“Yes, precisely,” Bingley replied, nodding eagerly. “I understand the owner is interested in a potential lease?”
The coachman’s eye narrowed, glancing back toward the house. “You said you were leaving your card at the house. But… you looked as though you were returning to your carriage. Where would you go at this hour?”
Bingley shifted, glancing at Darcy before answering. “Er—yes, well, we were, actually. We meant only to see the grounds, and thought we’d lodge at the inn in Meryton tonight. It was, perhaps, a bit of… curiosity. We meant to return for a proper call in the morning.”
The coachman’s expression did not change, but he nodded slowly, as if mulling over the answer. “Hm. Curious or no, my master would not care for it if he knew visitors from London were left to the cold. Best you have your driver bring the carriage up to the house.”
Darcy stiffened. “We would not want to impose upon the master, unannounced as we are. I am sure he would prefer our call to be arranged through the agent at a more suitable hour.”
Jackson’s eye glinted, the faintest hint of amusement. “It’s late, sir. Best to come inside, as the master would want.”
Bingley, already eager, took Darcy’s silence for agreement. “Then, by all means, let us come up! I thank you, Mr. Jackson.” He signaled to the driver, who guided the carriage up the main drive as the coachman led the way toward the grand entrance.
Darcy followed, thoroughly unsettled. He leaned toward Bingley as they walked, keeping his voice low. “You realize this is the sort of boldness most men would avoid.”
Bingley gave him a cheerful nudge. “Well, it is fortunate I am not most men, then, isn’t it?”
“Really, Darcy,” Bingley saidwith a chuckle, “you look as if you’re headed to the scaffold, not an evening call. Relax a little! The coachman assured us, remember? The master would welcome visitors.”
Darcy raised a skeptical brow. “This is the very height of impropriety, Bingley, and you know it. Arriving unannounced—practically trespassing in the dead of night—”
“Hardly trespassing when we have a man of the house’s own staff escorting us to the door,” Bingley countered.
“Perhaps the master is rather like something out of the German folk tales and devours would-be guests as soon as they let down their guards.”
“Now, Darcy, that is an outrageous thing to say, even for you.”
Darcy pressed his lips into a thin line, determined to maintain his disapproval. “Perhaps, but if we are held up for money or, more likely, sent away on the spot, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Not to worry,” Bingley replied, grinning as he adjusted his gloves. “If I were the master, I would be positively thrilled to greet prospective tenants, especially in such a dismal economy. And if we are turned away, well—we’ll have tried. You cannot say we did not have a pleasant drive today.”
The carriage slowed to a halt before the grand entryway, and Darcy sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable as the footman opened the door. The two men climbed out, Darcy taking a moment to assess the front of the house. It was imposing in the dark, the stonework faintly visible under the glow of lantern light, casting long shadows across the weathered steps.
As they climbed the stairs, the heavy front door swung open. A man with neatly combed hair and a serious expression appeared, bowing in greeting. His left sleeve was pinned up to the elbow, and Darcy noticed with some surprise that he was missing his right hand.
“Good evening, sirs,” the man said with an amiable nod. “The master awaits you. If you would be so kind as to follow me to the drawing room, he will join you shortly.”
They stepped inside, and as the man led them down a hallway, Bingley shot Darcy a sidelong glance. After the man departed, closing the drawing room door behind him, Bingley raised an eyebrow. “Well, that was unexpected. Do you suppose the fellow lost his hand in battle?”
“Perhaps,” Darcy murmured, glancing around the room, though he couldn’t quite shake his unease. “From what I gather, this ‘baronet’ has a rather singular approach to staffing his estate. It would seem he employs those… who may find it difficult to secure work elsewhere.”
“Admirable, I’d say.” Bingley strolled to the plush sofa in front of the fireplace and sank into it, stretching his arms out along the back. “He’s clearly not a man to shrink from bestowing a bit of goodwill. In fact, I rather like the fellow already.”
Darcy, however, remained standing, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the room. He was about to speak when the door opened again, and a voice echoed from the hallway.
“My apologies, gentlemen, if you have been kept waiting.”
Darcy had just turned his gaze to a painting over the mantel, but at the sound of the voice, he froze. His stomach dropped, and a strange tightness gripped his chest. Heknewthat voice.
Spinning around, his heart pounding in disbelief, he found himself face to face with Sir Thomas Ashford. Sir Thomas stopped in the doorway, his shock registering as his face paled slightly.
“Darcy! And… and Bingley! Why, is it really you? This is a pleasant surprise, indeed.”
For a moment, Darcy was too stunned to speak, his mind scrambling to reconcile the tall, familiar figure before him with the very different setting around them. It was Sir Thomas—his old benefactor from Calais, the man who had once risked his own security, fortune… even his life to see them safely across the Channel. But the last Darcy had heard, Sir Thomas had retired to Bath, far removed from the responsibilities of country estates.
Bingley broke the silence, clearing his throat as he stepped forward, his voice faltering just slightly. “Sir Thomas! It is a pleasure, truly… though, I confess, an unexpected one. We were not aware Netherfield was yours.”
Sir Thomas smiled, his eyes brightening with genuine warmth. “And this is certainly the last place I ever expected to encounter either of you again. Fate has an interesting way of arranging things, does it not?” His gaze softened as he looked between them. “But please, sit. I trust your journey was pleasant?”
