Dark shadows lingered beneath his eyes now, and strain had sharpened something already naturally severe in his expression. Yet Bingley noticed something else too.
Purpose.
For the first time since knowing him, Darcy no longer seemed like a man merely enduring life.
He seemed determined to master it.
“I must continue,” Darcy said quietly. “No one else will.”
Bingley leaned one shoulder against the desk.
“Well,” he replied after a moment, “for what little it is worth, I believe Pemberley fortunate to belong to you rather than your father.”
Darcy paused, an unknown feeling he hardly recognized stirred deep in his chest. He closed the ledger before him. “I think,” he said slowly, “that may be the first time anyone has ever suggested Pemberley fortunate to have me.”
Bingley smiled faintly. “Then everyone else has been remarkably stupid.”
Chapter 5
Summer 1806—London
Two days after Bingley's departure, George Darcy's will was finally read.
The gathering took place in the library of Darcy House, a room that had already seen more lawyers, bankers, and accountants pass through its doors in the previous month than in the previous decade. Rain tapped softly against the windows, though for once London seemed content with a gentle drizzle rather than the violent storms that had plagued the spring.
Darcy sat at the end of the table beside Mr. Wentworth, the family solicitor.
He felt exhausted.
The debts had consumed nearly every waking hour since his arrival. Entire fortunes had vanished from the estate coffers under his hand. He had signed payment after payment until his signature scarcely looked like his own anymore.
Still, this business needed finishing.
Several servants were present, including the housekeeper Mrs. Yates, and his valet Mr. Bates, who had been with him since Cambridge. A few other longtime employees were given specific requests as well.
Darcy had momentarily considered Georgiana’s presence at the reading, but upon Mrs. Reynolds’ assurances that they were in much better circumstances for the time being, had decided she was better off in the country, away from the dramatics.
Three women sat together near the fireplace, all dressed in expensive mourning and all very clearly former mistresses of George Darcy.
Darcy deliberately avoided looking at them.
Then the library door opened.
George Wickham sauntered inside.
He was dressed entirely in black, though the effect was spoiled somewhat by the smug satisfaction practically radiating from him. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who believed he was about to become extraordinarily wealthy.
His gaze swept across the room.
When it settled upon Darcy, he smiled.
Darcy felt almost sorry for him.
Almost.
The reading began.
Several servants received annuities.
