George Rupert Darcy.
Rupert.
Not Rubert.
Darcy stared at it.
Then, quite suddenly, he laughed.
It was not a polite laugh, nor even a happy one at first, but a sound torn from the depths of sleepless fear and desperate hope. He seized the will, then the letter, then the codicil, laying them side by side with the agreement.
“Rubert,” he said. “Rubert. Rubert. Every one of them.”
Richard let out a low whistle. “I will be hanged.”
“Not today,” Mr. Philips said, though his eyes shone with satisfaction. “Not if we can help it.”
Darcy looked at Elizabeth.
For one heartbeat he seemed unable to move. Then he came around the desk, took her by the waist, and lifted her clear off the floor.
“Darcy!” she cried, though she was laughing before the protest had properly formed.
“My brilliant Elizabeth,” he said, turning with her once, twice, in an entirely undignified circle. “My brilliant, magnificent betrothed.”
“Put me down before you injure your dignity.”
“My dignity has been vastly improved.”
“Darcy.”
He set her on her feet, but only barely. His arms remained around her, and his face was bright with such unguarded joy that Elizabeth forgot Mr. Philips, forgot Colonel Fitzwilliam, forgot Bingley laughing near the hearth, and looked only at him.
“You found it,” he said.
“I noticed a letter.”
“You found it.” His voice dropped, rough with feeling. “Elizabeth, you found it.”
Then he kissed her.
It was brief, but not so brief that anyone in the room could mistake it for anything other than what it was. Elizabeth’s face burned when he released her, though she could not help smiling. Behind them, Richard made a sound of theatrical suffering. “Bingley,” he said, “remind me never to be trapped in a study with newly engaged people again. They become excessively sentimental over spelling.”
Bingley grinned. “I thought it very fine spelling.”
Mr. Philips coughed into his hand, though Elizabeth suspected he was hiding a smile. “As touching as this is, Lizzy may wish to breathe, and we may wish to consider how best to use this discovery.”
Darcy released her, though he kept one of her hands in his. “Yes. Of course.” He turned back to the papers, still alight with triumph. “This proves the signature false.”
“It proves a grave inconsistency,” Mr. Philips said carefully. “A very useful one. Particularly because it concerns a name your father was known to spell in an unusual way. But we must not become careless. Wickham may claim your father signed hastily, or that a clerk wrote the name and he merely marked over it, or any number of evasions.”
“My father would never have misspelled Rubert,” Darcy said.
“Then we shall make him prove otherwise,” Richard replied. “And if he cannot, I shall enjoy watching him attempt it.”
Darcy’s hand tightened around Elizabeth’s. “We confront him tomorrow.”
“Not alone,” Mr. Philips said.
