“Even if she were indeed my missing cousin?”
“A young woman of limited means could not sustain the court proceedings. Justice is what the courts determine it to be. Her position is untenable. She will eventually be forced to abandon herpretensions and return to whatever obscure existence she occupied before this scheme was devised.”
“She has until her twenty-first birthday to make her claim, correct?” Darcy asked, recalling this detail from his earlier research.
“To initiate proceedings, yes. But the case itself could continue indefinitely.” Blythewood’s tone suggested this was a feature rather than a flaw. “Courts move at their own pace, Mr. Darcy. A pace that favors those with patience and means.”
Darcy nodded, processing this information with growing disquiet. The strategy Blythewood outlined was eminently practical and legally sound. If Elizabeth were indeed an imposter, she would withdraw her claims once she realized the cost of pursuing this falsehood.
“There is one complication,” he said slowly. “Miss Bennet has claimed that whoever killed my uncle and aunt may still pose a danger to anyone investigating their deaths. If her identity becomes widely known…”
“If she is who she claims to be, which I doubt, then exposure would indeed be dangerous. If she is an imposter, then such claims are merely part of her strategy to gain sympathy and support.” Blythewood’s expression grew stern. “Mr. Darcy, the fact that she is exposing herself and investigating a twenty-year-old tragedy speaks to her guilt. She is not fearful for her life, and she cannot truly believe she can overturn the male entail. Mark my words, she is seeking a settlement. Counting on embarrassment, gossip, and the threat to your father’s reputation to coerce you to send her and Mrs. Wickham on their way with a tidy sum.”
“I might have considered a small settlement.” Darcy scratched his chin. “However, this doesn’t explain Mr. Bingley claiming a right to court Miss Bennet. Similarly, Martha Wickham insists that Miss Bennet marry her son in exchange for her written testimony, suggesting they believe Miss Bennet’s claim.”
Blythewood’s eyebrow rose with pronounced skepticism. “I would caution you against placing too much trust in the Bingleys.Your father trusted Benjamin Bingley implicitly, and while I would never speak ill of the dead…” He let the implication hang delicately in the air. “Business partnerships often create strange alliances. The current generation of Bingleys may have motives beyond what appears on the surface.”
He straightened the papers on his desk with precise movements. “As for the Wickhams, their ambitions hardly count in matters of this magnitude. Their station precludes them from any significant influence in legal proceedings. Mrs. Wickham likely seeks to advance her son through marriage to someone she believes might secure a substantial settlement. A mercenary arrangement, but hardly evidence of Miss Bennet’s legitimate claim.”
“Are you suggesting, then, that the Wickhams, the Bingleys, and the Bennets have conspired together to present Miss Elizabeth Bennet as the rightful heir?”
Blythewood nodded curtly. “Precisely. I recommend three immediate actions: evict Mrs. Wickham from Rose Cottage, distance yourself from the Bingleys until this matter is resolved, and return Miss Bennet to her family in Hertfordshire with all due haste.”
“There will be talk,” Darcy hesitated. “Mrs. Wickham’s slander and the upcoming All Hallows’ Eve celebrations Miss Bingley is planning. No doubt the village matrons will be visiting my sister.”
“The gossip and rumors will die down, Mr. Darcy.” Blythewood’s tone took on a fatherly quality. “They always do. What endures is your responsibility to preserve the Pemberley legacy for your own line.” He paused meaningfully. “Which brings me to another matter—you would be well advised to seek a suitable bride soon. A legitimate heir of your own would protect the estate from distant cousins who might suddenly appear with… dubious claims.”
And there it was. Another inducement to seek a bride from his own station who could add to his legacy, not detract from it. Not Elizabeth. She’d compromised any standing she might have had as a gentleman’s daughter by this ill-advised scheme, and if she wereindeed his cousin, well, his aunt Catherine would never forgive him for not marrying his cousin Anne.
“I shall consider your counsel,” he said. “Thank you for your frankness in these matters.”
“My duty is to serve the Darcy family interests, sir. As it has been for three generations.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE PROTECTION MANDATE
Darcy’s thoughtswere troubled as he guided his horse through the towering gates of Pemberley. The autumn afternoon painted the grounds with a beauty that made poets compose odes to the English countryside. Darcy, however, was in a quandary. Blythewood’s advice was to treat Elizabeth as an imposter, a co-conspirator instead of merely misguided. As for his sister’s affections, he was to nip them in the bud and isolate her from unsuitable influences.
The Bingleys presented a delicate problem altogether. Business interests tied them together, and Charles was his best friend from Cambridge. He’d taken it upon himself to steer Charles’s entrance into the landed gentry class by instructing him in the art of estate management as well as marriage to a gentlewoman.
That he would so soon abandon Miss Jane Bennet for Elizabeth was confusing at best and conniving at worst.
He urged his horse, Maximus, over the final rise that provided a clear view of the southern gardens. His eyes narrowed at the tableau arranged like figures in a pastoral painting. Caroline Bingley reclined in a garden chair with affected grace, displaying her fashionable spencer and ostentatious hat. Louisa Hurst occupied another chair,fanning herself with languid movements despite the cool air. Mr. Hurst stood nearby, examining something in his hands with the focused attention he usually reserved for his dinner plate.
And then, there was Elizabeth Bennet.
She walked between the flower beds on Charles Bingley’s arm, her borrowed green dress catching the light as she moved. Her dark curls had escaped their pins to frame her face in a way that was both artless and utterly captivating. She laughed at something Bingley said, her head tilted back to reveal the graceful line of her throat, and the sound carried across the garden like music.
Bingley leaned closer to catch some witticism, his responding laugh too loud, too eager. The man was actively courting her, bending his tall frame to better attend her words, his eyes never leaving her face. Georgiana accompanied them with her hand on his other arm, relaxed and animated in a way he had not witnessed after the Ramsgate incident.
Something primitive and unwelcome surged through Darcy’s chest. His fingers tightened on the reins until Maximus shifted restlessly beneath him, responding to the sudden tension.
“Easy,” he murmured to the horse, though the command applied equally to himself.
She is not yours, he reminded himself savagely.She may not even be who she claims to be. You have known her for less than a fortnight, and half that time has been spent in mutual antagonism.
None of which explained why he wanted to ride down there and separate her from Bingley with the point of his sword.
