28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

" B last these buttons," Darcy muttered under his breath, fumbling with his coat as he tugged it into place. The morning promised to be crisp, to be sure, but it was his fraying patience that had him snapping at his coat.

Richard raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with amusement. "Having trouble already, cousin? We have not even left the house."

Darcy shot him a look. "It is the coat, not me," he replied, jerking the lapels into position with one last tug.

"You could have had your valet help you, if you had half a moment of patience."

Darcy scowled. "Are you ready?"

Richard reached for his gloves, pulling them on with a nonchalant shrug. "I have been waiting on you for the better part of an hour."

"You were drinking my brandy," Darcy muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. He slipped on his gloves, the leather creaking softly as he flexed his knuckles. "But yes, I'm ready."

Their eyes met briefly, a look that carried more weight than words could manage. Richard's usual ease was still present, but his posture was too rigid, his movements measured. Darcy could sense the same unspoken strain in himself. Neither would voice it, but the silence between them was thick with purpose and something that bordered on unease.

"This is the last time," Darcy said quietly, his voice rougher than he intended. "We take Harry's report, we hand it over directly, and we make bloody sure they listen."

Richard nodded, pulling open the door. "Right. Let's get it done."

They stepped into the morning chill, the cobbled streets of London slick from the rain that had fallen overnight. Horses clattered by, and the hum of the city began to rise with the dawn, but Darcy's mind was elsewhere. Whitehall was only a short ride away, but the weight of what they were about to do felt larger, graver than the distance suggested.

"I do hope you've prepared yourself for the sheer joy of bureaucratic stonewalling," Richard said as they mounted the carriage.

Darcy snorted. "I have dealt with men in Whitehall before, Richard."

"Ah, but not like this," Richard said with a grin. "They'll make a sport of slowing us down, you know. It is practically a game to them."

"I will break their game if I have to."

Richard chuckled, though there was little humour in it. "I almost want to see that."

They climbed into the carriage, the door closing with a soft thud behind them. The horses lurched forward, and the familiar jostle of the cobblestones beneath the wheels seemed to mirror the noise roiling in Darcy's mind. Harry's report sat tucked inside his coat, and though it was only a few pages, it felt like the heaviest burden he'd ever carried.

Richard stretched his legs out in front of him, his gaze wandering to the window. "You are quiet, cousin."

Darcy pressed his lips together, glancing at the leather pouch at his side. "I am thinking."

Richard turned toward him, studying him with a rare seriousness. "Wondering if it will be enough?"

Darcy sighed, his fingers brushing the edge of the pouch. "I have to believe it is. For Harry's sake."

They fell into silence again, the city passing by in a blur of grey and damp stone.

They arrived at Whitehall shortly after noon, the building alive with the constant shuffle of officers, secretaries, and couriers weaving in and out of rooms. Darcy barely registered the movement around him. Together, he and Richard approached the outer office of General Sir Edward Hamilton.

A young secretary sat behind a polished desk, eyes darting over ledgers and correspondence. As Darcy and Richard stepped forward, the man barely glanced up.

"We need to see the general," Darcy said firmly.

The secretary's pen stilled, and he looked up, his expression impassive. "I am afraid that is impossible without an appointment. The general's schedule is full for the day." He turned his attention back to his papers, dismissing them as if they were a minor inconvenience.

Richard cleared his throat, stepping forward with a practised smile. "Perhaps you did not catch my name. I am Colonel Fitzwilliam, and this"—he gestured toward Darcy— "is Mr Darcy of Pemberley. We are here on urgent family business that cannot wait."

The secretary frowned, glancing between them. "Colonel Fitzwilliam, you say?" His tone had softened slightly, but he still looked hesitant.

Richard leaned in just enough to make the secretary straighten in his chair. "Indeed. The Earl of Matlock is my father. I suggest you mention my name to the general. I believe he will make time for us."

The young man hesitated for a moment, then rose from his desk with a sharp nod. "Wait here," he said, disappearing through a side door.

Darcy exchanged a look with Richard, who simply raised an eyebrow as if to say, patience .

Minutes later, the secretary returned, his posture noticeably more respectful. "The general will see you now, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr Darcy. Follow me, please."

As they entered the office, General Sir Edward Hamilton rose from his desk. His eyes flicked between Darcy and Richard, curiosity sparking in his expression. "Mr Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam," he greeted, gesturing to the chairs across from him. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

Richard spoke first. "We've come to deliver a report, Sir Edward. A report that was written by Captain Harold Darcy before his death, concerning troubling events during the Siege of Badajoz."

