“The year after my father,” Darcy said.
“I believe so. His papers may have passed to another office, or to a nephew, if memory serves. I cannot say without inquiry.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Then inquiry must be made.”
“Of course.”
Darcy drew from his coat the list he had prepared. “I also require copies of my father’s will, any codicils, letters bearing his signature from the year named in the agreement and the year before, and records of any settlements or agreements executed near that date. Anything with witnesses’ names or seals. Anything that may assist in comparison.”
Mr. Hales studied him, then nodded. “You shall have what we can provide today. The rest will follow.”
“Today,” Richard said pleasantly, “is important.”
The solicitor glanced at him, took in the smile, and moved with admirable speed.
They left with a packet of documents tied in red tape: copies of the will, two codicils, several letters written by George Darcy, one memorandum regarding Wickham’s Scottish estate, and notes of payments made to him in the years before and after Darcy inherited. There was no marriage agreement. No mention of Georgiana. No proof of Wickham’s claim.
No proof against it either.
By the time they reached Netherfield again, dusk had settled over the grounds, and Darcy’s body ached from the road. Richard was stiff enough that he did not make a joke when dismounting, which concerned Darcy more than any complaint would have done.
Bingley met them in the hall before the footman had finished taking Darcy’s gloves.
“Well?”
Darcy wished he had better news to give him. The ride had been long, the roads heavy, and London had yielded only fragments where he had needed certainty.
“No record of the agreement in the London office,” Darcy said. “Nothing in my father’s papers there. We have copies of his will, codicils, correspondence bearing his signature, and the records connected to Wickham’s inheritance. But no marriage contract.”
Bingley’s face brightened. “Then Wickham’s paper is false?”
“I wish I could say so. The solicitor named upon it was in Derbyshire and died years ago. If he kept records, they are not in London.”
Richard came in behind Darcy, stiff from the ride and looking as grim as Darcy felt. “Which means we have ridden half the day to learn that the answer we need is five days away.”
Bingley looked from one to the other. “But there must be something to be done.”
“There is,” Darcy said, though the words felt thin. “Express letters. To Pemberley, to Lambton, to anyone who may know where Alton’s papers went after his death. To my uncle as well, in case his reach can accomplish what ours cannot.”
It was a plan. It was even the correct plan.
It also felt miserably insufficient.
Wickham had given them seventy-two hours, and every mile between Hertfordshire and Derbyshire seemed to mock them. Somewhere there might be a ledger, a clerk, a witness, a forgotten box of papers that could prove Wickham a liar.
Somewhere.
Butsomewherewas nothere, and Georgiana was upstairs frightened out of sleep, and Wickham was in Meryton counting down the hours with that hateful smile upon his face.
For the first time since leaving London, the full weight of it pressed upon Darcy.
Then a sound came from the stairs.
He looked up.
Elizabeth stood on the landing, one hand resting upon the banister. She must have come from Georgiana, for her face bore the marks of a long and anxious vigil, yet there was no weakness in it. Weariness, yes. Worry, yes. But beneath both lay the same steady courage he had seen in a flooded cellar, on Oakham Mount, and in Bingley’s study when she had offered all she possessed to save his sister.
Their eyes met.
