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London

C harles Osborne, Duke of Lancaster, opened the black-edged note from that young pup, Darcy. His lip curled.

Why would Darcy want him to know that his father had passed on? He knew of the unshakeable enmity that lay between them — and that Osborne would never forgive, nor forget.

So George Darcy was dead. He’d followed his wife to the grave in less than a decade.

Osborne frowned. His own beloved Althea had left this life fourteen years ago — at Pemberley.

He scowled. He’d blamed old Darcy utterly and completely, refusing to acknowledge any explanation or expressions of sorrow, even from Lady Anne, Althea’s oldest friend.

He turned to the decanter and sloshed some whisky in a glass. At least their tiny daughter had fought and survived her early birth. He laughed humourlessly; it was no thanks to Darcy.

Raising his glass in an ironic toast, he muttered under his breath, feeling rather ashamed of his grim satisfaction that the man was dead. He glanced at the note from the young man. Master of Pemberley, now. How old would he be? Not much above twenty, he supposed, frowning.

In a moment of decision, he plucked the note from his desk, and dropped it in the wastepaper basket.

No regrets would be uttered, or sent. Osborne drained his glass, and turned for the door.

He’d go to his club and find someone to join for dinner. The house seemed even emptier than usual.

Perhaps he ought to bring forward his daughter’s next visit to town. Perhaps it was time she knew who she really was.