Georgiana sat near the hearth, spine upright but drawn, her hands laced in her lap. On the opposite side of the room, Lord Matlock leaned on his cane with both hands, flanked by Mr. Dyer with his little leather ledger closed tight, and Lady Catherine seated stiffly as a caryatid.
No greetings. No pretense.
"You are late," Matlock said without turning.
"I was attending to business," Darcy replied, stepping inside. His coat remained buttoned.
Mr. Dyer stood up, unsmiling. "There has been a great deal of it. Especially since New Year’s."
Darcy’s eyes moved to Georgiana. She did not lift her head, but one foot tapped once against the carpet and then went still.
He turned to the others. "Let us not play at subtlety. You are not here for dinner."
Lady Catherine lifted her chin. “So. You have returned at last.”
“I had business to attend.”
“Better than what your name has been attending, if half the rumors are true,” she said. “The servants are in agony with the suspense.”
Lord Matlock, without rising, gestured to the empty chair across from him. “You may as well sit. You know why we have come.”
“I can guess,” Darcy said. “Though I had hoped you might have the courtesy to let me remove my gloves first.”
“We have all indulged you long enough,” Matlock said. “The calendar does not pause for decency. The trust dissolves in thirty-seven days.”
Lady Catherine scoffed. “If it lasts that long.”
Mr. Dyer shifted, opening the little brown ledger with the gravity of a man entering a duel. “Lord Matlock is correct. The trust must be resolved before your thirtieth birthday. The marriage provision was intended to forestall precisely this sort of scandal.”
Darcy’s teeth clenched.
The dowager—silent until now—gave a sudden snort from her corner chair. “And yet here we are. Thirty years of management and not one ounce of tact between the lot of you.”
Everyone turned.
She raised her teacup. “Proceed. It is not every day one is summoned to watch her grandson publicly harpooned.”
Dyer cleared his throat. “The concern, Mr. Darcy, is not merely your delay in marrying. It is the current instability surrounding your engagements—both personal and social.”
Darcy sat back.
Lady Catherine gave a sharp rap of her cane on the rug. “It was only a matter of time before the Ashfords revealed their true colors. Thin-skinned tradespeople masquerading as gentry. The girl has been whisked back to Richmond as though she were some tragic heroine—when the real tragedy is the embarrassment this entire affair has cast upon your name. And Georgiana’s. There are whispers, Fitzwilliam, whispers. Do you understand what that means for the family?”
“Not gossip,” Matlock said. “Blackmail. And for once, you are not the one wielding it, Catherine.”
The dowager clicked her tongue. “What did I miss? Has someone grown a conscience?”
Matlock did not flinch. “I spoke with Ashford myself. He will not proceed unless you issue a public denial. He named her only as thatgirlfrom Gracechurch Street.”
Darcy’s fingers dug into the arm of his chair. “Her name,” he said tightly, “is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Lady Catherine made a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “Yes. And she is a scandal. One you have refused to dismiss, no matter how many chances you have had.”
“I have done nothing to shelter her.”
“You have done nothing to stop the connection,” Matlock said. “Nothing to quiet the rumors.”
“I have spoken no word in her defense. And every moment I remained silent, the words sank deeper. I spoke nothing because I believed that any denial from me would be taken as confirmation of something more scandalous—something tangible. Therefore, I have issued no denials. I have sent no letters. Whatever charity I showed—” He stopped. His jaw tensed. “It was private.”
