15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

D arcy descended the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the stillness of the hall. Questions still ate at him, but he was determined to shake them off, if only for a few hours. Once at the bottom, he turned toward his study, bypassing the morning room where he had no appetite to sit for breakfast. Work would be his solace. Letters, correspondence—anything that required his attention and drew him away from the rat's nest of emotions he had been trying so desperately to untangle.

Once inside the study, he closed the door behind him and moved to his desk. The familiar scent of ink and paper greeted him, and he breathed in deeply, finding comfort in the structured order of his workspace. The correspondence awaited him in a neat stack, and he pulled out the first letter, breaking the wax seal with his usual precision.

Lord Matlock's handwriting stared up at him—a formal inquiry about the state of Harry's affairs, no doubt. Darcy read the lines with measured focus, responding in his mind as he went along. His uncle was predictable in his inquiries, and the letter held no surprises. With a sigh, he set it aside and moved to the next, a report from his steward about a tenant dispute. Another straightforward matter. He scribbled a few notes in the margin, prepared to send instructions later.

And then, his eyes fell on the familiar handwriting of his aunt, Lady Catherine. Of course, it had only been a matter of time before she had something to say about Harry's death. Darcy picked up the letter, turning it over in his hands. He was tempted to leave it unopened. Lady Catherine's words would hardly be of comfort—they rarely were—and he was in no mood to be lectured on what ought to be done for the sake of the family's future.

But the next letter in his stack caught his eye. The agent handling the disposition of Harry's London flat. Darcy frowned, feeling the ever-present acid burn in his stomach. The agent had written to update him on the sale of the flat, no doubt. And the matter of Harry's lingering affairs was always a difficult subject.

With a resigned sigh, Darcy returned to Lady Catherine's letter. Better to hear from her than to dive into the mess of Harry's things just yet. He cracked the seal and scanned the contents quickly.

As expected, her words were far from heartfelt. Lady Catherine was more concerned with Anne's prospects now that Harry was gone than with offering any true condolences. Darcy scoffed as he read her presumptuous demands. She insisted, as he feared she would, that it was now his duty to step into Harry's place and marry Anne, ensuring the continuation of the family line.

Darcy shook his head, unable to contain his exasperation. Anne? He could never marry Anne. Not before, and certainly not now. Neither he nor Harry had ever had any desire to marry her before, and the idea of Darcy wedding his sickly, petulant cousin to birth the next heir of Pemberley was utterly preposterous.

If only Lady Catherine knew the truth—that he had already married a woman in Harry's place, albeit for reasons that were far from ideal. And truth be told, he would rather marry Elizabeth all over again—with all her defiance, her sharp words, and the misunderstandings that plagued their union—than marry Anne. At least Elizabeth had spirit and spoke for herself—rather too much, as it happened. He could not imagine living with a woman like Anne, who was silent, meek, and obedient to the point of paralysis. A doormat.

And at least Elizabeth had appeared to truly mourn for Harry. He doubted Anne could even work up a single tear. If she thought of his brother at all, it was probably with disdain for dying instead of obliging her.

Darcy shuddered at the thought. No, he would never have that.

Lady Catherine's letter was set aside to be dealt with later, when he had more energy for the inevitable confrontation that would follow. Instead, he picked up the agent's letter, bracing himself for the details of Harry's London flat.

But as he read, the letter slipped from his fingers, landing on the desk with a soft thud.

London 14 September

M y Dear Mr Darcy,

I write to inform you of an alarming discovery regarding your late brother's London flat. When I arrived to inspect the property for a potential buyer, I was greeted by an unsettling scene. The flat had been ransacked, with locks broken, furniture overturned, and drawers pulled out from their places. The rooms were left in utter disarray as if someone had been searching for something of value.

Fortunately, all papers, money, and personal effects had already been safely removed under your instructions, but it is evident that the intruder was not aware of this. I can only surmise that the culprit hoped to find something remaining that would be of use to them.

In light of this situation, I seek your guidance on how you would like me to proceed. Would you prefer that I inform the local authorities? I can also make inquiries with the neighbouring tenants and the building staff, though I fear this may not yield any leads. Nevertheless, I await your instructions.

Yours sincerely, Woodrow Barker Agent for Darcy Estates

D arcy's pulse quickened, fury rising within him like a storm. Who would do such a thing? Someone must have known that Harry was dead, or at the very least, absent from London for some time. It had to be someone who had been watching, waiting—someone close to Harry, or someone who had been keeping an eye on the Darcy family.

The idea of it festered, a deep, seething rage building as he rose from his desk, unable to sit still any longer. He paced the study, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. How could anyone so disrespect the dead? Who would stoop so low as to rob Harry's flat, to violate what little remained of his brother's life?

He prowled back and forth, his mind racing with possibilities. Perhaps the Earl had made Harry's death more public than Darcy had intended. Or perhaps someone had discovered the Darcy house in mourning, knowing that no one would return to London for some time.

