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“You are aware, no doubt, that my father retired from trade when he was knighted.” Charlotte’s voice remained quiet. “My family lacks the consequence of an earldom, and hence my observation requires no consequence to be true.”

Richard’s face reddened. “Miss Lucas⁠—”

“You came here to expose a conspiracy,” Charlotte continued, as if he had not spoken. “Instead, you found evidence of a thirty-year friendship between two men who loved each other like brothers. You found proof that a gentleman’s son who chose trade spent his entire adult life protecting his dearest friend’s family. You found letters from a young woman who mocked your cousin with such vigor that only a fool could mistake her correspondence for a seduction.” She paused. “And yet you persisted. Why?”

Richard said nothing.

“I will tell you why.” Charlotte crossed to the table and picked up one of Elizabeth’s letters—the one Richard had waved about earlier as evidence of conspiracy. “Because Elizabeth Bennet’s grandfather Gardiner was in trade. Because her maternal uncle lives in Cheapside, and the Bennets, although members of the gentry, have had to dip into trade to provide a fortune. And because her family lacks the generations of noble blood that you believe entitle you to judge her.” She set the letter down. “You did not investigate a crime, Colonel. You investigated a class. And when the evidence did not support your prejudice, you twisted it until it did.”

“That is not⁠—”

“The Bennets,” Charlotte said, and now her voice had gone cold, “are the finest family I have ever known. They treated me as a sister when my own prospects were bleak. Elizabeth Bennet walked three miles through mud to nurse her sister when she was ill, and she refused the most advantageous match in Hertfordshire, the heir of Longbourn, because she would not marry without affection.” Charlotte’s eyes met Richard’s. “What have you done, Colonel, that compares? What sacrifice have you made? What loyalty have you shown that was not purchased by blood or obligation?”

Richard opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

“As I suspected. Nothing. Your commission was purchased by your parents.” She picked up her needlework. “I suggest you consider that, Colonel, the next time you find yourself investigating the character of people you believe beneath you. You may discover that the view from below is considerably clearer than the view from above.”

Richard collected his hat from the table. His hands were steady, she would grant him that, and his face betrayed nothing but the disciplined composure of a soldier retreating from a position that had become untenable. He paused beside Darcy.

“Cousin,” he said. Nothing more, and he turned on his heel, trailing after his parents.

Elizabeth did not trouble herself to watch them go. Instead, she gathered the two diamond rings and set them in her husband’s hands. The look he gave her—unguarded, unarmoured, as if she glimpsed him for the very first time—would remain with her always. His fingers closed over the rings, and his eyes shone. He made no attempt to conceal it.

She tiptoed to his ear and whispered, “My door will be open tonight.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE LAST DECLARATION

Darcy clutched the wild violets in his sweaty hand—not too hard because they were already wilting—and swallowed his rising panic as he approached Elizabeth’s bedchamber through the corridor. The evening light still held warmth, and the household had settled into a cautious respite after the Matlocks’ departure. He should be able to breathe again, but his wife had shut herself in her bedchamber, his sister had retired to hers, and Mrs. Annesley and Miss Lucas sat downstairs, companionably engaged in needlework.

He raised his hand, the one without the violets, and stopped short of knocking. He could not use the connecting door, although she had told him her door was open tonight. But for what purpose? After Richard’s vicious public exposure, where it had taken him every ounce of his legendary restraint not to knock the man out cold, and his obvious cooperation with the Matlocks’ investigation—informing them that Elizabeth’s uncle had resided at Bexley House—how could he face anything other than her righteous, well-earned wrath?

She had married him despite her utter dislike. She’d admitted to the entire drawing room that she married him out of sheer practicality—to secure Bennet money for the Bennets, use her uncle’s financial leverage, and treat him not as a romantic prize but as a calculated settlement.

Yet he would not quail, and so he raised his hand again. A Darcy faced his demise with stoic calm—whether she intended to present him with the letters as proof of her contempt, dissolve the legal fiction his cousin had accused her of perpetrating, or tell him in private that she had grown weary of the pretense.

His usual knock. Two sharp raps, a pause and a third—and his voice struggled to emerge, too rough. “Elizabeth. It is—it is Darcy.”

His voice cracked miserably on the second syllable of his name, then absolute, terrifying silence. No crisp answering call, no hurried scuffling of papers from her desk, no peremptory command to wait or go away.

He stood like a complete fool. In his own house, his own corridor in front of his wife’s door. The violets past redeeming.

And then the door opened, and she was there. Elizabeth. The firelight behind her caught the loose ends of her hair where it had come down from its pins, and she wore a dressing gown he had not seen before, cream muslin over white linen. Her eyes found his and widened slightly, and he watched her breath catch—her gaze drop to the violets, then lift back to his face.

“You came through the corridor,” she said.

“I brought you flowers.” He held them up weakly. “They were better an hour ago.”

“Were they?” Her mouth curved. “Then I shall have to imagine them in their prime. Come in, Fitzwilliam.”

The chamber was delightfully warm. A steady fire crackled in the grate, and beside it, on the small writing table Elizabeth had claimed as her own, a stack of documents sat in careful order. Above them, Georgiana’s doll sat on the mantelpiece, its brown glass eyes, glossy black hair, and cream brocade gown gleaming in the firelight.

Elizabeth followed his gaze. “Your father chose that doll. Did you know?”

“I knew it came from Naples. Georgiana found mention of it in his journals once.”

“Yes, Georgiana told me he specified the seed pearls, the glossy hair and the necklace.” Elizabeth touched the doll’s miniature coral necklace. “Henry Bennet carried it across half of Europe because George Darcy asked him to. Because they loved each other like brothers. And now it sits here, watching over us.”