For the first time that day, Darcy’s lips twitched, the faintest shadow of a smile appearing. “Be that as it may, I believe you handled it better than I would have.”
Chapter Nineteen
The sharp scratch ofDarcy’s pen against paper was the only sound in the otherwise silent study. The letter in front of him—another polite, veiled request for his stance on tenant rights and taxation—remained unfinished as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. He set the pen down with a quiet sigh and reached for the stack of correspondence Benedict had delivered that morning.
Most were the usual mix of political inquiries and letters from Derbyshire landowners, their neat script filled with cautious curiosity about his rumored candidacy. But one envelope stood out—a familiar, delicate hand that made him smile the instant he saw it.
Georgiana.
Darcy broke the seal hastily and unfold the letter as if the contents were precious manna.
Dearest Brother,
Ramsgate agrees with me more than I expected. The sea air is invigorating, and Mrs. Younge assures me the change has brightened my countenance considerably. I spend my mornings walking along the promenade and my afternoons with Mr. Harmon, my new music tutor. He is quite talented and patient, though he insists I have great potential to improve. I cannot say I agree with him, but I find myself enjoying the challenge.
The town is livelier than I imagined. I have met several interestingpeople during my walks, though I am careful to keep to Mrs. Younge’s watchful company. The views of the sea are most refreshing, and I find myself looking forward to each new day’s discoveries.
I hope London is not proving too tiresome. I imagine your obligations weigh heavily, but I trust you are handling them with your usual… efficiency. I look forward to seeing you soon, though I must admit, I find Ramsgate pleasantly distracting for now.
With all my love,
Georgiana
Darcy read the letter twice, his brows knitting tighter with each pass. She sounded… content. The lines were free from the melancholy that had plagued her letters from London. Her words painted images of breezy seaside walks, lively conversations, and music lessons she did not seem to dread. There was even a spark of curiosity in her descriptions of Ramsgate’s bustling promenade and its ever-changing faces.
He exhaled slowly, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he had been right to send her away, after all. The decision had weighed on him heavily—too heavily, if he were honest—but this letter was proof that space and distance had been what she needed. Away from London’s scrutiny, she was finding her footing again.
For the first time in weeks, the gnawing worry at the back of his mind receded. Georgiana was safe. She was well. And that, more than anything, gave him the clarity to focus on what lay ahead. He folded the letter carefully and placed it in his desk drawer. There were more immediate matters at hand.
Darcy reached for the next letter in the pile, this one marked with the seal of Sir Frederick, the magistrate in Derbyshire. He broke it open, his eyes scanningquickly.
Mr. Darcy,
I write to inform you of recent developments that warrant your immediate attention. Stanton’s influence continues to grow more aggressive, though his methods remain carefully crafted to avoid outright legal scrutiny. His men have been visiting smaller freeholders—those with just enough land to qualify for the vote—offering unusually favorable lease terms and trade agreements in exchange for their political support. While no direct bribes have been reported, the intent behind these arrangements is clear enough to those of us familiar with his tactics.
Additionally, there have been signs of unrest among tenants, particularly near the lands Stanton recently acquired surrounding Lambton. Several customary grazing rights and access to common woodland have been quietly revoked, leading to disputes between tenants and land agents. While I have intervened in several cases to prevent escalation, my authority is limited where the law favors Stanton’s property rights. The discontent, however, is growing, and if left unchecked, it may spill beyond civil dispute into open resistance.
I have managed to maintain order for the time being, but the mood in the region is shifting. Stanton’s promises of reform appeal to some, while others grow wary of his rapid accumulation of land and power. But I hadword yesterday that you have formally declared your intent to stand for Derbyshire. I applaud you sir, and I daresay, your victory would go a long way in steadying the community. You have supporters in the county, though perhaps not as many as necessary. I shall do what I can to speak on your behalf, sir, for we are in dire need of new leadership.
With respect,
Sir Frederick Montague
Magistrate
Darcy set the letter down, his fingers lingering on the page as his mind tumbled over the implications. Sir Frederick's support was not something to be taken lightly. He would have to reply back with his gratitude, but that was not the point that dominated his thoughts.
Stanton’s tactics were more insidious than he had anticipated—offering legal favors that skirted the edge of corruption without leaving enough evidence to challenge in court. It was a clever game, one Darcy could no longer afford to ignore.
He stood and began pacing the length of his study. The battle lines were being drawn in Derbyshire, but the real war—the one that would decide public opinion—was happening in London’s drawing rooms and political clubs. He needed to write to every man currently in Derbyshire to assure them of his intentions, his reliability, his integrity. And he must secure the support of those influential Derbyshire landowners who were currently in Town, the ones whose voices could sway others.
Then, there was Elizabeth. Whether he liked it or not, her presence at his side was becoming more than just a strategy. Her sharp wit and appearance of simple honesty had already won over people who might otherwise dismiss him as another distant aristocrat. She made him approachable, human, in a way he could not achieve alone. She had, indeed, been… useful. More than once.
But it was not merely the political advantage she offered that occupied his thoughts. He had come to rely on her presence more than he cared to admit. Her quick intelligence challenged him, her unflinching gaze unsettled him, and the curve of her smile—when itwas genuine, when it was forhim—had a way of lingering in his mind far longer than it should.
Yet even as he acknowledged this, Darcy forced himself to retreat behind the familiar walls of reason. This was a charade for public consumption, nothing more. A performance carefully orchestrated to sway voters and solidify alliances. He was a Darcy of Pemberley, heir to a legacy that demanded prudence and propriety. Marriage to someone so far beneath his station, however captivating she might be, was unthinkable.
And yet, the lines between truth and pretense had already begun to blur. When he stood beside her, when their eyes met across a crowded room or in the quiet corners of a garden, he sometimes forgot where the performance ended and something far more dangerous began.
