitant. She naturally gravitated to the lively Elizabeth Bennet, so delighted in her company that she’d appeared happy for the first time since Ramsgate.
“She will break Georgiana’s heart,” Darcy said to the empty corridor. “When this deception collapses, as it must, my sister will be devastated.”
For Georgiana had already invested completely in Elizabeth’s story. Last night, after Elizabeth had retired, his sister had cornered him in the library.
“She has promised to share the inheritance with us, should her claim prove valid,” Georgiana had insisted. “She has no wish to displace us, Brother. Why can you not see the kindness in her?”
“Kindness?” Darcy had sneered, perhaps unkindly, at his sister’s naivete. “Or calculation? What imposter would not make such promises to lower our guard?”
Now, he strode down the corridor with long, agitated steps, his jaw clenched against emotions he refused to name. What madness had possessed him to allow this woman not only into his home but into Georgiana’s affections? And what of his own inexplicable reaction to Elizabeth? The way his pulse quickened when she laughed, the twisting of his heart when she attempted to apologize, her voice soft with what appeared to be genuine contrition, and the lingering memory of her tears in the portrait gallery—these were dangerous indulgences he could ill afford.
Not when the fate of Pemberley and his heritage hung in the wings.
Gathering his riding gloves and hat, Darcy strode to the stables. He had business in Lambton with Blythewood that could not be delayed, but first, he would speak with Hodge, the elderly groom who had been a coachman at Pemberley twenty years ago. Perhaps the man might recall something about the night of the fire—something that could shed light on the veracity of Martha Wickham’s extraordinary claims.
He found old Hodge in the tack room, cleaning the leather with the careful attention to detail that had marked his forty years of service. The man’s face brightened at his master’s approach.
“Mr. Darcy, sir. Fine morning for riding, though there’s rain coming in from the west.”
“Mr. Hodge,” Darcy greeted him. “I hope I find you wellthis morning?”
