It was a scholar’s room, a place of ledgers and papers and locks disguised as intellect.
And there had been a safe.
Bingley swallowed hard and pressed his palms against his knees. He had found it easily enough, concealed behind a large, handsome painting. The lock had been opened. That, at least, had sent a jolt of triumph through him.Careless,he had thought then, a grim sort of satisfaction curling in his chest.Old fool. Left it open.
But it had been empty.
Utterly, infuriatingly empty.
He had searched anyway—ripped through drawers, overturned chairs, scattered papers without regard for sense or silence. He had checked the walls, the shelves, even the hearth.His hands had shaken as the minutes slipped away, every sound magnified into imagined discovery.
Nothing.
They moved it,he thought now, pacing the room in short, restless strides.They must have moved it. The hoard was there—I know it was. Jane could scarcely keep her countenance when I questioned her.
His jaw tightened. Sir William’s smug announcement returned to him with venomous force. The brooch, his pride when he declared he had summoned the authorities. Then there was the applause from their neighbors. And beneath it all, the quiet, unbearable certainty that others were acting while he floundered.
His gaze drifted to the window, though he did not truly see the grounds beyond. His thoughts had turned inexorably to Darcy.
Darcy knows,he thought.He must.
Darcy, with his endless funds and his careful principles, and his infuriating calm. Darcy, who now stood to gain everything—the woman he loved, influence, control—while Bingley himself slipped further into chaos. If Darcy knew of the hoard, if he had advised Bennet to move it, to hide it more cleverly—
A dark idea took root.Extortion,he thought, the word tasting bitter and necessary all at once.If he knows and did nothing…if he counseled concealment…the hypocrite.
His hands curled into fists. He did not want to think this way, having never been a schemer. He had relied on others—on his man of business, on Darcy, on the assumption that things would simply work out because they always had.
But now nothing was working. Caroline would not yield. Darcy had withdrawn. Miss Bennet—sweet, kind Jane—had looked at him the previous day with something dangerously close to distrust. And the treasure, the one solution that might have set everything right, remained stubbornly out of reach.
Bingley stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair.
What am I to do?he thought, the question spiraling without an answer. He had crossed a line the night before—had known it even as he did it—and the crossing had brought him no closer to relief but teetering on the edge of exposure.
If the Bennets reported the intrusion to the magistrate…who was the magistrate?
His breath quickened.No,he told himself fiercely.They cannot prove anything. No one saw me. No one knows.And yet, the certainty he once relied upon—that the world would bend kindly to him—was gone. In its place lay a cold, hollow dread. Bingley sank into the chair by the hearth, staring at the cold ashes within. For the first time in his life, he had no plan—only desperation.
Mr. Darcy had not expected the summons to carry such weight. The ride from Purvis Lodge to Longbourn was made in near silence, broken only by the rhythmic beat of hooves and the occasional murmur from his cousin when the road narrowed. Richard sensed it as keenly as Darcy did—that something decisive had occurred, something that would not be solved by polite conversation or careful distance.
When they were admitted at Longbourn, Elizabeth met them herself in the hall. She looked pale but resolute, her usual liveliness tempered by an intensity that drew Darcy’s immediate concern.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said quietly. “Papa is waiting for you in the library.”
Her eyes flicked briefly to Richard.
“My cousin may join us,” Darcy said at once. “If you wish.”
Mr. Bennet’s voice came from the doorway. “Yes, by all means. If we are to proceed, let us do so without half-measures.”
The door was shut and locked behind them.
The familiar room—lined with shelves, the scent of leather and old paper lingering in the air—felt altered, the very walls seeming aware of the gravity now contained within them.
Mr. Bennet crossed to the hearth and knelt, drawing aside the rug with practiced ease.
Darcy watched intently as the older gentleman lifted a false panel from the floor and revealed the heavy iron lid beneath.
There was no hesitation now.
