Hurst’s lips quirked. “Host. That is a generous term, considering you are the only thing standing between him and ruin.”
Darcy did not reply to that. “What did you discover?”
Hurst leaned a shoulder against the wall, lowering his voice. “I spoke with the steward. Netherfield’s steward. The man Bingley hired—brought down from the north, I believe—who is now attempting to keep the estate running while his master spends his days chasing pretty girls and his evenings chasing treasure. I do not believe you knew he had hired anyone new.”
Darcy felt a flash of irritation. He disliked Hurst’s tone, yet he could not entirely deny the truth beneath it. “No, Bingley never informed me.” He would have liked to interview all the candidates. A dishonest steward was dangerous to an estate’s prosperity.
“The steward is anxious,” Hurst went on. “He does not speak plainly—no servant with sense does—but it was easy enough to draw it out. Bills have been arriving steadily since the purchase. Not merely the usual accounts for improvements and household supplies, but older obligations as well. The steward believes there are debts attached to the purchase that Bingley either did not understand or did not care to examine. There are also expenses for the alterations Caroline insists upon—orders placed, workmen engaged, deposits promised.”
Darcy’s chest tightened. “I warned him.”
Hurst’s eyes flicked up. “Yes. And he dismissedyoubecause he has never been forced to feel the weight of consequence. Until now.”
Darcy stared down the corridor as if he might see, through walls and distance, the shape of Bingley’s predicament. It was no longer a vague unease. It was becoming something concrete.
“Go on,” he said quietly.
Hurst hesitated a moment, then said, “The steward also mentioned that a letter came marked urgent, delivered by special messenger. It was from a London firm.”
Darcy’s mind supplied names automatically. Solicitors. Bankers. Men of business who did not waste money on messengers unless pressed.
“I asked,” Hurst continued, “whether Bingley had answered it.”
“And?” Darcy prompted when Hurst paused.
Hurst’s mouth tightened. “The steward said Mr. Bingley locked himself in his study for an hour and then emerged pale, demanded brandy, and sent for his valet. Shortly thereafter, he began speaking of going to town.”
Darcy’s hands clenched. “So, he intends to conceal it.”
“He intends to fix it,” Hurst corrected with a shrug. “Or to pretend at repair.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened again. “You implied there was more.”
“There is,” Hurst said, and for once his expression held something like seriousness without mockery. “I suspect he means to access his sister’s money.”
Darcy went very still.
The man watched him closely, as though gauging how far Darcy’s temper might go. “Think of it,” Hurst said. “He is proud—he does not wish to come to you. Bingley does not wish to admit he has been foolish. He will look instead for funds he believes belong to him by right.”
“Miss Bingley’s dowry,” Darcy said softly, though he already knew the danger of that thought.
“Yes,” Hurst replied.
Darcy’s chest tightened. The very notion was reprehensible—not because it was money, but because it was security. In families like theirs, those sums were often the only barrier between an unmarried woman and dependence. Miss Bingley’s fortune, in particular, was her greatest asset in the marriage mart. Not virtue, temper, or kindness, but money alone.
“If he touches it,” Hurst said bluntly, “no one will marry Caroline.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “Someone might.” It was a weak attempt at hope at best.
Hurst scoffed. “Do not insult me by pretending Caroline has charms that outweigh her pride. Her dowry is her chief recommendation. Without it, she is merely an ill-natured woman with expensive taste.”
Darcy did not disagree. He simply said, “Is he legally able to access it?”
Hurst’s expression shifted into irritation. “That is the question, is it not.”
Darcy’s gaze remained fixed. “Answer it.”
“I cannot,” Hurst said. “I do not know.”
