“It will happen when the legal ground is prepared. When Wickham’s confession is secured and filed, and Thomas can be claimed as Thomas Darcy without any loose ends. Safeguarded.” Darcy met Edward’s eyes. “I want this as much as you do, Apethorpe. More, perhaps, as he is my son. But I will not rush into a public acknowledgment that leaves him vulnerable to extortion for the rest of his life.”
“Very well.” Apethorpe extended his hand. “A gentleman’s agreement, for Thomas’s sake.”
“Yes, for my son’s sake.” Darcy took his hand. The grip was firm, brief—two men who were not friends, but who had found themselves, improbably, on the same side.
“I shall take my leave.” Edward moved toward the door. “She loved you, you know. In her way. She was simply not capable of being what you needed.”
Darcy said nothing because there was nothing to say.
Edward departed, and Darcy felt the weight of all that remained. The truth would be forced out. There would be pain, no doubt… but also honesty. He would start with his wife—the woman he loved—and pray for a mercy he had not earned.
“Sir.” Blythewood’s voice was hesitant, stripped of its usual smoothness. “If I may?—”
“Not now. Do everything you can to locate Wickham. Send letters to inquire at every port.”
“I shall begin immediately, sir.” Blythewood gathered his papers and retreated.
The door closed, and Darcy remained at the window, not seeing the hedgerows or the lake, but only Elizabeth’s guarded face as she had come down the staircase, and then later pale and troubled, rushing upward with a letter clutched in her hand.
He rushed toward the family wing, both dreading and yearning to place everything before her. He would tell her before she heard from others.
Her door stood open, and her chamber was empty.
He checked the small parlor, the library, and the music room where Georgiana practiced. All empty, all silent, all lacking the one presence he suddenly, desperately needed to find.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” he called out. “Where is Mrs. Darcy?”
“The mistress has gone out, sir. With Miss Darcy and her friends.” Mrs. Reynolds’s expression was strangely impassive.
“Where?”
“To Kympton, sir. Mrs. Darcy called for the carriage while you were occupied.”
Kympton. The church where Thomas was christened. The registry that held George’s fraudulent signature and his own name as godfather. He knew exactly why his intelligent and observant wife had gone there. Whatever Jane Bennet had written—whatever had sent Elizabeth rushing to her chamber with her face gone pale—it had driven her to investigate.
“When did they leave?” The words came out too raw and rough.
“Shortly after luncheon, sir. They should be returning… Sir? Are you unwell?” she called after him.
But Darcy was already moving, calling for his valet and asking for his horse to be saddled.
Elizabeth was clever and noticed things. She saw through schemes, and she had been watching him with those sharp, curious eyes since the moment she arrived at Pemberley,surveying his every reaction, measuring every evasion, and cataloging his every failure.
She was like a terrier, relentless in shaking the truth out of a rat. And Darcy had no plan other than to reach his wife and throw himself at her mercy; may God help them both.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE REGISTRY REVELATIONS
Longbourn,Hertfordshire
April 1812
My Dearest Lizzy,
Your letter brought me such joy—to know that you are happy, that you have found purpose and affection at Pemberley, that little Thomas has claimed you as his own. I read your words three times over, and each reading warmed me more than the last.
But I must confess, one passage has troubled me. You mentioned Thomas’s mother—Lady Amelia, the one Mrs. Gardiner introduced us to at Madame Delacroix’s. You also mention Thomas’s father was currently abroad, and I find I must ask: is he the same gentleman we encountered during your stay with our aunt and uncle? The one who was so charming at that particular gathering, and who afterward proved rather less constant than we had hoped?
