The restless twitching ceased. She grew unnaturally still, and her gaze met his, cold and unwavering. When she finally spoke, her voice was guttural and hollow, a sound that seemed scarcely her own.
“No one has ever cared for me. Only Richard.”
A chill stole over Darcy. The transformation was unsettling; her eerie stillness more disquieting than her anger.
The door swung open, startling him. Colonel Fitzwilliam entered, all affable ease, his smile perfectly in place.
“Darcy! What an unexpected pleasure.” His eyes flicked briefly between Anne and him. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
Darcy schooled his features into an amiable smile. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam.”
The colonel strode into the room, unfastening his gloves. “I trust my dear wife has been keeping you entertained?”
“We were just discussing Rosings’ future.”
“Ah, yes. A rather consuming matter, is it not?” His eyes lingered on Anne a moment before returning to Darcy. “Tell me, cousin, what brings you here?”
He leaned back slightly, his forced smile never wavering. “There are pressing matters that warrant a conversation.”
A pause—brief, almost imperceptible, but there. Then Fitzwilliam grinned with polished ease. “Then by all means, let us talk.”
Anne’s mood shifted once more. She sprang to her feet, eyes locked on her husband’s back, her fingers plucking at her nails while her mouth quivered in nervous contortions. Fitzwilliam, by contrast, walked away without looking back—as though without a single care in the world.
***
In the library, the colonel gestured to a chair and opened the decanter of brandy. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you. It is a bit early for that.” Darcy settled into the offered seat.
Fitzwilliam reached for the decanter. The generous pour, the quick swallow: his cousin was drinking too much—seeking in the glass a composure he clearly did not feel.
“You said you wished to talk.” Fitzwilliam took his seat across the desk, a polished boundary between them. “I assume it is a matter of some consequence. It seems too long a journey for idle conversation.”
Darcy came directly to the point. “I spoke with the notary regarding the will. Were you aware there was an amendment?”
The colonel’s mouth tensed slightly before curling into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Indeed? And what does this mysterious amendment declare?”
“That Lady Catherine would inherit Rosings should Anne die unmarried or be deemed unfit.”
“Curious,” Fitzwilliam mused, rubbing his chin. “But Lady Catherine is dead.” Then, with a shrug: “And Anne is perfectly well—and already married, as you know.”
His gaze lingered on him. “The timing was certainly. . . fortuitous.”
A pause. Just long enough to acknowledge the weight behind the words.
Then Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Quite so. Does it mention my father’s guardianship? Does this codicil reaffirm his role as Anne’s warden?”
The precision of the question was evident, as clear as if it had been shouted. Fitzwilliam knew what the document omitted.
“Regrettably, no such provision was included. Someone with a vested interest might contest it in court.”
The colonel swirled his brandy, his tone light. “A rather pointless endeavour, since she is already wed. As her lawful husband, I possess that authority now. Our union is unassailable.”
He took two long gulps—half the glass gone in a blink—then leaned back, still smiling, though his eyes had turned cold.
“I have Georgiana’s letters, you know.”
Darcy’s entire body tensed up. Perhaps he should have taken a drink after all.
