Darcy turned toward him slowly. “From whom?”
“No return address, but it was postmarked from London. I am sorry it did not arrive with the rest of the post. I placed it on the side table.”
Darcy said nothing, his gaze already fixed on the table.
The valet hesitated. “Is there anything else you require, sir?”
“No. That will be all.”
Once the door closed behind him, Darcy crossed the room in two swift steps, heart beginning to pound—not in alarm, not yet, but in that cold, bracing way that a man feels when instinct precedes reason. The envelope was cream-colored. Heavy. Feminine script.
The same handwriting.
His fingers clenched before he forced them to loosen. He broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet inside.
No matter what move you make, or what steps you take, I am watching you. Darcy, why can you not see that you belong to me?
Darcy stared at the words, the script as tidy as ever—but to his eye, it might as well have been carved in blood. His fingers tightened around the parchment.
When he first began receiving the notes, he had dismissed them as the delusions of a foolish admirer. Perhaps some brazen young society miss at whom he had smiled at a ball.
But then came the note that mentioned Georgiana. Specific details. Things no stranger could know. That had chilled him to the bone.
This, though—this was worse.
This one had found him at Netherfield.
He was not merely unsettled. He was furious. And yet beneath that fury was something else—something far more unwelcome.
Fear.
It was not a sensation he knew well. He had not felt it—true, bone-deep fear—since the night he stood helpless beside his father’s bed, knowing that soon he would be left alone to carry the burden of the wellbeing of hundreds of souls, including his young sister.
And now, standing in a borrowed bedchamber miles from home, with the fire crackling merrily in the grate, Fitzwilliam Darcy shivered. Goosebumps rose on his arms, and he could not shake the feeling that eyes were watching him.
He folded the letter with care, slid it into a secret drawer of his writing desk, and turned the key with a decisive click.
Then he looked to the flames again—but no warmth reached him.
And outside, the wind howled.
Chapter 12
Elizabeth remained in the chair beside Jane’s bed through the night, though a room had been made ready for her elsewhere. She could not bring herself to leave—not when her sister tossed and murmured in her sleep, her skin alternately burning and clammy. She and the maid took turns tending her: fresh cloths on her brow, sips of broth and tea coaxed between parched lips. Though Jane did not wake fully, she seemed soothed by their presence.
At last, the gray light of dawn crept through the drapes. Elizabeth had just settled into the chair again, her limbs heavy with fatigue, when a soft knock came at the door.
She rose and opened it to find Mark standing there, boots damp and gloves in hand. “The trunks came,” he whispered. “Yours and Jane’s. I had the footmen bring them up. I just came to say goodbye. I am riding back to Longbourn; Bingley’s servant returned with a horse for me.”
Elizabeth nodded, stepping into the hall and pulling the door nearly closed behind her. “Thank you. Be careful on the road—there is still a great deal of mud.”
“I will.” He hesitated, then added, “Do not be surprised if one or both of our parents appear before long, especially now that she is required to remain here. You know how our mother can fret.”
Elizabeth sighed, though her eyes softened. “Try to make it Father who comes. You know as well as I that Mama’s love is fierce—but her nerves do not belong anywhere near a sickbed.”
Mark smiled faintly and squeezed her hand. “Agreed. I will do what I can. Tell Jane I hope she improves soon.”
She nodded, watching him descend the stairs and vanish into the morning mist.
