The letter was sealed with a plain red wafer. No crest. No ceremony. Just a name scrawled across the front in a hand he recognized as belonging to a junior secretary under Lord Sidmouth.
Darcy broke the seal with his thumb and scanned the page.
Your transfer request is granted.
Expect departure within the week. You are advised to prepare any immediate family or dependents for extended absence. Further instruction to follow.
His lips thinned. That was all. No formal approval yet, no post named, but it might as well have been done. It was coming. Portugal, almost certainly. Lisbon, if he was lucky. Somewhere more remote, if not. He folded the letter carefully, tucked it into his coat, and stood.
The ache in his shoulder was a warning, but he ignored it. He could take a carriage. It was a long walk to Mayfair, and his boots were not new.
But a carriage cost money—and he had spent enough of that during his convalescence to make even a gentleman feel unease. He preferred the control of his own two feet, and besides… walking cleared the mind.
Or at least, it used to.
He set out just before midday. The streets of Westminster were already warm with the breath of summer, and the air hung thick with dust. He kept his head down as he crossed into St. James’s and then past Piccadilly, weaving his way toward the familiar grid of streets he once walked with such easy confidence.
Each block brought back the memory of another life. Turning the corner at Bond Street felt like stepping into a painting—one he could no longer touch.
He meant to go straight to Matlock house. To speak to Georgiana, to tell her what little he could about what came next. But then, as he passed into the heart of Mayfair, his eyes caught on something that stole his breath.
A placard. Tied with blue ribbon to the wrought-iron gate of a tall, stately home.
FOR SALE.
Inquire within.
Darcy stopped walking.
Because this was not just any house. This washishouse.
Or rather, it had been.
The London townhouse of the Darcy family—Pemberley House, as it had once been styled, though there was no longer any Pemberley title to speak of—stood quiet behind its neat fence. The windows were shuttered. The knocker polished. The brick the same golden-red as he remembered.
Only the sign had changed.
He stood there so long that someone on horseback passed him twice.
Darcy’s lips parted, but no sound escaped. The sensation was oddly physical—like finding a blade buried in his ribs after the duel was long over. He swallowed, a sour taste rising behind his teeth. How many times had he walked that threshold as a boy? How many hours had he spent pressed against the balustrade of that balcony, listening to summer thunder?
His feet carried him closer without conscious thought. His hand lifted toward the gate.
He wanted to leave. Heshouldleave. Matlock’s townhouse was only five doors down. Georgiana was waiting. But the ache in his shoulder suddenly pulsed with more than pain. It was something else. Something cold and bitter and ancient.
Anger. Not at fate. Not at the king. Not even at Wickham.
But at himself—for allowing it to feel like grief. For feeling anything at all.
The front door creaked open, and a young man in a cravat too bold for the neighborhood poked his head out.
“Looking to view the property, sir?” he chirped.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “I have… ‘viewed’ it before.”
The young man blinked. “Ah. Well—uh—it just came available, sir. We have a viewing scheduled in half an hour, but I can make allowances. Would you care to have another look inside, sir?”
Darcy hesitated, the question hanging in the air. His initial impulse was to decline, to walk away and leave the past undisturbed. Yet, an inexplicable urge rooted his feet to the spot. Before he fully comprehended his own decision, he found himself nodding.
