“Beeswax candles,” said Bingley, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You see, they’re far superior to tallow. Cleaner burn, longer lasting, less smoke. The French were using them everywhere, and I thought—why not bring them to England? But I’d need capital. More than I can scrape together on my own.” He glanced at Darcy, his smile hopeful but tentative.
“You want a loan?”
“Oh, no! No, not merely a loan. I need someone sharp—someone who knows how to create order of things and is clever with money. I am dashed cunning with the ideas and… well, I am a fair hand at forming partnerships, seeing opportunities, that sort of thing, but no man has every skill. It’s a lucky fellow who finds a perfect complement to his own talents, they say. I… Well, I was hopingyoumight consider partnering with me.”
For a moment, Darcy was silent, his eyes fixed on Bingley’s. This was not what he had expected. He had assumed the young man might ask for help in climbing London’s social ladder—a polite introduction here, a whispered recommendation there. He was used to such favors and had learned to dispense them with a kind of detached grace.
But this… this was about business, a venture that would require Darcy to step into a world he had always kept at arm’s length.
“Bingley,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “I am grateful for what you did, more than I can say. It is no exaggeration to state that I may owe you my very life. But you must understand… I do not engage in trade. It is not… well, it’s not the way of my family.”
Bingley’s brow furrowed. “Well, of course, I am not entirely simple. But surely you have investments?”
“I do,” said Darcy, with a nod. “Shares in established companies, certain… ventures that ensure steady returns. But I do not speculate. My family has always preferred to collect interest on capital, not risk the principal. And I am to inherit my father’s estate someday, so employment of that nature is… well, I can see you understand.”
For a moment, Bingley’s shoulders sagged, and Darcy felt a pang of guilt twist in his chest. He had expected Bingley to be disappointed, perhaps even hurt, but instead, the young man simply gave a resigned nod and rolled his bandaged shoulder, wincing slightly as he did.
“I understand,” Bingley said, his voice light, though there was a strain beneath it. “No hard feelings, of course. It was a silly idea, anyway. Just thought I’d ask.”
Oh, blast. How could he refuse such a cheerful request? Good heavens, Bingley had hardly stopped bleeding! Could he not find some decency in himself to return such a favor? Darcy opened his mouth to speak, but before he could find the right words, the ship’s bell rang, loud and clear. The call for boarding had begun, and the crew shouted for the passengers to make their way on board. The tide was shifting; they had to move.
Darcy hesitated, the urge to walk away battling with a nagging sense of obligation.“Anything,”he had promised, and now, faced with the opportunity, he was recoiling. Egad, he was a blackguard and a coward. He owed the man his life!
He took a deep breath, glancing up at the ship, where Richard was already waving impatiently. Then he looked back at Bingley, who had turned away slightly, already preparing to board, cradling his right arm and listing somewhat to the starboard as he walked.
“Wait.”
Bingley paused, turning back.
Darcy swallowed, tasting the bitterness of his own words. “I’ll do it. I’ll… I’ll back you on the candles.”
Bingley’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face, followed quickly by a broad, disbelieving grin. “You’ll back me? Or you willpartnerwith me?”
“Partners,” Darcy said, and despite himself, he felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “You saved my life, Bingley. The least I can do is… risk a little capital.”Socialcapital that was… but could he truly do less?
Bingley’s grin widened, and he stretched forth his right hand to pump Darcy’s so hard that he nearly knocked him off balance.
“Well then, you won’t regret it! We’ll make a fortune, you’ll see. And if we don’t, well…” He shrugged, still smiling. “We’ll have some very nice candles.”
One
November 1811
London
“Darcy, for Mercy’s sake,when was the last time you smiled at something that wasn’t an income ledger?”
Bingley was pacing again. Restless, no doubt. He had been like this for weeks now, fidgeting in meetings, sighing loudly over reports, and coming up with endless excuses to get away from his desk. Darcy found it mildly irritating, though he could hardly blame the man. Bingley had never been one for details, for the daily grind of keeping their empire running smoothly. He was explosions of brilliance, barely contained in his mortal coil—indeed, Bingley was the sort of man who left Darcy in awe of his energy and inspiration at times.
But at other times, it felt like he was trapped in a room with a moonstruck cat that was forever climbing the drapes and shredding the furniture.
Darcy glanced down at the report in front of him—a promising shipping forecast from Calais—pretending not to hear the question. Numbers, figures, logistics. These things made sense. They had always made sense. He was good at them.
Bingley had the instincts, the charm, the wild ideas that somehow—against all odds—worked. But it was Darcy who made it all run, who ensured they never missed a payment or a shipment, who turned Bingley’s flights of fancy into something tangible, something profitable. Into the monster that was DarBing Enterprises—a name Darcy had mocked mercilessly until the business proved worthy.
“I smile,” he said, keeping his voice even as his quill scratched across the paper. “Occasionally.”
Bingley made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Ah, yes. You save those rare grins for particularly favorable shipping manifests. But even then, it’s more of a grimace, if I’m being honest.”
