Bingley let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a bark. “You are out of your depth.”
Miss Bingley ignored him. “These letters, as well as the others still in Mr. Wickham’s keeping, could vanish. Permanently. Along with any future mention of Miss Bennet’s writing. No more pamphlets. No more speculation. No more shame.”
Darcy stared at the fire, one hand flexing slowly at his side. “And in return?”
She gave a single, graceful nod. “An understanding between us. A future alliance.”
Bingley moved. “Caroline! You cannot mean—”
“Oh, do be quiet, Charles. You do not understand what is at stake.”
Darcy turned fully to face her. “You believe you are the answer. The solution to a mess you yourself created.”
“I believe,” she said carefully, “that I can contain it.”
“You unleashed it!”
“And I can bury it again.”
Darcy looked at the packet—Georgiana’s hand. Her letters. Her vulnerability caught in a stranger’s grasp. And then he looked to Miss Bingley. Steady. Unrepentant. Calculating.
“I would see the city burn before I allowed your name to touch hers,” he said. “Or mine.”
A flicker—she flinched. Not visibly. Not enough for Bingley to see. But Darcy caught it.
“Take your letters,” he said. “Return them to Wickham. Frame them if you wish. I will find the rest.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth parted. A single breath, like steam escaping.
Darcy turned to Bingley. “You wished to know the truth. Now you do. Your sister is a viper.”
He moved to the door.
“Darcy—” Bingley started.
“Keep her out of my path.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Chapter Thirty-Two
2 January
Darcy closed the frontdoor behind him and stilled. His gloves remained in his hand, forgotten.
He had just come from Brook Street, where Mr. Ashford had received him with the poise of a man rehearsed in disappointment. No raised voice. No outright accusation. Just regret—and a firm reminder that his daughter’s prospects must be safeguarded. Penelope, for her part, had not come downstairs. Not even to offer tea.
He had walked home through the cold, wind slicing past his collar, trying to calculate the next steps. The banns had not yet been called. There was still time to salvage appearances. Dyer might spin something for the newspapers. Penelope might be persuaded to hold—if the scandal could be suffocated quickly.
And Elizabeth—
He dragged the thought aside. There was no time. No room. Not when Georgiana's future might depend on the next letter he sent or did not send.
The air inside carried voices. Low. Intentional. Not the idle murmur of servants or Georgiana’s scales from the music room. This was the sound of waiting. Of something already begun.
The drawing room door stood open, just far enough to suggest invitation. Or ambush. He stepped forward and saw the hats first. Matlock’s was still dusted with snow. Dyer’s rested like a ledger’s promise on the table by the stairs.
Uninvited.
