That actually caused Bingley to laugh despite the circumstances. “My dear Darcy, if I must practically wrestle you into accepting assistance, it no longer qualifies as taking advantage.”
Darcy opened his mouth to refuse again, but Bingley cut him off immediately with the wave of a hand.
“Classes are finished. I was returning to town within days regardless. My carriage is excellent, my horses are fast, and my sisters will forgive the delay if I tell them there is a scandalous death involved that has caused you to inherit.”
Despite everything, the corner of Darcy’s mouth twitched faintly.
Bingley pointed triumphantly. “There. You almost smiled. Clearly you require supervision.”
The absurdity of the remark loosened something painfully tight inside Fitz’s chest. For years now, he had faced every difficulty alone because experience taught him that dependence led inevitably to disappointment.
Yet Bingley stood before him now offering help with no hidden motive whatsoever.
No manipulation. No mockery. Simply loyalty and friendship.
At last, Darcy nodded once. “Very well.”
Bingley’s expression softened immediately. “Good. I can be ready to leave within the hour.”
As Bingley turned briskly toward practical arrangements, Darcy looked once more around the half-packed rooms that had served as refuge for so many years.
Then he glanced toward the rain-darkened windows beyond which the bells of Cambridge tolled faintly through the mist. His old life had ended while he sat peacefully amongst books believing there would still be time.
Now, London waited for him.
And so did Wickham.
∞∞∞
The journey to London took two miserable days.
Rain pursued them the entire distance southward, turning roads into trenches of mud and slowing even Bingley’s excellent horses to an exhausting crawl. More than once the carriage wheels sank deeply enough that both postilions and hired laborers were required to haul them free again. By the timethey finally crossed into London on the evening of the second day, darkness had already settled heavily over the city, reflecting dimly off rain-slicked streets and rows of lamps blurred behind mist.
Darcy sat stiffly silent for the final hour of travel. The idea of his father being dead did not feel entirely real. Part of him expected George Darcy to appear irritated and impatient the moment they entered the townhouse, demanding to know why Darcy looked so grim or why the journey had taken so long.
Instead, only silence awaited him.
Or so he thought.
The front door opened before the carriage had fully stopped, revealing the butler standing rigidly in the entrance hall with visible relief flooding his face.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said hoarsely.
Darcy stepped inside quickly, rainwater dripping from his greatcoat onto the marble floor. Behind him, Bingley entered carrying the restless energy of someone prepared for either disaster or violence.
The house smelled wrong.
Wine.
Perfume.
Stale smoke.
Laughter echoed faintly somewhere deeper inside, and Darcy stopped. At the same moment, a woman’s shrill giggle floated down the corridor followed immediately by Wickham’s unmistakable voice.
“…told him the old man was practically immortal—”
Darcy’s expression went utterly still.
