Darcy stood at the threshold for a moment, surveying the assembled chests and the towering stacks of ledgers. He felt the weight of stewardship shift uneasily on his shoulders, heavier now than ever. There was something almost archaeological about the endeavour: each bundle of invoices, each yellowed memorandum, seemed a relic of a vanished world, the choices and burdens of a man long dead. He wondered, not for the first time, whether his father had intended to leave such mysteries behind, or whether they were no more than the inevitable legacy of a life lived busily, if not always tidily.
“Shall we begin here, sir?” Baxter gestured to the nearest box—a battered trunk, its brass fittings tarnished with age. Darcy nodded, and together they knelt, carefully removing layers of documents. The air was tinged with the scent of old paper, wax, and a faint hint of camphor from sachets tucked between folios—a housekeeper’s touch, no doubt, in some long-ago spring cleaning.
As the hours slipped by, their conversation grew sparse, broken only by the occasional discovery: a letter from Lord Matlock, a forgotten bill for a consignment of Madeira, anagreement with a Yorkshire ironmonger. Darcy’s mind spun through the possibilities, each new document a tantalising clue or a maddening dead end.
Georgiana, watching from across the room, could not help but marvel at her brother’s resolve. His brow was set in determination, yet there was a gentleness, too, as he handled the artefacts of their family’s history—a respect for the past, even as he sought to impose order upon it. She wondered if he realised how much of their father’s character lived on in him: the same diligence, the same capacity for care, the same stubborn refusal to give up an answer once the question had been posed.
By late afternoon, with the rain drumming steadily against the tall windows, Darcy finally leaned back, stretching his cramped fingers. “Nothing yet,” he murmured. “But we are not finished—not by half.”
Baxter nodded grimly, but there was a glint of satisfaction in his eye. “We are closer, sir, than we were yesterday. I feel certain the document is somewhere in this house. It is only a matter of time—and diligence.”
Darcy managed a tired smile. “Then let us proceed tomorrow. Pemberley’s secrets cannot remain hidden—with time, we shall ferret them out.”
* * *
Chapter 7
Fleet Street, January 1813
“Excuse me, ma’am, there’s a Mr. Darcy waiting in the vestibule—he has an eleven o’clock appointment.”
“Thank you, Peter,” Elizabeth replied, accepting the card from the front desk clerk. The awkwardness that had marked her first encounter with Peter—was it really nine months ago?—had since eased into mutual respect, though Elizabeth’s position as Lady Jersey’s private secretary placed her high within the bank’s ranks. “The meeting is in the Oak Room. I’ll see to him in just a moment.”
Mr. Darcy stood at the window, gazing out at Fleet Street beneath a dull, rain-threatening sky. He turned as Elizabeth entered, his brow furrowing when she set her journal and a folio on the table. Without comment, she moved his document satchel from its place near the window to the other side.
Darcy’s frown deepened. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you not touch my satchel. I have no desire to sit facing the window—the glare is quite oppressive.”
“My apologies, sir,” she answered, her smile polite. “Lady Jersey, who will be joining us, has particular preferences about the seating. It’s one of her quirks, and we all accommodate them.”
He gave a short huff and turned back to the window, hands clasped behind his back. “Coffee, please. A little cream, one sugar.”
Elizabeth stared at his rigid posture. From Miss Darcy’s remarks, she’d expected him to be courteous, certainly civil—not imperious or overbearing. But perhaps this was how he behaved with those below his own social standing. As the owner of a large Derbyshire estate and nephew to an earl, Mr. Darcy certainly commanded respect. He was tall, and aside from the frown that shadowed his features, undeniably handsome. Tolerable, perhaps, but not so handsome as to excuse such rudeness. Elizabeth, dressed in a dark green woollen spencer over a sprigged muslin gown—appropriate for her role—wondered if Mr. Darcy had mistaken her for a servant. She resolved to be cautious; her first impression was of a proud, disagreeable man.
Yet she understood something of his discomfort. Coming to Child & Co., figuratively cap in hand, must be a bitter pill for someone of his pedigree. Her job was not to like or dislike clients, but to judge their character and creditworthiness—a skill Lady Jersey had come to value, as Elizabeth often noticed what the men, busy vying for rank and position, overlooked. Both Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Darcy, his closest relatives, spoke highly of him. Coffee or not, she would give him the benefit of the doubt.
Lady Jersey swept into the room, followed by Harry Smith and a junior clerk who, as usual, took a seat against the wall, pencil ready to make a transcript of the meeting.
“Mr. Darcy? I believe we have met before—not at Almack’s but at Lady Matlock’s ball. What a delightful evening.” Lady Jersey nodded to Darcy as he gave a formal bow—precise, exactly the respect one should pay to a countess.
They sat, Harry Smith to her left, Elizabeth on the right. Darcy’s brow rose; clearly, he had thought she was a domestic servant.
“Harry, have we called for coffee or tea?”
“Mr. Darcy wishes coffee, a little cream and one sugar.” Elizabeth smirked as a tray of tea and coffee was placed on the table by a housemaid, who quietly left the room. “Let me pour,” she said, placing tea with a slice of lemon before Lady Jersey; she poured Mr. Darcy’s coffee to his taste, tea with one lump of sugar for Mr. Smith, and coffee for herself.
“Well, the niceties have been dealt with. I suspect you are a busy man, Mr. Darcy; let us not take up too much of your day. How might Child & Co. assist you?” Lady Jersey glanced at a sheaf of papers handed to her by Elizabeth, then looked expectantly at Darcy, although all knew the true purpose of the business at hand.
Darcy felt suddenly nervous, as though he were sitting at the desk of his father when he was a young child, bracing himself for a stern lecture on the correct behaviour for gentlemen. He disliked Lady Jersey, finding her rude, seeming to take her sovereignty as a matter of course—particularly, he disliked all the Patronesses of Almack’s for their despotic rule over theton.
He was acquainted with Harry Smith: a good man, intolerant of foolishness, fair-minded, but utterly committed to the bank’s interests. Persuading such a man to risk a significant sum of the bank’s capital would not be easy.
Then there was the woman to Lady Jersey’s right—not a clerk, accountant, or partner, but clearly on familiar terms with the countess. He realised, too late, that he ought to have learned more. It was rare enough for Child’s to have a woman as head partner, but here was another woman, clearly someone of rank, whom he had originally mistaken for a servant. Now, noticing the fine weave of her spencer and the quality of her muslin gown, he felt foolish—was his scepticism about women in business so deeply ingrained?
She had not been introduced. Perhaps she was an observer, an adviser to the partners. She smiled at him—not with condescension, but with a hint of compassion, tinged with pity. Her eyes were striking. Hadn’t Richard recently mentioned meeting a woman with remarkably fine eyes?
“Mr. Darcy, perhaps you could explain your purpose here before we consider your request,” Lady Jersey said, snapping him out of his thoughts. Had she noticed him staring at her companion? The young woman wore a faint, knowing smile, as if her very presence was meant to distract. He reminded himself to stay alert—these were people of intelligence and subtlety. He was deep in the lion’s den now: Child & Co., the most powerful private bank in the City. And he could ill afford to fail, for the fate of Pemberley—the heart and soul of the Darcy family for generations—hung in the balance.
* * *
