Agitated, Darcy pushed himself out of the chair and stood before the hearth, staring into the flames as if they might hold the answer. His entire life had been built on responsibility—his duty to his family and those who depended upon them. Pemberley had been his reward for that steadfast adherence to principle. He had earned it.
But if he kept silent, what kind of man would he become? Darcy locked his hands together behind his back. He could have Pemberley or his honour—but not both.
The fire’s glow dimmed as Darcy continued to stare into the flames long into the night, the weight of the decision hovering over him like a shroud.
The sunrise found him still in his study, eyes gritty with exhaustion, and resolved upon a plan.
For now, he would say nothing. He needed more information, more time. After all, Mr. Bennet mightnotbe the missing heir. A few physical likenesses, no matter how much they reminded him of his father, were not enough for Darcy to relinquish his birthright. He would speak with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana first. Fitzwilliam had always been his confidant, and Darcy had never needed him more.
The thought of telling his sister, however, made his chest ache. She loved Pemberley as much as he did. To tell her that it mightnot be theirs, to shake the foundation of everything she knew—it would break her heart anew, just as it was beginning to mend from the events of last summer. Fitzwilliam would understand the logic, but his protective nature combined with his loyalty to the Darcys now in possession of the family seat would complicate everything.
He would send word to Fitzwilliam. Georgiana was already here, returned from Matlock House when the rest of Fitzwilliam’s family had left for Derbyshire. He would approach her when the time was right, but not today. He needed more time to decide how to tell her without causing unnecessary distress. Fitzwilliam could help with that. As her guardians, perhaps they could tell her together.
For now, the secret would remain his. But not for long.
When he stood, he felt aged, like an ancient oak trying vainly to support its branches. He sighed deeply, then took his first step towards the uncertain future that lay ahead.
His cousin Fitzwilliam arrived before noon, his military bearing evident in his swift, purposeful stride. The study door closed behind him, and he stood as though for inspection, his fingers curling into his palms as though preparing for a brawl.
“Darcy, your note was unusually terse, even for you. What is amiss? Is Georgiana well?”
“She is well.”
Fitzwilliam’s tension eased slightly. “What, then?”
Darcy gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I find myself in need of your counsel on a delicate matter.”
His cousin's keen eyes studied him. “You look as though you have not slept.”
“I have not.” Darcy reached for the journal that lay before him, hesitating before touching its worn leather cover. “I may be allowing my imagination to run wild, but I cannot shake a troubling possibility.” He pushed it across the desk. “Read this entry. February eighteenth, seventeen fifty-eight.”
The colonel did as bid, his face growing thoughtful as he absorbed the words. When he finished, he looked up. “And?”
“There is a man—”
Fitzwilliam knew at once where Darcy’s thoughts tended. “You have reason to think you have found some trace of this child?” His words were laced with doubt. “That he yet lives?”
“I cannot be certain. Indeed, I may be entirely mistaken.” Darcy rose, unable to remain still despite his weariness. “But there are similarities between a Mr Bennet of Longbourn and my father that I cannot discount. Small things, perhaps insignificant.” He broke off, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “It may be nothing at all. Yet if there is even the slightest chance . . .”
Fitzwilliam was silent for a long moment, considering. “After fifty years, Darcy, it would be nigh impossible to prove that your Mr. Bennet is in fact this missing twin.”
“I know.” Darcy's voice was tight. “But it might be possible to prove that he isnot.”
“And if you are unable to do so?” Fitzwilliam’s expression was stoic, which did not fool Darcy in the least. He sighed.
“Then at least I will have a clear conscience. I will know that I have done my best.”
Fitzwilliam studied him silently. “You are determined, then.”
Darcy chuckled unhappily. “Would you expect any less?”
The colonel stared at him and at last shook his head. “No, I suppose I would not.” He tapped his fingers absently against the arm of his chair, his gaze drifting toward the fire, which he stoodto feed and coax back to life. “Still, this is no small undertaking. It will require a good deal of patience and a great deal of luck.”
Darcy’s mouth twisted wryly. “I have never been fond of relying solely on patience or luck.”
“No, you have not.” Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs and warming himself by the hearth. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought.
“Do you recall that incident at Cambridge? The mathematics competition?”