Sir Edward's brow furrowed slightly as he accepted the packet of papers Darcy held out. He flipped through them, his face unreadable. "And why bring this to me directly?"

"Because," Darcy answered, leaning forward slightly, "we believe it was deliberately covered up. The details of what happened during the siege were hidden, and my brother was promoted as a way to silence him. We are here to ensure that his voice is finally heard."

Sir Edward's eyes narrowed as he glanced back down at the papers, his fingers brushing over the official seals and signatures that adorned the documents. "These are serious accusations."

"They are the truth," Richard replied firmly. "And we trust that you will ensure they are investigated properly."

Sir Edward sat back in his chair, studying both men carefully. After a long pause, he nodded. "Why should I believe any of this is true?"

"We only ask you to investigate it, sir," Richard urged. "We trust the facts will speak for themselves."

Sir Edward frowned at them, then turned his attention to the papers in his hand. With a sceptical arch of his brow, he unfolded them, and his eyes flicked over the first page. His brow furrowed, and his lips began to move as he kept reading.

"Firing on their own troops?" he muttered, straightening in his chair and continuing to the next page.

"There is more, sir," Darcy added. "Captain Darcy tried to put a stop to the mistake and was villainised by the very officers who ought to have been corrected by him. I would like very much for the truth to be known."

Sir Edward arched a brow. "I am sure you would, Mr Darcy. And I would like very much for the war to be ended today. But you would ask me to acknowledge a report that could damage public sentiment—the nation's confidence in the war effort. Even the reputation of Wellington himself!"

"We understand that," Darcy said. "But my brother was not the only witness. Others can testify to this, and I will find them if I must. The truth will come out, whether you take the credit for uncovering it, or a mutiny stirs among the ranks."

Sir Edward's features darkened. "Are you threatening me, Darcy?"

"My brother died with the weight of this on his shoulders, and I will not allow his memory to be tarnished by lies."

Sir Edward sighed, then gave a curt nod, slipping the papers into his desk. "I will do what I can. But be prepared for disappointment. If even half of this is true, it will be… a delicate matter."

Darcy exchanged a glance with Richard. "We expect nothing less."

D arcy stepped out of the carriage with long, purposeful strides, barely sparing Richard a glance as he disembarked. Richard followed him with a bark of laughter.

"In quite the hurry, are we? You know, cousin, it's quite something to witness this transformation in you. One might even say you've become completely besotted."

Darcy shot him a glance, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Besotted, am I?"

"Absolutely. I might as well be invisible the moment you catch sight of your wife."

"There you prove how preposterous you are. She is not even outside for me to see."

Richard shook his head as he followed Darcy into the hall. "That must be why you are in such a hurry to go find her."

"She will be eager to hear how the report was received," Darcy replied as he marched toward the stairs. But he concealed a grin that he hoped his cousin could not see.

Richard was right, of course. There was nothing quite like returning to Elizabeth—no matter the business or concerns he carried, being in her presence soothed him in ways he still found difficult to explain. One of the many joys that had been his comfort in the wake of Harry's loss.

"Do me a favour," Richard added, clapping a hand on Darcy's shoulder as he began to take his leave. "Try not to forget the rest of us exist in the meantime, will you?"

"I make no promises," Darcy called back, already hurrying up the stairs. Inside, he removed his coat and asked the housekeeper where Mrs Darcy was.

"Upstairs, in her sitting room, sir," the housekeeper replied, smiling as she took his gloves. "She has been writing her letters this afternoon."

Darcy nodded his thanks and immediately made for the staircase. His steps were light, his heart quickening as he imagined her there—perhaps by the window, her head bent in concentration over her correspondence, that soft smile he loved gracing her lips. A familiar warmth spread through him at the thought.

As he reached the door to her sitting room, an idea took hold of him—mischievous and delicious, and entirely unlike him. He would sneak in behind her, press a kiss to her cheek, and feel that delighted startle of surprise she always gave him. He opened the door quietly, taking care with each step, but before he could close the distance, the small bundle of fur that was her terrier puppy leapt off her lap and bounded toward him, barking in a frenzy of excitement and taking a blind leap, forcing Darcy to catch him.

Oh, blast. He laughed, though the element of surprise was now completely ruined. Elizabeth turned in her chair, her eyes sparkling with laughter as the puppy leapt to lick his nose, his chin, his ears, and anything else within reach.

"Ah, you thought you were giving me a sweet companion, but it seems you've got me a watchdog instead."

