“I wish to keep you from making it worse,” Darcy replied.
Bingley’s eyes hardened again, pride rushing back to fill the gap vulnerability had opened. “I will handle it.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Then at least allow me to accompany you.”
“No,” Bingley snapped at once. “No. If you come, you will speak for me. You will take over. You will make it look as though I am incapable. I will not have it.”
Darcy’s hands clenched again. The stubbornness was infuriating, but beneath it Darcy could see the fear: fear of being exposed, fear of losing face, fear of being seen as what Darcy had begun to suspect he was—a desperate man who had gambled too much on good fortune and charm. “Very well,” Darcy said finally, and it cost him to say it. “Go alone if you insist. But do not dare pretend to me afterward that I ought not to worry.”
Bingley’s shoulders rose and fell. “I do not need you to worry.”
Darcy’s voice sharpened. “You do not get to decide what I feel.”
Bingley flinched as if struck. For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound. The house beyond the closed door felt far away, Netherfield itself seeming to withdraw to give them privacy for this unraveling. At last, Bingley set his glass down with a force that sloshed brandy onto the polished wood. “I will leave this as soon as may be,” he said abruptly. “I will return tomorrow, or the next day at the latest.”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime,” Bingley said, voice tight, “you may continue to do as you please. Breakfasting at Longbourn.Strolling over Oakham Mount. Whispering in Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s ear.” His mouth twisted. “I do not doubt you find it all very diverting.”
Darcy’s expression went cold. “Do not speak meanly of her.”
Bingley’s eyes flashed again, but he stopped himself—perhaps because he saw, at last, how close Darcy’s restraint was to breaking.
“You truly care for her,” Bingley said, quieter.
Darcy did not deny it. “Yes. She is everything to me.”
Bingley’s gaze dropped again, and for a heartbeat Darcy saw something like shame.
Then Bingley straightened, the mask of confidence dragging itself back into place. “I have work to do,” he said curtly. “And you have…whatever it is you are doing.”
He moved toward the door.
“Charles,” Darcy said, and the name held more weight than reprimand.
Bingley paused, hand on the latch, without turning.
“I have never seen you like this,” Darcy said softly. “If you are in trouble—real trouble—then pride will not save you. It will only ensure you drown alone.”
Bingley’s shoulders tensed. For a moment he seemed to waver. Then he yanked the door open and strode out without a reply.
Darcy stood in the study long after the sound of Bingley’s footsteps had faded down the corridor. He listened to the house settle back into its ordinary sounds—servants moving, distant voices, a faint laugh from somewhere that made his teeth ache with irritation.
He stared at the brandy spill on the sideboard as though it were an omen.
So, this was the truth beneath Bingley’s easy charm: not malice, but fear; not cruelty, but selfishness born of panic; notwickedness, but a recklessness that could ruin not only himself but anyone who trusted him.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly and thought of Jane Bennet—sweet, patient Miss Bennet—whose heart might be caught in the undertow of Bingley’s instability. He thought of Elizabeth, with her fierce moral clarity and her tender loyalty, who would not forgive herself if her sister were hurt.
The world, Darcy realized with a cold, steady certainty, was turning volatile. He opened his eyes, drew a slow breath, and began to plan. Because whatever Bingley wished, Darcy could not “stay out of it.” Not when the consequences were already gathering like storm clouds over Hertfordshire.
Chapter Twenty
Darcy did not leave the study immediately following the uncomfortable conversation. He remained where Bingley had abandoned him—before the fire, with the faint scent of spilled brandy lingering in the polished air—until his pulse slowed and his thoughts arranged themselves into something like order. Anger was useless. It warmed quickly, flared brightly, and left nothing behind but ash. What mattered now was the shape of the danger and how best to meet it.
He crossed to the sideboard, took up the cloth laid there for polishing, and wiped away the spill with firm strokes. The gesture was not for the sake of the furniture; it was for his mind. A small act of control in a situation threatening to splinter into chaos.
When the surface gleamed again, he set the cloth aside and stepped out into the corridor.
