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He sanded the letter and reached for a fresh sheet. The second, destined for Lord Matlock, demanded greater delicacy. He required information, not interference.

My Lord,

First, regarding Georgiana: she has informed me by express that she intends to marry Mr. James Ashworth immediately and is traveling to Pemberley as I write. I have requested Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence here. I trust your lordship will share any intelligence you possess regarding the Ashworth family’s expectations, particularly as they may pertain to Georgiana’s portion, which remains, as you know, a subject of some delicacy.

Second, a new thread has emerged regarding Mrs. Darcy’s inheritance. We could not find details about Mr. Henry Bennet’s business or assets. Today, my wife mentioned that her uncle lodged at Bexley House when in London—my father’s house, as you know, now in the hands of the man to whom Pemberley owes the bulk of its quarterly payments. It seems Mr. Henry Bennet was one of Mr. Bexley’s associates, which may explain how he learned of my circumstances and the unusual provision in his will. I should be grateful for anything your men can learn of Mr. Bexley and his acquaintance.

If you have discovered any further details concerning Mr. Henry Bennet and the nature of his illiquid assets and interests, I would be grateful for the details on behalf of my wife.

Your obedient nephew,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

He sanded and sealed both letters and rang for the footman.

“These by express. Tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy gathered the letters and vanished.

He had, truthfully, done all he could. His payment was on its way to London with the successful sale of both books he had offered, and tonight required nothing of him that couldn’t wait until he received news or Georgiana’s carriage arrived.

Tonight he had a wife who liked wildflowers over hothouse roses, who had poked him in the chest and designated his dunnocks as criminals. She had called his brooding “contemplation,” her brow arching as if she knew perfectly well it was nothing of the kind. She had said he was important to her.

To show her exactly how important she was to him, he summoned Mrs. Reynolds.

The housekeeper appeared within minutes.

“Mrs. Reynolds, I would like to discuss Mrs. Darcy’s dinner.”

“Certainly, sir. Is she satisfied with the trays we’ve been sending up, or would she like additional provisions? A change in the menu?”

“I should like Mrs. Darcy to dine with me tonight in the small dining room, not the formal one. We do not require ceremony—the everyday service will do. And I wish for her to feel at ease. No footmen hovering. I shall serve her myself.”

Mrs. Reynolds nodded, suppressing a smile. “Certainly. What would you like on the menu?”

“Whatever cook is preparing for the staff,” Darcy replied.

“It would be mutton, sir, with turnips and a winter salad.”

“May we have a plain tart for dessert? And my father’s Burgundy. The sixty-three, if any remains.”

“There are four bottles, sir.”

“Open one.” He saw her eyebrows lift by a fraction. “It has been aging for forty-nine years and will not improve by waiting for a more suitable occasion.”

“Very good, sir.” The smile she had been suppressing broke through. “Shall I convey the invitation to Mrs. Darcy?”

“Please, and perhaps you might mention to Mrs. Darcy that tonight’s dinner will be plain fare. I would not wish her to feel she is imposing a burden by accepting.”

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Darcy. I shall convey your invitation with appropriate reassurance.”

The small dining room was warm when he descended: the table set for two, candles lit, the fire burning well. No silver epergne, no elaborate centerpiece—white linen, good china, but only a decanter of his father’s Burgundy breathing quietly in the candlelight. Two chairs at one end of a table that could seat eight, and the walls hung with landscapes his mother had collected—nothing grand, merely pleasant scenes of the English countryside she chose because they made her happy.

Darcy arrived first, as he had intended. He brought an atlas and placed it on the table. It was a folio of hand-colored maps his father had given his mother for a wedding gift. He did not entirely know why he had brought it. He knew only that Elizabeth had mentioned her uncle’s travels, and that she had spoken of Gibraltar and Naples and told him she had rarely traveled from Hertfordshire.

Elizabeth appeared at the doorway while he was paging through the atlas. She had changed for dinner, though not elaborately. A simple gown of deep green muslin, her hair pinned up with the minimum of fuss, and around her throat the single strand of pearls he had noticed her wearing since their arrival. She looked young and uncertain and entirely too beautiful for his composure, and she was wearing the sapphire ring.

He rose immediately, as he always did whenever she appeared, and bowed. “Mrs. Darcy.”