Darcy’s jaw locked.
Lady Catherine twisted in her seat. “Wickham? The steward’s son? What does that wretch have to do with anything?”
Darcy did not answer.
Dyer cleared his throat. “There have been… letters that have come to light in the last weeks, my lady.”
“Stolen letters,” Darcy said curtly. “Given to Miss Bingley. She used them to stir the very rumors we now chase like foxes.”
“And you let her keep them?” Lady Catherine barked.
Darcy glared. “I was too incensed to even take them from her hand, but Bingley sent them over himself. I have them now. That is all that matters.”
“Not quite all,” Matlock said. “I understand there are more. Where is Wickham?”
“I am pursuing him,” darcy said through gritted teeth.
“Pursuing him?” Matlock repeated. “What does that mean? Have you called in a solicitor?”
“I have written to his commanding officer,” Darcy said. “He has not replied.”
Lady Catherine sniffed. “Then send someone who will not embarrass us. You are not a bailiff, Mr. Darcy, and he is the son of a servant. If you imagine a letter is sufficient to call back what has been handed over to scoundrels, you are more naïve than I feared.”
Dyer adjusted a page in his ledger. “If the letters exist and can be traced, there may be grounds to sue for theft or defamation—perhaps coercion. But a case against Miss Bingley would be stronger. You are still on speaking terms?”
The dowager gave a sound of disgust. “Barely.”
“They are her publications,” Dyer said. “Mr. Wickham’s involvement will be harder to prove unless he admits it. But Miss Bingley is vulnerable—she is unmarried, without estate, and deeply dependent on her brother.”
“Who has no control over her whatsoever,” Darcy muttered.
Matlock leaned forward. “Then make him.”
Lady Catherine folded her arms. “The trust will not wait. You cannot delay action simply because it is uncomfortable.”
Darcy did not respond. His eyes rested on the ledgers before him, the black ink like scars against the page.
The dowager set her teacup aside. “You have two fronts, my boy. Close one before the other kills you.”
“And if I fail?” he asked.
Silence again.
“Then Georgiana is removed from your care,” Matlock said. “And her dowry passes from your control. That is what failure means.”
Darcy nodded once. “Then I will not fail.”
5 January
Elizabeth dragged the combthrough her hair for the third time without needing to. The curls sat obediently on her shoulder, pinned precisely as they ought to be, for perhaps the first time in her life.
It was not the hair that displeased her.
She set the comb down. The teeth clicked against the vanity like a verdict. In the mirror, her eyes refused to meet her own. Instead, they darted to the plain black mask resting beside the candlestick. Velvet. A touch of braid. Chosen days ago with absurd confidence—because some foolish part of her had believed that even hidden in shadows, he would know her.
Darcy noticed things. That had always been the problem.
She adjusted an earring that did not need it. Her gown—pale blue, silver-threaded—had been Jane’s idea. “It suits you,” Jane had said, hooking the back with careful fingers. “And the sleeves are like the ones you admired in Bond Street.”
