Darcy said nothing, and she arched one brow in triumph.
He turned away. The shop was smaller than he remembered, and warmer—though whether from the fireplace or the press of bodies, he could not say. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, smudged and sluggish, casting every spine in gold.
She drifted down the nearest row. “Did you bring me here only for amusement?”
He studied the doorway. “Not only.”
Her step faltered. “You thoughtshemight be here.”
Darcy did not answer. His jaw locked tight. The shop felt narrower than it had moments before, the ceiling lower, the hush too expectant. He watched a smudge on the shelf beside him, willing it to speak—to offer some clever excuse for why hehad dragged his sister here under pretense, chasing the shape of a woman who had already slipped from his grasp. Something that would spare him the admission.
Georgiana glanced at him over her shoulder. “You are a terrible strategist.”
She turned a corner, disappearing between shelves.
Darcy’s hand found the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the wood grain. He scanned the room again—every bonnet, every cloak—though he already knew.
She was not here.
Of course she was not here. That brief, windswept encounter on the street had been hours ago—and far too little. She had likely returned to Cheapside long since, tucked away with her relations, warm and unreachable.
Only… if he were to glimpse that dark green cloak once more—just once—he might find the words he had meant to say. The ones that had caught in his throat when she turned away. He would trade this shop, this quiet warmth, for a single moment more in the cold.
He had not expected her. Not really. And yet—
A voice behind him broke the silence. “Mr. Darcy?”
He turned.
A gentleman of middling height stood there, coat unbuttoned and breath a touch quick, as though he had been debating the interruption for some time. “Forgive me—Harrison, sir. Mortimer Harrison. We met last week at Mr. Ashcombe’s table.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Yes. I recall.”
Mr. Harrison shifted, glancing toward the window before returning his attention to Darcy. “Dismal weather this Saturday. I am always astonished how London can appear both frozen and filthy at once.” He gave a short, nervous laugh. “Though I daresay an afternoon spent among books is never wasted.”
“Indeed.”
The man cleared his throat. “I hope I am not overstepping by intruding. It is only that—well, there has been... talk.” His gaze flicked around them, then dropped. “Concerning your sister.”
Darcy’s spine lengthened by a fraction, and his gaze sharpened. He had not spoken, but something cold and precise had settled behind his eyes.
Mr. Harrison pressed on, more quietly. “I would not presume to comment, only—your family’s name commands respect. And certain... circles have begun to question matters I thought best left unmentioned. I thought it right you should hear it from a friend, or at least, someone with no stake in the damage.”
Something in Darcy's chest curled tight. He did not blink. Did not breathe. The quiet civility of it—the calm delivery of his sister’s name to the slaughterhouse—made him want to smash every pane of glass in the shop. Every instinct itched to demand more—names, sources, retractions—but he forced his voice steady.
“My thanks, Mr. Harrison,” he said, inclining his head with the weight of formality. “Your candor is noted.”
Harrison gave a shallow bow, clearly relieved not to be pressed further. “Of course. Good day to you.”
Darcy did not watch him leave. He only adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous care and turned back toward the shelves—though nothing on them would hold his attention now.
Georgiana returned just as the man bowed and withdrew. “What did he want?”
Darcy turned to her. “Nothing of note.”
Her frown deepened. “You looked as if he had slapped you.”
He only gestured toward the counter. “Take whatever you like. We are finished here.”
