Matlock
Darcy did not likecalling at Matlock's dower house in the summer.
The drawing room was always stifling, the tea overly perfumed, and the dowager countess never permitted the windows to be opened past half. But he went, as he always did, because she was the only person besides Georgiana and Richard who knew the full truth of what had happened in Ramsgate.
And the only person still capable of helping him salvage it.
The dowager Lady Matlock sat like a queen among her cushions, lace cuffs tucked neatly at her wrists, her fan tapping a rhythm that suggested impatience or percussion training. It was impossible to tell which.
“You have had no luck with the letters,” she said as soon as the footman withdrew.
Darcy shook his head. “None. The solicitor I approached in Ramsgate claims Wickham departed with no fixed address. My last inquiry was returned unopened.”
“And you are certain Georgiana wrote more than one?”
“She believes it may have been four. Possibly five.”
Lady Matlock pursed her lips. “Youmustfind them. Before someone else does.”
“I am aware.”
“And under no circumstances are you to inform your aunts or uncles.”
Darcy glanced up, startled. “Do you take me for a fool?”
His grandmother’s fan snapped closed with a precise flick. “Do not look so scandalized. You think your uncle has not his resources? Or that your Aunt Catherine would not write Wickham herself to pay for the truth? They would love to lord this over you.”
Darcy grimaced.
“Exactly,” she said, satisfied. “This is between us. And if you must enlist help, do it quietly. But no family. We cannot afford a single whisper.”
“I…” Darcy cleared his throat. “I have written to Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
His grandmother narrowed her eyes. “That was indiscreet.”
“How? He is out of the country! I had to speak tosomeonewho knew Wickham as well as I did. I hoped…” He sighed. “Well, never mind what I hoped. But he did have one or two relevant suggestions.”
The dowager thinned her lips and emitted a small noise. “That is as may be. Now. What do you mean to do about the will? You have not employed your time well these last months.”
Darcy winced, shifting in his chair. “Not as I intended to spend it, no. It is not as simple as choosing a name from a hat.”
“You have less than seven months.”
“Closer to six.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And I have met a parade of women who make the condition more difficult with every passing fortnight.”
“Do go on.”
He did, without irony. “Miss Morgan recited Paradise Lost for forty minutes in a perfect monotone. How she managed it while dancing, I shall never know, but she paused only to ask if I liked her gown. Miss Fenton insisted I fence with her father before she would consider speaking to me.”
“What is wrong with that?”
“Her father is deceased. Rumor has it that Miss Fenton’s mother made him so.” Darcy went on, gesturing with his fingers as he ticked off each name. “Miss Hopewell brought her sisters—all of them—to our second meeting and informed me of her favorite baby names—plural. Miss Witherspoon will not speak unless spoken to, Miss Wyndham will notstopspeaking if addressed once, and Miss Claremont insists she has visions. Of my future. Which involves goats.”
Lady Matlock blinked.
Darcy continued, “I have been offered sketches, locks of hair, family Bibles, and one rather disturbing embroidery of my initials entwined with the phrase ‘Yours eternally’ in French. The thread was pink.”
She picked up her fan again. “I am sorry, were you expecting sympathy?”
