By nine o’clock, he had reviewed every document in the Apethorpe files—Lady Amelia’s hastily written will, composed almost as a jest during a game of charades, specifying the settlement of her effects but more importantly the guardianship arrangements; and a copy of the damning christening record with George’s signature noted where his own ought to have been. He had read Blythewood’s recommendations to uphold George’s rights as the father and checked his ledgers, totaling the amounts he had forwarded to his wayward brother. He made notes and anticipated objections, yet none of it held his attention.
His mind drifted to the chamber above, to a woman who might be weeping, or worse, composing a letter to her father to announce her marriage a mistake.
Shortly before ten, he could bear the confinement no longer. He emerged from his study to stretch his legs and stopped short at the sight of Elizabeth descending the main staircase.
She did not see him as she moved with purpose, her expression composed in a way that told him she had armored herself before leaving her chamber. She appeared tired yet beautiful—a woman determined not to show that she had been wounded.
His chest constricted painfully. He wanted to go to her—to take her hands and confess all… but he stepped back into the shadow of the corridor, watching as she crossed the entrance hall and disappeared toward the breakfast room.
Footsteps approached from the servants’ stairs. Clarice emerged, carrying a small tray, and she stopped short when she saw him.
“Mr. Darcy.” She dropped a curtsy, her expression arranging itself into careful neutrality.
“How is Mrs. Darcy this morning?” He studied her face—the composed features, the downcast eyes, the slight tension around her mouth that suggested she knew more than she would ever admit.
Clarice hesitated with the barest pause. “She is well, sir. She mentioned a slight headache, but she went down to breakfast nonetheless.”
“Thank you, Clarice.” He made himself nod to maintain the fiction of casual inquiry. “That will be all.”
He went back to his study, determined not to be disturbed, but an hour later, he emerged to stretch his legs. The library door stood partially open, and the familiar scent of Elizabeth’s lavender water told him she was somewhere within. He could well guess her destination: the locked cabinet containing Lady Amelia’s manuscripts—the answers he had not yet given her. He dared a peek inside and saw her skirts disappear between the shelves housing classics and philosophy. She was mistress of Pemberley, and she had the right to examine every area of her domain… but…
Footsteps behind him alerted him, and he turned to find Jamison with a silver salver.
“Sir. An express has arrived for Mrs. Darcy. From Longbourn.”
The breath left Darcy’s lungs. Longbourn. Her father. The illness that had brought her to him in the first place.
“Give it to me,” he said, and then corrected himself. “No. Take it to her. She is in the library.”
He watched Jamison knock on the library door and quickly withdrew himself into an alcove filled with miniature portraits, aware of Elizabeth emerging, her face pale and troubled. She did not look toward the location where he stood, but moved swiftly toward the main staircase, her skirts gathered in one hand, the half-open letter clutched in the other.
Go to her, the voice urged.Whatever it is, she should not face it alone.
But she had not asked for him, and his pride told him she had not sought him out. She would rather manage without him, and that was exactly what he deserved.
At half past eleven, as the clock chimed the quarter hour, Blythewood arrived, his leather case bulging with documents.
“Mr. Darcy.” He settled into the chair opposite the desk, accepting coffee. “I have read the copy of the Apethorpe correspondence and have sketched out our options. When will they arrive?”
“They will be represented by Viscount Drake. He arrives at one.”
Blythewood’s eyebrows rose. “The brother. That is… unexpected. I had assumed any inquiry would come through their solicitors.”
“As had I.” Darcy passed him the letter bearing the crimson seal. “He wants to discuss Thomas’s guardianship and his sister’s manuscripts. I am uncertain whether his solicitor would be present or if he intends to handle this personally.”
“Interesting.” Blythewood rubbed his chin. “Perhaps he is concerned with a personal matter—another gentleman’s agreement which I have advised you against entering into.”
“I cannot say.” Darcy kept his voice even. “Lady Amelia’s will names me as guardian. There is nothing irregular about that, and my brother has left a note confirming the same.”
“Except that no one has seen Wickham since Lady Amelia’s death.” Blythewood set down the letter. “I have made inquiries, as you requested. He boarded a ship at Portsmouth, and the turnaround of shipboard correspondence is unreliable.”
“Except Apethorpe claims to have been in contact with him.”
“Which would raise questions, then: where is he? And why would the Apethorpes be concerned with a man who, by all accounts, abandoned his child and disappeared?”
Darcy moved to the window. The question had been gnawing at him for weeks. George had always been reliable in one respect: he appeared whenever there was money to be extracted. Going far away to India took him away from funding sources, namely Darcy’s purse.
“We need to find him,” he said. “Whatever Apethorpe wants, whatever he threatens, George is the wild card. As the registered father, he has rights we cannot simply ignore.”
