Fitz regarded the younger man for a moment before answering. “No,” he said. “No, I do not believe I shall object.”
Bingley grinned with such genuine pleasure at the response that Fitz felt something unfamiliar stir faintly within his chest.
Not suspicion.
Not caution.
Something warmer.
As Fitz crossed the darkened court alone a short while later, cold autumn air curling through the stone archways around him, he found himself thinking unexpectedly of Georgiana.
She would like Bingley,he thought.
The realization came so naturally that it startled him.
Above the college rooftops, chapel bells began tolling the late hour while candlelight flickered softly behind ancient windows all across Cambridge. Fitz paused briefly beneath the shadow of the cloister and looked upward into the darkness.
For years now, he had moved through life expecting disappointment from nearly everyone around him. From his father. From Wickham. From society itself.
But standing there beneath the old stone walls of Cambridge, Fitz experienced the strange and unsettling sensation that perhaps not every attachment in life must inevitably end in betrayal.
And though he would never have admitted it aloud, the thought felt very nearly like hope.
Chapter 4
Spring 1806—Cambridge
Rain tapped softly against the windows of Fitz’s rooms while he sorted the final pages of his dissertation into orderly stacks across the desk.
The chambers looked strangely barren already. Half his books had been packed into crates for shipment north, and several shelves stood empty except for outlines in the dust where volumes had rested for years. Outside, the courts of Cambridge glimmered damply beneath pale spring mist while students crossed beneath umbrellas and dripping cloaks, hurrying toward lectures soon to end for the term.
In less than a sennight, Fitz would complete his master’s degree at Cambridge. Though technically all degrees were the same, he had chosen to focus his studies on history—specifically the rise and fall of ancient civilizations.
The subject had consumed him entirely these last years, perhaps because studying dead empires felt simpler than contemplating the living wreckage of his own family.
He had scarcely thought of London in weeks.
A sharp knock sounded at the outer door.
Fitz looked up distractedly. “Come in.”
The door opened slowly.
A liveried servant stood upon the threshold wearing Darcy colors darkened by travel and rain. The man looked exhausted, mud clinging nearly to his knees, but what struck Fitz most immediately was the expression upon his face.
Fear.
A sick feeling settled instantly in Fitz’s stomach, and he rose slowly from behind his desk. “What is it?”
The servant swallowed hard, and his voice shook as he spoke. “Begging your pardon, sir…”
“What has happened?”
The man lowered his eyes. “Mr. Darcy is dead, sir.”
Closing his eyes, Fitz took a long, slow breath. “What happened?”
“He was found in his study, sir. Slumped over after supper. The physician said it was his heart.”