"A rather poor one at that," Darcy replied, trying to control the squirming puppy. "He's hardly threatening."

The dog wriggled in his arms, tail wagging so furiously that Darcy couldn't help but laugh. He crossed the room, still holding the dog, and leaned down to kiss Elizabeth. She met his lips with a smile, her fingers brushing his cheek before she took his free hand in hers.

"How did your errand go?" she whispered against his lips, studying his face.

"It went as well as could be expected. We will hear soon enough if it is believed."

Elizabeth offered him a sympathetic smile, but her eyes brightened a moment later as though a thought had just come to her.

"Well, I have some good news to share, at least," she said, her voice lighter. "Before we left Pemberley, I wrote to my father about one of his tenants' sons."

Darcy frowned. "Why?"

"Well, John Michaels is a young, strong lad who would like very much to take over his father's farm, but his mother has been ill, and it was looking as though they would have to give it up altogether over the winter. He's a good lad… and a single one."

Darcy raised a brow, intrigued. "You've proposed a match? With Clara Henshaw would be my guess."

Elizabeth smiled and nodded. "Indeed. And I just received Papa's reply. John and his family are in favour of the match, and I believe it has charms for both Clara and John. I feel confident they will treat each other well."

"And how much are we paying to make this match take place?"

Elizabeth put on a mock pout. "Now, Mr Darcy, that is not fair. You said I might have full discretion in the matter, and now you wish me to answer your questions?"

"I only wonder if I ought to have my banker look over the accounts. Is Pemberley still secure for at least another year?"

She arched her back primly. "Pemberley is quite safe, and I've no doubt this little notion of mine will benefit both families. There, are you satisfied?"

"Perfectly so, if you are," Darcy said, pleased. "You have done a good thing, Elizabeth. A kind thing for that girl. I think my own mother would not have done more."

Her features softened at his words. "So, you approve of my idea, do you?"

"Very much." Darcy's expression shifted into something more playful. He tightened his grip on her hand. "I, too, have an idea to propose," he said, his voice lowering in a way that made Elizabeth narrow her eyes in playful suspicion.

"Oh?" she asked, her tone teasing as she met his gaze. "And what exactly is your idea?"

Before she could react, Darcy swept her up into his arms with such suddenness that she yelped in surprise, her hands flying to grasp at his neck for balance.

"William!" she gasped, though laughter bubbled up from her lips. "You seem to be forever carrying me places these days. Are you not tired of it yet?"

He paused for just a moment, his expression turning serious. "I have relished every opportunity to carry you, Elizabeth. From the very first day you came to my life—I have always loved having you in my arms, even before I could admit that to myself."

Her laughter faded, and she gazed up at him in some wonder. Before she could find an answer, he closed the remaining distance between them, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that spoke more than words could. She smiled against his lips, her hands tightening at his neck.

Without another word, Darcy kicked open the door leading from her sitting room to her bedroom, the soft creak of the hinges and Elizabeth's laughter the only sounds as they disappeared into the room together.

A week had passed with no word of success or failure. Each day of silence seemed to darken her husband's mood. Not that William had been anything less than warm with her, but she was not blind to the cloud of doubt that hovered over him—the tightness in his jaw when each new morning passed without the new Mrs Darcy receiving even one caller in her drawing room, and no Christmas party invitations arrived for either of them.

Elizabeth sat across from her husband, her spoon paused over her bowl of porridge, watching the icy sunlight filter softly through the curtains. It was a rare, quiet morning—one of the few where neither seemed pressed with immediate tasks. Fitzy lay curled at her feet, snoring softly, while Darcy, lost in thought, absently swirled his tea.

Just as she was about to speak, the butler entered with the morning paper, folding it neatly and placing it beside Darcy's plate. He glanced at it and waved it away with a sigh.

"Not today. I've no desire to read the latest scandals," he muttered, lifting his cup. "It is probably full of gossip about things I care nothing for."

Elizabeth, however, reached for the paper. "Oh, come, William," she said with a playful smile, "As if we are so very exciting ourselves today. One can never tell what morsels of news the world might offer." She unfolded it, skimming the front page. Her eyes widened as the headline caught her attention.

"William," she said softly, "you may want to reconsider."

Darcy frowned, setting his cup down. "What is it?"

Wordlessly, she turned the paper around for him to see. The headline blared back at him: INVESTIGATION INTO MILITARY SCANDAL: REVELATIONS SHAKE THE ARMY.

