“That’s what makes them interesting,” I said with a grin, holding up a particularly aged-looking paper. “Look at this—it’s from the year 1700! I’m practically touching history.”
“You’re touching something dusty,” he corrected, stepping closer to peer at the paper in my hand. “And most likely irrelevant.”
“Is it?” I squinted at the document, trying to make sense of the elaborate script. “What is it, then? Some kind of land agreement?”
Father sighed. “That, my dear, is a very old lease agreement for a tenant farmer. Hardly riveting.”
“Maybe not to you,” I said, glancing at it again. “But I find it fascinating how everything is so… connected. The land, the families, the history of it all.”
“If you’d been born a son, you’d have made an excellent steward, but a rather useless master. Far too inquisitive for your own good.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said brightly, rolling up the paper and setting it aside.
Father moved to sit at his desk, shuffling some of the papers I had displaced. “You know, Lizzy, not everything in this library is meant for idle curiosity.”
I shrugged, unrepentant. “Perhaps not. But you leave it all lying about as if you’re waiting for someone to discover it.”
“I leave it all lying about because no one else is usually fool enough to wade through these old ledgers and documents.”
“Foolishness or curiosity?” I asked, smiling at him. “There’s a fine line between the two.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “One you seem determined to dance upon.”
I reached for another book, my fingers brushing the worn leather cover. “There’s so much history in these pages,” I murmured. “All these names and events, shaping everything around us, even now.”
Father leaned back in his chair, watching me with an indulgent expression. “And what is it you hope to find in all this history, Lizzy?”
I paused, thinking about it. “Maybe I just want to understand how things work. The estate, the land... why we’re all tied to it the way we are.”
“And here I thought you only cared for novels.”
“I’m more complicated than you give me credit for,” I said with a smirk, turning the page in the ancient book I had picked up.
“So you keep reminding me.” Eventually, he sighed again, a long-suffering sound I’d heard many times before.
“You really should leave these things alone, you know.”
I grinned. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
Three
Darcy
The rain had startedup again by the time I reached Arthurson & Wilkes. Fitting, I thought. Of course, it would rain on the day I was dragged away from the comforts of Netherfield for some inheritance I didn’t even know existed.
The office was unremarkable. Dark wood, old volumes lining the shelves—what one might expect from any respectable solicitor in London. A man behind the desk looked up as I entered, giving me the kind of look that said he was used to dealing with men of means but found them all rather tedious.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said, standing quickly and giving a brief bow. “John Arthurson. Please, do sit.”
I did not sit. “You sent for me about an inheritance.”
His lips twitched into something like a smile. “Indeed, sir. The matter concerns a recently deceased connection of yours—one Miss Isobel McLean.”
McLean. The name didn’t spark the faintest recognition. I stared at him, hoping this was some ridiculous mistake. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Arthurson nodded as though this was perfectly expected. “No, I didn’t imagine you would. Miss McLean was quite an elderly lady, passed just last month at the age of eighty-three. The connection is somewhat distant, but the legalities are clear. She was... shall we say, an associate of your grandmother’s.”
I frowned. “An associate?”
