I hesitated for a brief second, then nodded. “Of course. You can take the book with you, if you like. My family will be wondering where I am, and I imagine you’ll want more time to go through it carefully.”
Darcy’s expression softened slightly, and he gave me a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Miss Bennet. I appreciate your help more than you know.”
I stood, brushing a stray curl from my face. “I’m only curious about what else we might uncover. Perhaps we’ll discover that this mystery has a very simple explanation after all.”
“I hope so,” he murmured, closing the book and rising to his feet as well. His height struck me again—as it always did when I stood this close to him—and for a moment, I felt a strange flutter in my chest. It was disconcerting, this odd awareness of Mr. Darcy as more than just an irritating puzzle to be solved.
He lingered by the door, holding the book under his arm. “Miss Bennet,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “I know you’ve humored me throughout all this. And for that, I... thank you.”
I raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “If I didn’t believesomethingwas going on, Mr. Darcy, I wouldn’t be here.”
For the first time, he offered me a real smile—small, but sincere. “Then I shall consider myself fortunate.”
He left the cottage, disappearing into the night, and I was left standing alone, still feeling the strange way my heart had stuttered when he smiled. This was a man I had once thought insufferable, and yet... I couldn’t help but be drawn in. Not just by the mystery, but by him.
Nineteen
Darcy
Islammed the doorto my room and tossed the book onto the desk. The chair creaked as I fell into it, not wasting a moment before cracking open the pages.An Account of the Glorious Fight at Culloden... Thanks to Elizabeth Bennet, it was the most promising lead I’d found since this nightmare began, and I wasn’t about to squander it. Oh, but first, I had those letters to write.
I reached for my pen and scratched out the letter to my solicitor—my handwriting barely legible in my haste. I needed details. Why Isobel McLean had named me her heir was a mystery I had neglected for too long, but it could hold the key to this madness. The letter done, I moved straight to the next—one to Mrs. Reynolds at Pemberley, instructing her to send anythingof my grandmother’s she could find. Letters, journals—anything that could give me answers.
But even as I sealed the letters, my eyes kept drifting back to the book. I hadn’t seen Ewan McLean’s name in it yet, but surely, it was only a matter of formality. There were hundreds of names listed after the battle—soldiers who had died, clansmen taken prisoner—but no Ewan yet.
I flipped through the pages again, scanning for any hint of Ewan’s name, but nothing stood out. McLeans, yes—but not him. It didn’t make sense. Ewan had sworn he’d died at Culloden, and yet there was no trace of him here. Had he lied? Or was this list incomplete? That seemed the most likely case. Too many bodies to count—it was a wonder there was a list of names at all. The whole thing was maddening. I rubbed a hand over my face, wondering if there was any end to this insanity.
It was Elizabeth Bennet’s voice that interrupted my thoughts—a memory of her questioning tone from earlier. “Why not simply get rid of it?”She had made it sound so simple, as if tossing away the brooch would end everything. As if I hadn’t tried it already! But it was not the obvious question that made my thoughts keep returning to her. It was the pragmatic way she had asked, with such honest curiosity that, for a moment, it had made the madness seem... like she believed me. And somehow, that alone made the whole thing feel somewhat more manageable.
Elizabeth Bennet.The afternoon with her had been… revealing. And not entirely unpleasant. Her sharpness, her refusal to accept things at face value, had been a surprise, but perhaps not as much as the fact that she had taken me seriously at all. She had looked at me as if she wasn’t sure whether to pity or believe me, but she had still helped. That alone was... unsettling. She’d not only humored my tale but had brought real help, something tangible, like the book that now sat in front of me.
I flipped through the book again, my patience wearing thin as I scanned page after page. Ewan’s name wasn’t there. My pulse quickened.
“Where are you?” I muttered, flipping through the pages faster, frustration mounting with every name I scanned.
“Ye’ll no’ find it, ye ken.”
I froze, the now-familiar brogue making my skin prickle. Ewan leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed.
I didn’t look up from the book. “You told me you died at Culloden. Your name should be here.”
“Ach, it’s there,” he replied with a shrug. “Ye’re just no’ lookin’ right.”
I scowled, scanning the list of McLeans again. No “Ewan” in sight. “I’ve looked twice.”
Ewan stepped forward, peering over my shoulder. “That one there—aye, could be me. Or that one,” he added, tapping the name of another McLean. “My…” he squinted. “My brither.”
“Eoghan?” My tongue twisted as I tried to wrap it around the word.
“Nay, ye’ve got it wrong. Say it like ‘Ohh-wen.’ Aye, but it looks like my name, does it no’?”
“But it is not your name,” I snapped, glaring at him. “You’re not even listed.”
Ewan waved a hand dismissively. “Wee bit of confusion is all. Happens when ye’ve got half a clan fightin’. Hard tae keep us all straight, aye?”
I slammed the book shut and stood up. “You expect me to believe that?”
Ewan’s grin didn’t waver. “What else d’ye think, lad? I told ye I was at Culloden, didn’t I? I’m dead, nae matter. Not my fault if some scribe forgot to put me down proper.”