His expression shifted from mild disinterest to sharp attention as he scanned the article. "Can it be?" he murmured in awe. "Did they actually read Harry's statement?"

"With such esteemed personages as Colonel Fitzwilliam and Fitzwilliam Darcy standing in their office, how could they not?" Elizabeth teased.

He glanced up. "General Sir Edward Hamilton owes the second son of an earl and a private gentleman like me nothing at all. He saw us on a whim. That was a bit of luck—or pity, perhaps. We certainly did not possess the clout Richard seemed to pretend we had, but it worked."

She watched his eyes drop to the paper again—watched how they darted across the page with increasing speed, the further he read.

"The names," he muttered, "they've listed all of them." His voice caught slightly. "As well as that of a Lieutenant Daniels and a Captain Hunt, who both corroborated Harry's account. I didn't expect to see this so soon." He stared at the paper in disbelief.

Before he could say more, the door to the breakfast room opened again, and Richard strode in, looking far too pleased with himself. His grin, usually mischievous, seemed almost triumphant today.

"You're late, Richard," Darcy said, still peering at the paper. "I have already seen the news."

Richard waved the broadsheet off with a laugh. "Oh, I know, cousin. But that's not why I'm here." With a flourish, he pulled another paper from his coat, this one far less respectable, its edges worn and cheap ink smudging his fingers. "I bring you something even more scandalous—compliments of my mother, Mrs Darcy."

Darcy narrowed his eyes as Richard handed him the paper. "What on earth is this?" he asked, glancing at the title: Lady Marlina's Mirror .

Elizabeth stifled a giggle. "That sounds delightfully terrible."

Richard grinned, his eyes dancing with mirth. "It is a gossip column my mother insists on reading. And today, it contains a rather interesting tidbit about a certain major whose name is currently all over London."

Darcy raised a brow. "Go on."

Richard flipped to the page in question and read aloud: "A certain major, whose name is now in the public eye for rather a different scandal, has been the subject of whispered rumours for months. Word has it, his daughter has been sent away after finding herself in some... delicate condition. Naturally, those in the know are aware of who this major is. One cannot help but wonder—was there more behind the promotion that catapulted a different officer's fortunes than we've been told?"

Richard glanced up, the corners of his mouth still curled in amusement. "This major… must be Bellamy. And they're talking about Harry's sham of a promotion."

Darcy blinked, still processing the implication. "Bellamy's daughter?"

Richard leaned forward, his tone more serious. "Think about it. If it really was Wickham who ruined the lady from that letter, and not Harry… Wickham may have chosen her specifically and used Harry's name to further sour things between Bellamy and your brother. It makes perfect sense. Bellamy would already despise Harry for whatever involvement he thought he had in the scandal surrounding the military incident, and this—this would drive him over the edge. Wickham wanted to lock up that promotion and lock out Harry."

Darcy stared at him, astonishment blooming in his eyes. "You're suggesting he deliberately used Bellamy's daughter to damage Harry politically?"

Richard nodded. "Exactly. Wickham could have easily spun a lie—you know how skilled he is at that—and if Bellamy's daughter was misled... it would explain a great deal."

Darcy sat back, stunned. "Is there any way to confirm this? To find her?"

Richard shrugged. "It's difficult. If she has been sent away, the family would have done everything they could to keep it quiet. But servants talk, and if we grease the right palms, we might uncover something."

Darcy stood abruptly and strode down the hall, toward his study. Elizabeth and Richard exchanged a glance, and the colonel shrugged. What was William about? She set aside her napkin and rose to follow him, with the colonel right behind her.

In Darcy's study, they found him unlocking a drawer in the bottom of his desk. Before he pulled it open, his gaze moved to Elizabeth, and she was certain he was holding his breath. Then he withdrew a small, intricately carved box and rummaged through its contents. Elizabeth drew close, peering over his shoulder.

There were four portrait miniatures in there, and her husband's hand stilled over the lid—his fingers trembling faintly. One, she recognised as his mother. Another was obviously himself—younger, probably when he had just reached his majority. And then there were the other two.

William swallowed audibly as he withdrew the other two portrait miniatures. One, he held up to the light—a likeness of his brother, Harry, his expression captured forever in the easy smile she remembered so well. The other, he handed to Richard.

"Here," he said, his voice tight with emotion. "This is Wickham's portrait. My father had it commissioned, though Heaven only knows why. Take both of these. If you find Bellamy's daughter, show her these portraits. Ask her to identify the man."

Richard took the miniatures, nodding grimly. "I'll get to work."