F. D.
He sanded the page, folded it, sealed it, and set it with the others to be sent.
Only then did his gaze return, unbidden, to the desk.
TheHarrowe Balladslay where he had left them, the cover dark and unassuming, as though it were nothing more than any other relic of family excess. Darcy picked it up again—not to open it—but to move it. He slid it onto the back shelf, behind a folio of surveys and a stack of legal abstracts, where it would not catch the eye.
There.
He did not look at it again.
Chapter Two
One week later
The morning mist hadnot yet burned away when Darcy sighted down the barrel of his fowling piece. One breath—then the muffled crack of shot as a pheasant burst from the underbrush, scattering in a wild flurry of feathers.
“Well shot,” Richard Fitzwilliam called from behind. “I swear the poor creature gave you a bow before it fell.”
Darcy lowered the barrel and turned. “Your jealousy does you no credit.”
“Jealousy? Hardly. I am simply concerned for the local pheasant population. At this rate, Derbyshire will have to import from Hertfordshire just to fill its tables.”
Richard’s grin spread as he strode forward, kicking through frost-hardened grass, his gun resting carelessly across his shoulder. His jacket, though tailored, bore faint scuffs at the cuffs, a reminder that the man had spent more hours in bivouacs than ballrooms these past years.
“You might consider aiming before firing,” Darcy said, breaking the barrel to reload. “I thought you were taught marksmanship in the line of duty.”
Richard swung his gun down, not bothering to check the powder. “I aimed at the sky. The sky remains. My duty is done.”
Darcy shook his head and walked on. Brutus padded at his heel, nose twitching as they neared a cluster of cottages nestled in a shallow valley. Smoke curled from chimneys in tight columns.
“Your valley looks well enough,” Richard said. “It’s good to see something thriving. God knows the villages I passed through in Spain would make this look like Versailles.”
“You were near Salamanca last, were you not? You never named the place in your letters, so I was left to guess.”
“Was neverpermittedto name it, but I knew you would put it together. Salamanca, yes. Then we pushed further south. I do not recommend it as a holiday destination. Mud up to your knees, lice in your hair, and French cannon fire to rattle the nerves.” He grinned. “Still, the wine is tolerable. When we could get it.”
They crested a rise, and Darcy raised a hand to a man mending a low stone wall. “Good morning, Mr Telford.”
The tenant straightened, wiping lime-stained hands on his apron. His face, weathered but alert, broke into a cautious smile. “Good day to you, sir. Fine morning for it.”
“Indeed. How is Mrs Telford recovering?”
“Well enough, sir. The little one’s come through the fever, too. She still tires quickly, but Mr Barnes says there’s no lingering harm.”
“If there is any further need of the apothecary, send word. I will see him sent for.”
Telford’s eyes shone with quiet gratitude. “We’re obliged, Mr Darcy. Truly.”
“Not at all. How is your root cellar? I recall some trouble last year.”
Telford touched his cap. “Dry as a bone, sir. Danny helped me with the mending. All it wants is some stores. My potato crop were fair-middling this year, sir.”
Darcy grunted, his gaze flicking over to the little door built into the earth. “You were not alone, Telford. I will have Granger inquire whether there may be barley or oats yet to be had from the next market town. And salt pork, if it can be secured at a reasonable rate.”
“Aye, sir. There were talk at Lambton fair that the southern fields did not yield as hoped. Too much wet in June, then that sharp heat in July. Blighted some of the late potatoes outright.”
Darcy’s expression altered by a degree. “And your wheat?”