But what were they after? There was nothing of value left. Nothing that could be taken—unless, of course, Harry had hidden something that Darcy missed. Money, military papers, letters, and personal articles, Darcy had already secured. But what if he had missed something? What if the person who broke in had been searching for more than just money?

Unable to contain his anger any longer, Darcy stormed down the hallway toward the library, where he knew Richard would be. His fury radiated off him in waves as he threw open the door, his voice sharp with urgency.

"Richard! I need to speak with you at once!"

Richard looked up casually from where he sat by the fire, a bemused smile playing at his lips. "Ah, the lion has emerged from his lair," he drawled, one brow arching.

Darcy's gaze swept across the room, and he froze for a moment as his eyes landed on Elizabeth, standing by a bookshelf. She was composed, her posture erect, meeting his gaze without flinching. She did not look away or shrink under the heat of his anger. In fact, she appeared…challenging. Impassive.

His anger faltered slightly, a ripple of something else passing through him as he swallowed and inclined his head curtly, acknowledging her without offering a proper greeting. It was far from polite, but it was the best he could manage at the moment.

Elizabeth arched a brow in response, her chin lifting slightly, as though daring him to say more.

Darcy quickly turned his attention back to his cousin. "Richard, if you can spare a moment…?"

Richard rose reluctantly, offering Elizabeth a short bow. "Of course," he said smoothly, though there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Beg your pardon, Mrs Darcy."

Darcy barely waited for Richard to follow before leading the way out of the room, his mind still consumed with the questions that plagued him. Someone had ransacked Harry's flat. Someone wanted something from Harry even after his death. And Darcy was going to find out who.

D arcy led Richard swiftly into his study, his pulse still thrumming with a potent mix of anger and disbelief. He shut the door firmly behind them and crossed the room in long, impatient strides. Richard leaned against the back of a chair, arms crossed, watching Darcy pace.

"I just received word from my agent in London," Darcy began, his voice low, barely controlled. "The one managing the disposition of Harry's affairs. Someone broke into his flat."

Richard straightened, his casual demeanour falling away. "What? Are you certain?"

"Locks broken, furniture tossed about, drawers rifled through. The place was ransacked." Darcy's voice grew more clipped as the rage simmered under his skin. "I had already been there, when I was in London, so I know there was nothing left—no papers, no personal effects, no valuables. But someone was looking for something, all the same."

Richard let out a slow breath, clearly shaken. "That's... appalling. To disrespect the dead in such a way—what sort of monster does that?"

Darcy's jaw clenched, and he turned back to his desk, gripping the edge until his knuckles turned white. "Someone who knew Harry was dead. Someone who wanted something from him—something specific."

"Any idea who it could be?" Richard asked, brow furrowed, clearly trying to process the shocking news.

Darcy turned back to his cousin, his eyes sharp. "Do you know of any associates of Harry's in the army or in London? Someone with reason to believe there was something in that flat worth taking?"

"Do you mean besides George Wickham?"

Darcy clenched his jaw. "Anyone."

Richard shook his head slowly, his brow lined with thought. "Harry and I barely crossed paths these last few years. We were stationed in different places, and even in army circles, there were assignments we couldn't discuss. Too many secrets to keep. You know that."

Darcy raked a hand through his hair, his frustration mounting. He looked back at the note on his desk, the words swimming before him. "What about Charles Bingley? Did Harry ever introduce you to him?"

Richard's eyes narrowed as he considered the question. "Bingley? A couple of years ago, perhaps. But I haven't seen him since. Surely, you don't think Bingley could have had anything to do with this?"

Darcy shook his head, though the doubt lingered. "No, not directly. But Bingley might know something. He was close enough to Harry—enough to know that something was wrong."

Richard sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "For Heaven's sake, Darcy. Why don't you just ask Mrs Darcy what she knows? She was closer to Harry at the end than either of us. She has secrets of her own, I daresay."

Darcy's lips tightened. "I have been meaning to. But yesterday… and then last evening… there simply has not been an opportunity."

Richard raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with that excuse. "Now seems like just such an opportune moment, wouldn't you say? The lady is quite at her leisure."

Darcy swallowed. He tapped his fingers on the desk, considering his next move. His study, with its heavy air of authority, was hardly the place for such a conversation. It would intimidate her—no, that was not right. She was not easily intimidated, but it would put her on the defensive. He needed her to feel comfortable, free to speak openly.

"You are right," Darcy finally said. "I will speak to her now."

D arcy paused outside the library door, his hand resting on the latch. He had intended to stride in with confidence, but now, standing here, uncertain of how to approach her, he hesitated. How was he to greet her after everything that had passed between them? What could he possibly say to set her at ease while still getting the answers he needed?

She was not a stupid woman. He had no idea what her character truly was, but this much, he could say for certain. She was intelligent, and she had enough self-awareness to deal with him frankly. Perhaps he would start there.

