The colonel frowned, thinking. “Not long. A few days, perhaps. They come and go. I cannot say whether it is truly something to concern oneself over.”
Darcy could.
He placed his glass down with careful precision, his mind already turning. If these men had come in the past few days… it meant something.
And he did not like what it meant.
Therhythmicclackofbilliard balls echoed through the dimly lit room. Darcy lined up his shot, focusing on the angle, the trajectory—only for the ball to glance off the side of the pocket, missing entirely.
Bingley, leaning easily on his cue stick, raised a brow. “You missed.”
Darcy exhaled, stepping back from the table. “Astute as ever.”
Bingley chalked his cue tip, his expression shifting from amusement to something closer to curiosity. “And unlike you.”
Darcy said nothing.
Bingley studied him for a moment before turning his attention to his own shot. “Is something the matter?”
“No.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
Bingley took his shot, sinking a ball with practiced ease. “You know,” he said, in a tone that was almost too casual, “I have noticed a change in you of late.”
Darcy’s grip on his cue tightened. “Have you?”
“Indeed.” Bingley straightened, glancing at him. “Since that business with the—what was it? The Holburn affair? Egad, you looked like a ghost when I saw you back in March. I think you went two months complete without eating or sleeping, and you have hardly got much better since.”
Darcy inhaled slowly. He had not expected Bingley to mention that. “A great many things have occupied me.”
“I imagine so.” He hesitated, then added, “Have you had any progress in your petition regarding Pemberley?”
Darcy had been mid-motion, lining up another shot. The question made his muscles tense, his grip falter just enough that the ball veered wide.
Bingley sighed. “Ah. I take that for an answer.”
Darcy straightened, setting down his cue. “It seems unlikely.”
“A blasted shame,” Bingley murmured, shaking his head.
Darcy strode to the sideboard, pouring himself a brandy. The amber liquid caught the low candlelight, reflecting in warm, shifting hues. He took a long drink, closing his eyes briefly against the heat of it.
For a moment, Bingley simply left him to think. To be silent. To drink to the memory of the home he had lost, the family legacy he could no longer claim.
“So… what is next for you?”
Darcy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Bingley gestured vaguely with his cue. “You have a life to get on with, my friend. You cannot put everything on hold and pretend the years are not passing. Pemberley is… well, nothing you can do about that. Butyouare not lost, are you?”
Darcy cleared his throat. This would not do. He thought quickly, hoping to shift the scrutiny away from himself. “I could ask the same of you.”
Bingley let out a short laugh. “What do you mean?”
“You have done well, Bingley. I daresay you have done everything I ever advised you to do.”
