“I understand your…distress now. That boyisa Fitzwilliam. I would wager my entire estate on it. He looks just like a miniature of me that my mother keeps in her room.”
“It is clear why the family would lie, is it not?”
“The entail.” Fitzwilliam’s pronouncement was solemn and serious.
Darcy finally stood and moved to the hearth, one hand braced on the mantel. He stared down into the dying coals, the flickering embers casting shadows along his jaw.
“I thought perhaps one of the girls had borne him,” he said quietly. “Or… perhaps Mrs Bennet had conceived by someone else. But the timing never sat right. And now, hearing of the twin and the death… I wonder…”
“You think he is Anne’s,” Fitz reiterated their conversation from earlier, voice pitched low.
Darcy gave a single nod.
“But how?” Fitz whispered. “How would Anne’s child end up here? In the care of a country family… as their own? Would Mr Bennet even agree to such a thing?”
“That’s the mystery,” Darcy said. “And I mean to solve it.”
Fitzwilliam stood and crossed to him. “We need to speak to someone who knows. Miss Elizabeth, perhaps. Or Mr Bennet.”
Darcy shook his head. “Not yet. Not until we have more. If I confront Elizabeth and am wrong…”
“You risk losing her,” Fitz said simply.
Darcy said nothing.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Midnight. He turned back to the fire. The mystery was no longer just a shadow at the edge of his thoughts—it was real, urgent. And it threatened to tangle everything hecared about, most especially Elizabeth.Suspicion was not certainty—and Darcy despised himself for how closely the two now brushed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The chance to steal Darcy’s lady was only part of Wickham’s purpose.
A deeper, darker suspicion haunted him—one that had taken root the moment he saw the little boy in Meryton with two of his sisters just the day before. He had watched the child only briefly, but something about the curve of the chin, the eyes… it had struck a nerve. More than that—it had struck a memory.
His curiosity needed satisfying.
Wickham began loitering near Longbourn during odd hours—after militia drills had ended, when the estate was quiet and unlikely to host visitors. He kept to the edges of the property, skirting hedgerows and walls, appearing as nothing more than a harmless wanderer admiring the countryside.
One evening, he followed the low stone wall that bordered the estate until it gave way to a well-kept hedge. Through the branches, Longbourn came into view—its façade peaceful in the fading light. He paused, noting the stables, a carriage house, and a scattering of outbuildings. A groom led a sleek bay to pasture, and a maid crossed the yard with a basket balanced on her hip. He watched her sway for a moment—tempted, but not distracted. There were more important things to learn.
At the far edge of the property, a modest churchyard began. Its chapel, a simple red-brick structure, bore stained-glass windows that caught thelast golden streaks of the afternoon sun. Wickham stepped carefully over a wrought-iron fence, boots crunching softly against gravel and dried leaves.
He wandered through the headstones—older ones first, their inscriptions weathered and difficult to read. As he moved farther in, the names and dates became clearer, the stones newer. The name Bennet appeared often, etched in limestone in various forms—generations of the family resting on this sacred ground.
Then he saw it.
A large, polished stone stood apart from the others—well-tended, clearly important. He stepped closer and read:
Sacred to the Memory of Mrs Frances Bennet,
Beloved Wife of Thomas Bennet, Esq.,
who departed this life in childbirth on the 13th of September, 1806, aged 38 years.
Also of her Infant Son, stillborn the same day.
In life united, in death not parted— They sleep in peace until the resurrection morn.
Wickham’s breath caught. He blinked, scarcely able to process the implications before a sudden tap on his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts. He spun around, every nerve alert.
