Realresponsibility.
At last, he nodded once. “Very well.” His voice was steady. “I shall be in my father’s—”
He stopped. The word caught strangely in his throat. Slowly, he corrected himself.
“Mystudy. I must send word to Georgiana.”
∞∞∞
The next several weeks passed in a blur of ink, exhaustion, and disillusionment.
Darcy scarcely left his father’s study except to sleep a few hours before dawn forced him back behind the enormousmahogany desk once more. The room itself seemed to embody the state of George Darcy’s affairs. Papers overflowed from unlocked drawers. Bills lay mixed amongst invitations, gaming accounts, political correspondence, and unopened letters months old. Half-empty brandy bottles occupied space where ledgers ought to have been kept. Dust coated shelves holding records no one had properly organized in years.
The deeper Darcy dug, the worse matters became.
At first, he believed the situation merely untidy.
Then the tradesmen began arriving.
Word of George Darcy’s death spread through London society with astonishing speed, and by the third morning after Wickham’s expulsion, Darcy House might well have been mistaken for a counting-house under siege. Carriages clogged Grosvenor Square from early morning onward. Tailors, wine merchants, jewelers, stablemasters, cloth importers, cabinetmakers, decorators, and creditors of every description arrived bearing unpaid invoices accumulated over years.
Some were respectful.
Some frightened.
A few openly angry.
Darcy received them all.
It quickly became apparent that many had continued extending credit solely because the name Darcy still carried immense weight. George Darcy had ordered lavishly and paid irregularly, relying upon charm, reputation, and old connections to smooth over growing disaster.
One jeweler arrived pale with anxiety carrying invoices large enough to ruin his business entirely if left unpaid.
“My lord—Mr. Darcy,” the man corrected hurriedly, “I would never presume to trouble you under such tragic circumstances were matters not so desperate.”
Darcy looked down at the figures.
Diamonds. Pearls. Bracelets purchased for women whose names did not even appear upon the accounts.
The total represented nearly three years’ profit for the jeweler himself.
Darcy closed the ledger quietly. “You shall be paid.”
The man nearly sagged with relief.
Bingley, who happened to be present during that interview, stared after the jeweler once the door shut. “Darcy,” he said carefully, “you are not responsible for every foolish thing your father has done.”
Darcy remained standing beside the desk, one hand resting against the scattered papers. “Yes,” he replied quietly. “I am.”
And he meant it.
Because whatever George Darcy had been in private, the name still carried obligations. Men had extended trust to the master of Pemberley because gentlemen’s debts were expected to be honored. A wealthy landowner refusing payment could destroy tradesmen who lacked the protection of ancient estates and inherited fortunes.
Darcy wouldnotbecome that sort of man.
Even if paying the debts ruined him.
Especially then.
