Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “To London.”
“Yes,” Bingley said, and his gaze flicked away. “To speak with my man of business.”
Darcy’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
Bingley’s fingers tightened around his glass. “There has been…a mix-up in billing. Or a misunderstanding. I do not yet know.”
Darcy held very still. He kept his voice even by force. “What sort of misunderstanding?”
Bingley’s mouth tightened. “You ask too many questions.”
“I ask the necessary ones,” Darcy said. “Did you receive a letter? An account? A demand?”
Bingley’s eyes flashed. “Stay out of it.”
Darcy stared at him. “Stay out of it,” he repeated softly, as if he could not quite believe those words had come from Charles Bingley, who had once treated Darcy’s advice as a suggestion rather than a constraint.
“I mean it,” Bingley said, and now his voice rose again, edged with panic he could not conceal. “This is my affair. My finances. My estate. You do not get to—”
“I do not get to what?” Darcy cut in, the control in his voice cracking at last. “Protect you? Advise you? Stop you from ruining yourself?”
Bingley’s eyes were wild. “You cannot stop me from anything, Darcy. You have done enough.”
Darcy’s breath caught. “Enough,” he echoed.
Bingley’s face twisted, and the words came out in a rush. “You told me to lease. You told me to be cautious. Yes,youtold me—always told me—what to do. As if I am incapable of making a decision without you.”
Darcy’s hands clenched at his sides. “Bingley, you purchased Netherfield at an inflated price without reviewing the accounts. You allowed your sister to order alterations before you even understood the expense. And you dismissed every warning I offered, and now you tell me to stay out of it when you finally discover the consequences.”
Bingley’s chest heaved. For a heartbeat he looked as though he might strike Darcy—not from violence, but from sheer, helpless rage.
Then, abruptly, his anger faltered. His gaze dropped. His voice went quieter, raw. “You do not know what it is like,” he said, “to feel…trapped. To have everyone looking at you and expecting you to be something. To be…solvent, confident, prosperous—when you are not certain you are.”
Darcy’s fury cooled, replaced by a chill understanding.
“You are not solvent,” he said softly.It is as I feared.
Bingley’s shoulders tightened. “I did not say that.”
“You did,” Darcy replied. “Without words.”
Bingley squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then opened them again, jaw rigid. “I will go to town,” he said, almost stubbornly. “There, I will speak with my man of business. I will resolve it.”
“And if it is not easily resolved?” Darcy asked.
Bingley’s eyes flashed. “Itwillbe resolved.”
Darcy stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Charles. Look at me.”
Bingley’s gaze met his, reluctant and resentful.
“You are my friend,” Darcy said, each word measured. “And you have done a foolish thing. Perhaps more than one. I do not say that to humiliate you. I say it because I will not watch you fall and pretend it is none of my concern.”
Bingley swallowed. His fingers trembled again around the glass.
Darcy continued, gentler now, though the urgency remained. “If there is an issue with the accounts—if the purchase has left you strained—if there are debts, then the worst thing you can do is conceal it from those who would help you.”
Bingley’s lips pressed together. “Help,” he muttered. “You mean take control.”
