“Oh, but it is,” I said, biting back another giggle. “At least it seems Ewan is on your side.”
Darcy’s eyes flicked toward the empty space again, and he muttered under his breath, “It’s not loyalty to me. He just hates redcoats.”
“That is understandable, given his history.”
Before Darcy could respond, his body stiffened again, and his eyes suddenly shifted toward the far corner of the room. He went still, like a man holding his breath.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?” I asked, having learned by now to read the signs. The sudden stillness, the change in Darcy’s gaze—it all pointed to Ewan’s abrupt departure.
Darcy exhaled slowly and nodded. “Yes. For now, at least.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” I said, leaning back slightly in my chair. “Though I must admit, I rather enjoy watching you squirm when he’s around.”
Darcy shot me a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You would.”
“You know, you still haven’t told me what he said to you earlier. That thing that made you turn so... red.”
Darcy’s face colored again just at the mention of it. “Miss Bennet, I assure you, not everything that comes out of Ewan McLean’s mouth is fit for a lady’s ears.”
I raised an eyebrow, half expecting him to elaborate, but he clamped his mouth shut. “Ah, I see,” I said lightly, leaning forward with a conspiratorial smile. “I suppose I’ll just have to ask him myself, then. If he is capable of writing notes, perhaps he will write one to me.”
His eyes widened, and he sputtered slightly. “You will do no such thing.”
I couldn’t help but laugh again. “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Darcy. I wouldn’t dream of putting you in such an uncomfortable position. For now, I’ll let it remain a mystery.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said, though he still looked slightly uneasy, as if Ewan might return at any moment to resume his antics.
I stood up from the table and adjusted my cloak. “Since our ‘chaperone’ has disappeared, I suppose I should take my leave as well.”
Darcy rose from his seat, ever the gentleman, though I could see a flicker of relief in his eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t sure how much longer he could maintain his composure with both me and a meddlesome ghost in the room.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice softer now. “Thank you. For... listening. For everything. You’ve given me more grace than I deserve.”
I smiled, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his tone that caught me off guard. “It is I who should thank you, Mr. Darcy. You’ve entrusted me with something very important, and I assure you, I will keep my word.”
His gaze lingered on mine, and for a moment, there was something unspoken between us—something that felt deeper than the playful teasing or even the strange circumstances that had brought us here.
I nodded once more, then turned toward the door. “Until next time, Mr. Darcy.”
He inclined his head. “Until next time.”
Twenty-Four
Darcy
The box arrived unceremoniouslyone chilly afternoon, left in the drawing room by a footman who hadn’t bothered to mention it until I asked if the post had arrived.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the unassuming wooden crate. Inside it were pieces of my past I hadn’t realized I missed so keenly until this very moment—my grandmother’s journals, bound in worn leather, the spines surely creased from her careful hands.
It had been years since I’d thought of those journals. Even longer since I’d seen her handwriting—elegant but steady, the kind of penmanship that spoke of discipline rather than flair. Grandmother had always been practical, always composed, evenwhen recounting the most sentimental of things. I remembered that well from my childhood.
I took the box upstairs to my room, waving off the offer of help from a servant. This was a task I wanted to handle alone. There was something deeply personal about unwrapping these small relics of my past, and I found myself uncharacteristically eager to sit down and leaf through them.
Once inside my room, I set the box on the desk, cutting through the twine that had held the lid in place. The scent of aged paper and faint lavender—her favorite fragrance—drifted up to greet me, pulling me back in time before I even laid eyes on the journals themselves. My fingers stilled on the wood as a pang of nostalgia hit me.
Lavender. I had never cared for it much as a boy, but now... now it felt like home.
And reminded me of another lady—one who wasnotmy grandmother.
