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“The painters will finish the first two chambers within the week,” Miller said, consulting his ledger. “Mrs. Darcy selected the hues. She has a good eye, sir, if I may say so.”

“You may.” Darcy did not look up from the lambing tallies, because looking up would require composing an expression appropriate to hearing his wife praised by his steward, and his face had been unreliable in such moments.

“She asked about the cost of reglazing the hothouse,” Miller continued. “I gave her the estimate—forty pounds for the glass and another fifteen for the heating apparatus. She said she would consider it.”

Fifty-five pounds. Elizabeth would spend her own money to reopen a hothouse on an estate that owed more than it was worth because she wanted Pemberley to grow its own flowers. The impulse was so pure and misguided that Darcy’s chest ached. Knowing she had four thousand pounds at her disposal, however, eased some of the pain.

“If Mrs. Darcy wishes to proceed with the hothouse, please accommodate her,” he said. “She is the mistress of this house, and the household improvements are at her discretion.”

After luncheon, Elizabeth and Charlotte departed for Lambton, the carriage rattling down the north road, with Hannah perched on the seat beside Elizabeth, leaning out the window to wave in a manner that was entirely undignified and wholly characteristic. Darcy watched from the library window until the carriage disappeared around the bend, then stood a moment longer, because the view was better with Elizabeth in it and merely adequate without.

And then, the express from Lord Matlock arrived at half past three.

The rider was mud-splattered and weary, and Darcy recognized the Matlock seal before he broke the wax. His uncle’s handwriting was cramped and hurried, lacking the careful penmanship that usually characterized his correspondence.

Nephew,

I have conducted inquiries regarding H. Bexley as you requested. The man has not been seen in London for several weeks, and there are conflicting rumors regarding his whereabouts—some say he has gone to Portugal to inspect his shipping interests, others that he has retired to the country due to ill health. His solicitors continue to receive payments and his stewards manage his various holdings, but his friends report that he has not attended any social engagements since before Christmas. There is speculation that he may be incapacitated in some fashion, though no one can confirm the nature or extent of any ailment. I have dispatched men to Bristol, where his ships put in, and shall write again when they report.

More urgently: Georgiana departed London four days ago without my knowledge or Richard’s permission. She did not inform Lady Matlock or me. The servants claim she left at dawn with Mr. James Ashworth, his sister Miss Ashworth, and Mrs. Annesley. The servants believe they traveled north, but I cannot confirm their destination. Richard has gone after them, but they have two days’ lead and could be anywhere between London and Scotland. Your express warning, unfortunately, did not arrive in time, and we sincerely hope she is headed for Pemberley rather than farther north.

I need not tell you what it means if she reaches Gretna Green before we find her.

Your immediate attention is required.

Matlock

Darcy read the letter twice, his hands steady through sheer force of will while his thoughts careened wildly between fury and fear. They could be anywhere on the northern road—past Manchester, perhaps, or already making for Lancaster and Carlisle. Georgiana could be married by now, bound to a man Darcy knew nothing about except that he had somehow convinced his sister to flee in the night like a thief stealing her own future.

He rang for Mrs. Reynolds and waited with as much composure as he could summon.

“Sir?”

“I must ride out immediately. My sister has left London without permission and may be traveling north. I intend to search the coaching inns northward and attempt to intercept her before she reaches Scotland.”

Mrs. Reynolds’s expression betrayed nothing, though her hands tightened on her apron. “Shall I inform Mrs. Darcy?”

“When she has a moment away from her friend, Miss Lucas. I would not wish to alarm her. Tell her only that I have received urgent news concerning my sister and that I do not know when I shall return.” He paused at his study door. “And Mrs. Reynolds—I may need to hire runners. If I cannot locate Georgiana myself, I shall require professional assistance. Please have the names of any reputable agents ready for my return.”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Reynolds hesitated. “Mr. Darcy, if I may—Mrs. Darcy will worry.”

“Tell her I am well, and that I shall send word if there is any difficulty.”

He rode out within the hour, pushing Achilles hard along the rutted lanes. The stallion was fresh and eager, and they made good time through the first five miles, past the village of Bakewell, where he had checked the coaching inn with no sightings. He rode on, but by the time he reached Buxton, another disappointment, the sun had begun its final descent toward the horizon, and Achilles’s stride had developed an alarming irregularity.

He dismounted to check the horse’s feet and found exactly what he had feared: a loose shoe on the left forefoot, hanging by two nails, the hoof beginning to crack around the edges. The cold ground had been unforgiving, and Darcy had been too consumed by urgency to notice the subtle changes in his mount’s gait until the damage was done.

“Well,” he said to Achilles, who regarded him with the patient resignation of an animal who knew his evening was about to become considerably longer, “it appears we have both been fools today.”

Pemberley lay twelve miles behind him, and the darkness settled over the landscape in shades of purple and grey as he led the limping horse along roads that had seemed so much shorter on the ride out. His thoughts circled endlessly around the same unanswerable questions: Where was Georgiana? Had Richard found her? Was she already married, already beyond his reach, already lost to a man who wanted her fortune and cared nothing for her happiness?

Hours later, Achilles and Darcy hobbled to the stable yard, a single lamp burning in the groom’s quarters to guide his return. He handed Achilles to the boy who appeared, murmured instructions about fetching the farrier and the damaged hoof, then turned toward the house with the heavy tread of a man who had spent all his reserves of energy and determination.

The entrance hall was dim, lit only by a single candle burning on the side table, and the great house’s silence pressed against his heavy heart. He had failed Georgiana by leaving her in London while he pursued Elizabeth.

From somewhere above, he heard voices—Elizabeth’s laugh, low and warm, followed by Charlotte’s quieter response. They were still awake, then, still talking in one of the private sitting rooms, unaware that he had returned. He could not share his burden with them, his worry about Georgiana, and risk ruining her reputation. For all they knew, his sister was headed for Pemberley. That was what she promised in her letter, and he had to hold on to it.

Mrs. Reynolds met him on the landing. “An express from your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”