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“Doesn’t explain why you keep glancing toward the window every quarter hour as though expecting her parents to leave her on the drive again. Caroline saw the entire farce—the valise thrown on the gravel, and then you gallantly walking her home. And now, she is agreeing to marry you.”

“The banns were a stall tactic.” Darcy studied the balls on the table while Hurst took his wobbly shot. “If she has been to Meryton, it is likely to see her uncle, the solicitor. If she is clever, and she is very clever, she will have spent this morning asking him whether the terms of her uncle’s will are as inescapable as they appear.”

“And if he tells her they are not?”

“Then I expect I shall hear about it.” He took his shot and missed, with a consistency that suggested the afternoon itself had entered into a private conspiracy against his game—a thoroughness he could almost admire.

“Did you hear the latest parish theory?” Bingley asked, sinking, but managing to redistribute the balls in a way that was at least optimistic. “Mrs. Long has concluded you are Henry Bennet’s natural-born son, raised at Pemberley in secret and produced at the opportune moment to claim Miss Bennet as your birthright.”

Darcy’s cue struck the edge of the table. “My mother,” he said, “was Lady Anne Darcy, daughter of the former Earl of Matlock, and I will thank you not to repeat slanders that impugn her honor, however ludicrous their origins.”

Bingley’s face flushed. “I did not mean—that is, I was only reporting what Mrs. Long⁠—”

“Mrs. Long may theorize as she pleases. You need not serve as her herald.” Darcy set down his cue and crossed to the window, looking out over the grey afternoon without seeing it. “I have written to my uncle. Lord Matlock has resources—investigators, solicitors, men who know how to trace the affairs of merchants and traders. If there is a connection between Henry Bennet’s business dealings and my father’s estate, I intend to know what it is before I stand at any altar.”

“And if the inquiries turn up something you do not like?”

Darcy considered the question. Beyond the window, the March sky was the color of old pewter, and somewhere between here and Longbourn, Elizabeth Bennet was either plotting his legal ruin or eating her luncheon, and he could not determine which prospect unsettled him more.

“Then I shall deal with it, wedding or no wedding,” he said. “My name has been read aloud in church beside hers. If I withdraw now and let the clock run out, I become precisely the fortune hunter the parish already believes me to be.”

“Nobly stated.”

Darcy returned to the table and sighted his next shot, but the footman entering with the afternoon post caused his cue stick to scrape the felt.

“Mr. Darcy, Sir, two letters, sent by express.”

Darcy glanced at the missives, recognizing his steward’s hand on one and the other from his sister, Georgiana. The appearance of an express always brought a sheen of anxiety to his brow. His steward, Mr. Miller, would have spared the expense if he could, although Darcy wondered with a pang why his sister would write in such haste when she had spent the last six months harboring resentment.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” He took the letters and moved away from the billiard table.

The steward’s letter was short, but routinely grim.

The Lady Day quarter of the Pemberley annuity—£4,200—falls due on the 25th; Mr. Hollis of Lincoln’s Inn has written to ask that the draft be in hand by then. The west-wing repairs required another £600. A tenant in the northern holdings had requested forbearance on his rent until after the spring planting.

Darcy crumpled up the note. The annuity was a quarterly bloodletting. His father’s debts had long ago been consolidated into a charge on Pemberley’s rents, payable every quarter until the capital was repaid, and there had never been enough capital to repay it. Miller dealt with the solicitors; Darcy’s part was only to see that the bank draft did not come back unpaid. He did not have the heart to refuse the tenant’s forbearance, but part of him wondered whether his steward and tenants thought he lacked the fire his father had.

He moved toward the window for the light and broke the seal on Georgiana’s letter. It was four pages long. Darcy had been a brother long enough to know that sisters did not write brothers long letters unless they wanted something.

My dearest Brother,

I hope this finds you well in Hertfordshire, though Mrs. Annesley and I cannot imagine what business has detained you so long. I hope whatever business is keeping you does not prove as tedious as the ordeal you endured last autumn.

Mrs. Annesley and I have been keeping ourselves occupied with music and walks, though the weather has been dreadful and the walks consequently brief. I have been practicing the Mozart sonata—the one you said I was not ready for—and I believe I am ready now. I played it for Lady Ashworth, and she was kind enough to say it was “remarkably accomplished for a girl of your years,” which I think means she enjoyed it, though one can never be entirely certain with Lady Ashworth.

But I am not writing about Mozart, though I shall return to him presently. I am writing because I have met someone. His name is Mr. James Ashworth, Lady Ashworth’s second son. He is reading for holy orders, so he will soon be a clergyman, which I know you will think dreadfully dull, but he is not dull at all. He has kind eyes, and he turns pages correctly, which you will appreciate after the disaster of Mr. Hayward, who always turned a beat too early and once tore the corner of my Beethoven.

James—Mr. Ashworth, I should say, though he asked me to call him James and I have been practicing in my head—brought me tea without being asked when Lady Ashworth’s drawing room grew crowded after the recital. He noticed I don’t care for crowds, which not everyone notices, and found a quiet corner where we could sit without being observed. We talked about music. He sings hymns very badly but with tremendous conviction, which he demonstrated, and it made me laugh. I laughed more than I have laughed in months.

He calls most mornings now and talks to me about books and music. Mrs. Annesley is always present, so you need not fear any impropriety, but his attentiveness has already caught Lady Matlock’s notice. She may write to you, Brother, but I wish to impress upon you his sincerity of character. He does not flatter or praise, but he always listens, just like you listen without commenting until you understand a matter.

He has asked, with what I can only describe as the most proper diffidence, whether you might be in London soon, as he wishes to discuss a matter of some importance with you. I told him you were engaged in Hertfordshire on business, but that I was certain you would write to him directly.

I believe I know what he means to ask, though I would not presume to anticipate, and I would not wish to pressure you into anything you did not feel was right. I can only impress upon you, Brother, that I find myself smiling again, even when listening to Mr. Ashworth’s sermons.

I am collecting music in addition to Mozart—Beethoven, Haydn, Handel, Clementi, and a composer I newly discovered through Mr. Ashworth: Ignaz Pleyel, whose sonatas skip joyously like spring lambs.

Please do write to him, Brother. I would not ask unless I thought you would like him very much, and I think—I hope—that he might like me a little.