He pushed the door open, stepping in quietly so as not to startle her. The soft crackle of the fire greeted him first, filling the room with a warmth that might do something to soften the chilly reception he expected. His eyes fell on Elizabeth, curled up in an oversized chair by the fire, deeply absorbed in a book.

Her hair, just at her temples, had slipped loose from its pins, letting the shorter wisps trickle in unruly waves around her ears, the flickering light catching in the strands. One foot was tucked beneath her in the chair, the other dangling lazily over the side, her body relaxed, as if for the first time in weeks, she had found a brief moment of peace.

Darcy's breath caught in his throat. There was something painfully intimate about the scene—something that stirred within him a vision of domesticity he had not allowed himself to entertain. It was the kind of scene he had imagined once, long ago, for his future—a wife by the fire, reading quietly, content in their shared company.

The sight of Elizabeth like this, so at ease, brought an unexpected pang to his chest. Why, after a lifetime of meeting and rejecting candidates who were infinitely more appropriate prospects, did it have to be this woman who made that feeling swell in him?

He hated to disturb her, but there was no avoiding the conversation. Clearing his throat, he took a step closer. Elizabeth stirred but did not startle. Her eyes, dark with contemplation, snapped up to him immediately, her attention fully on him now. She shifted in her chair, straightening herself but still holding the book loosely in her lap.

Darcy hesitated for a moment, then gestured to the chair opposite her. "Would you mind if I joined you for a moment?"

Elizabeth blinked, her expression cool and unreadable. "It is your house, Mr Darcy."

He gave a small nod of acknowledgement, somewhat chastened by her reminder, and sat down in the chair she had indicated. As he settled into it, his eyes remained on her, watching her more closely than he had before. Despite the fire, her pallor was still noticeable, and there were faint shadows under her eyes, the telltale signs of strain and exhaustion.

A sharp spear of guilt twisted within him. Had he put those marks there? Had his misjudgment and harsh words taken their toll on her more deeply than he had realised?

"I… I trust you are feeling better today?"

Elizabeth sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she gave him a wary look. "Why is everyone so concerned about my health?" she asked, her tone edged with weariness. "I assure you, Mr Darcy, I am very well."

Darcy's eyes sharpened as he leaned forward slightly, meeting her gaze more directly. "There were reasons for such concern. Some perhaps unfounded, but not all of them."

Her expression softened for a moment, then she waved a hand dismissively. "There are none now. As I said, I am quite well."

He nodded, though the answer did little to settle his nerves. Clearing his throat, he began to speak again, but before he could get the words out, she cut him off.

"What has happened?"

Darcy looked up sharply. "What makes you ask that?"

Elizabeth arched a brow, her gaze steady. "You did not call the colonel out of the room so urgently to invite him to tea, I imagine. Something has happened."

A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Darcy's mouth, though he quickly suppressed it. He could not help but feel a glimmer of appreciation for her directness, her sharp reasoning. "Yes," he admitted. "Something did happen. But before I explain that, I need to understand your real history with Harry. How did you meet my brother?"

Elizabeth's expression tightened for a moment, her hands stilling on the book in her lap. She took a breath before answering, her voice quieter now. "We were introduced through Mr Bingley. My uncle and Mr Bingley had business contacts in common, and they crossed paths at a few parties. Mr Bingley demonstrated an immediate interest in Jane, and about a month after they began courting, Mr Bingley introduced me to Captain Darcy."

Darcy tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Did my brother declare his interest in you right away?"

Elizabeth shook her head, a faint, rueful smile on her lips. "No. In fact, one of the first things he said to me was a rather delicately phrased announcement that he was not free to marry where he chose. He even said he envied Mr Bingley that liberty."

Darcy sat back in his chair, surprised by the revelation. "He told you that?"

"He did," she said, her voice tinged with sadness. "He was quite clear, though not unkind. I think he wanted to put me on my guard—to ensure that no matter how much we enjoyed each other's company, he would not form an attachment he could not satisfy."

"You were in company often?"

"Yes." She nodded. "We passed several evenings keeping one another entertained. We had something of an agreement, he and I—he would keep close to me and I to him because we understood each other's intentions. He did not have to fear that I would form expectations of him, and I was quite confident that he would advise me which ‘gentlemen' in the room to avoid. We talked a great deal—came to know one another rather well over cards and piano performances, and even danced a few times. But there was nothing more than that."

Darcy's gaze grew more intent as he studied her. "What changed, then?"

Elizabeth's throat worked, and she glanced down, fumbling with the pages of the book in her lap. "That is a long story, Mr Darcy."

He crossed his legs, leaning back in his chair with an air of quiet determination. "I have all afternoon to hear it," he replied, his voice firm but not unkind.

Elizabeth stilled, her eyes flickering up to meet his, and for a moment, she was silent, as she considered how to begin.