Darcy snorted. “I doubt it. He has written me off already, thanks to those letters.”
“Ah,” Dyer said softly as his pen scratched some note out. This was not news to him. In fact, he seemed rather uncomfortable that Darcy had even mentioned it.
The hearth ticked softly. Outside, carriages rumbled past on wet cobblestones. Darcy had not slept more than a handful of hours in three days. He mused aloud—more to himself than in any effort to contribute to the conversation. “Wickham boards a packet to Ostend tomorrow. He is no longer the threat for my uncle to mitigate.”
Dyer adjusted the ink blotter. “The damage lingers sir. Her letters, his word against hers—”
“Have already been twisted by those with motive.” Darcy’s gaze dropped to the leather-bound folder between them. “I cannot undo what was written, but I can bloody well ensure it is never used again.”
Dyer gave a slow nod. “Then I shall draw up the necessary petitions.”
A knock startled both men.
Before the butler could speak, Bingley entered unannounced, pale and windblown, rain still clinging to his coat.
Darcy straightened at once. “What is it?”
Bingley closed the door behind him. “Oh, forgive me, Darcy. I did not know you had business. I will not interrupt long,” he said. “I only came to bid you goodbye. Miss Bennet returns to Hertfordshire this afternoon, and I mean to make my return to Netherfield on the morrow.”
Darcy’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing. Of course. With her sister married only this morning, perhaps Miss Bennet hadfound it prudent to depart before the congratulations soured. Before the papers arrived on every breakfast tray in Mayfair.
But not so soon. Not today. He had thought there would be more time—at least a few hours. Enough for the ink to dry on one letter, the courage to form in another.
“She asked after your sister,” Bingley said.
Darcy glanced up. Bingley was watching him too closely.
“Sends her love.”
He nodded. Too quickly. His neck burned.
Do not ask. Do not hope. Hope was a fool’s wager.
Bingley shifted.
Darcy turned, sharply. “If this is abouther—do not.”
Bingley hesitated, then met his gaze squarely. “She left Town this morning.”
The words hit clean, without echo. Darcy stared, willing them into some other meaning.
“She—” His throat tightened. “I assume they are taking their honeymoon. Although I wonder that they have left so early. Did you not attend the ceremony?”
“No. There was no wedding.”
Darcy’s breath caught. “What?”
“No wedding,” Bingley repeated. “Called off yesterday—her choice, from what I understand. She left with the Gardiners.”
Darcy swallowed once, the motion stiff and dry. “Where?”
“I do not know,” Bingley admitted. “Miss Bennet did not elaborate. But from what I gathered…” He shifted. “She means to stay away some while.”
Stay away. Not newly wed. Not safely out of reach. Just—gone.
“She left?” The words scraped out like stone on stone.
Bingley nodded. “I am sorry.”
