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Chapter Twenty-Four

D arcy leaned against the mantel, watching the flames with no real interest.

The fire had begun its daily conquest of the hearth—a quiet, orderly progression he could not replicate in his own affairs.

Wickham remained a shadow at the edge of his reach, untouchable for now, and the letters Georgiana had written—had trusted him to retrieve—were still lost. Probably burned. Possibly weaponized.

And still, he had done nothing.

Behind him, Georgiana sat with her hands folded too neatly in her lap, her posture textbook-perfect, her chin high. A sign she was nervous. Trying not to show it.

He crossed to the desk, lifted a half-sorted stack of invitations, and set it down again without looking. “You understand,” he said, without rancor now, “that if they are used—if he sells them, quotes them, hints at their existence—you will not be the only one ruined.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

“I cannot make him vanish,” he added. “And no one will prosecute on your behalf without a scandal ten times worse than the crime.”

“I know.”

“And you are sure… absolutely sure, you have already told me everything?”

“Yes.” The answer came too fast, too practiced.

Darcy sighed. “And yet I ask again.”

Georgiana did not look up. “Because you want a different answer. Because you still think there must be some way for you to mend this.”

He blinked, his mouth rounding in a failed effort to reply. It was not accusation. Only truth.

And the worst part was that she had told him everything. He had just never liked the story.

“You said Wickham remained behind in Meryton. That he is enlisted in the regiment there.”

Her voice drew his gaze back up. “Indeed, he is. For now.”

Georgiana’s eyes dropped to the carpet. “Then perhaps the letters are with him there.”

“Or lost,” Darcy snapped. “Or sold. Or read aloud in a tavern. He could have made copies. Do you think he would protect you?”

“No.” Her voice was thin. “But he might forget me. He might think better of… or perhaps he mislaid them.”

Darcy scowled. That possibility—Wickham simply losing the letters and lying about still having them—was ludicrously plausible. The man had misplaced half a month's worth of creditors and once abandoned a watch in a punch bowl. It was a fantasy, perhaps, but not an impossible one.

Still, it left a sour taste.

He turned from her again. “I cannot trust to Wickham’s laziness.”

Georgiana hesitated. “Then what will you do?”

“I do not know.”

Silence fell like a shroud. The clock ticked. A floorboard in the hall creaked.

“You are angry,” Georgiana said softly. “Not only with him.”

He stiffened. “I am displeased.”

She lingered by the hearth, her hands folded. “But it is not only him this time. Is it?”

He shifted the letters on his desk, though they were already in order.

“I should not have said that,” she added quickly. “Forgive me.”

He exhaled and turned a fraction, not quite meeting her gaze.

“You seemed... distant last week too. After the musicale.” She hesitated. “I thought perhaps something else had gone wrong.”

Darcy stilled.

“Do not speculate about things that are not your affairs.”

“I am not—”

“You are ,” he said sharply. “And I am advising you to leave off.”

That silenced her.

Darcy rubbed the bridge of his nose, then dropped his hand. “Let us revisit the subject another time. If you hear anything— anything —you will tell me at once. Meanwhile, perhaps I will have my man pay another call on Mrs. Younge, if she is still in London to be found.”

Georgiana gave a small nod, her expression now more closed than ever.

Darcy returned to the hearth, but he did not look at the fire.

He did not want to think about Elizabeth Bennet.

He did not want to think about her journal, and her words, and the possibility that she had penned them for no one but herself—and still let them fall into the wrong hands. Or perhaps sold them herself.

He had trusted her. Not blindly. Not without reservation. But he had trusted that she understood.

And now she claimed not to know a thing.

The letters were one betrayal.

The rest—he had not yet decided.

14 December

D arcy had not come to the market for oranges.

He told himself he had business—something about locating ribbons for Georgiana’s gift boxes or inspecting the quality of the pine garlands that Lady Matlock insisted on—but that was not why he had allowed himself to be led out of the house and into the glittering swirl of holly and violinists and ribbons that passed for London festivity.

The dowager had suggested it. Suggested it pointedly, with a certain glance over her teacup and a cheerful mention that she had heard that many “eligible young ladies” enjoyed the “simplicity” of market stalls.

Darcy had said nothing, which she had taken as obedience.

Now, standing under a tent strung with red paper stars, he was scanning the crowd with more agitation than reason. He had nearly turned back—twice—when a woman at a nearby stall dropped her parcels, and a ripple of motion broke his view.

And there she was.

Elizabeth Bennet, rounding the corner with two paper-wrapped bundles tucked neatly against her side.

Her walk was brisk, her chin tilted just slightly upward—as if daring the day to behave.

Her bonnet was trimmed in pale ribbon, modest but unmistakable.

Her expression, though composed, bore the tension of someone holding too many thoughts and not enough forgiveness.

He stepped out from under the canopy and she nearly collided with him.

He saw the exact moment she registered him—the faint widening of her eyes, the slight catch in her breath—and then her chin lifted.

He did not greet her. She nearly walked past, but her steps faltered when she saw his face—set, rigid, and colder than the weather.

“Miss Bennet.”

She bobbed only as a matter of course and matched his tone. “Mr. Darcy.”

He glanced at the bundles in her arms, then back at her face. “Enjoying the festivities?”

“I find them... enlightening.”

That earned the barest flickering of his cheek muscles.

She adjusted one parcel in her arms. “There are so many clever authors in London these days. Anonymous, of course. It seems no one wishes to sign their name.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “Yes. It is remarkable how anonymous voices know precisely what to say.”

She nodded once. “And how well they mimic others.”

He gestured to the side, where a stall offered dried oranges and bundles of cinnamon tied with twine. “Perhaps we should avoid the poets and inspect the produce.”

They stepped aside, out of the flow of shoppers, close enough to speak but shielded by the scented clutter.

Darcy studied her a moment longer, then said quietly, “You have read it, then.”

Her shoulders lifted slightly. “I have.”

“And it is your voice.”

She inhaled. “It is my phrasing. My rhythm. My observations.”

“But not your hand?”

Her chin tipped. “Not for publication!”

“Indeed. So, you did not publish them yourself for a quick profit?”

Elizabeth’s eyes flashed and she nearly dropped her parcel. “How dare you even suggest—”

“I dare because I warned you against writing them in the first place, if you recall,” he gritted between his teeth. “Did you think no one would ever read them? That lines so carefully barbed would remain forever tucked away, harming no one?”

“They were not barbed. Heavens, you speak like I was deliberately cruel!”

He lifted one eyebrow.

“They were private ,” she shot back.

“You committed them to paper.”

“I did not send them into the world!”

“No,” he said. “You merely left the door open and walked away.”

She blinked—once, slow—like someone slapped and unsure if it was deserved. “I—” She stopped herself. “It was not intentional.”

“No, I am sure it was not.” His voice was colder than he meant. “But negligence rarely is.”

She flushed, too quickly to hide it. “You think this is my fault?”

Of course it was. The words had her signature all over them—her humor, her sharpness, her disdain. He did not want to speak the answer aloud. But she had asked, and so he gave it.

“I know it is. You wrote them down.”

Her head snapped to the side, as if she could deflect the blow by sheer will. When she turned back, her voice had steadied, but only just.

“I did not say all of that. More than I ought to have, but… well, I suppose you have never made a mistake?”

He had. He was looking one in the face.

His fists clenched. “I warned you.”

“Heavens, you were in jest! I distinctly remember that non-smile of yours, and perhaps even an amused grunt. You wanted to goad me into reading them aloud to you because you cannot stand feeling as if someone is speaking of you and you cannot hear their compliments!”

He almost laughed. Almost. That was the insult she settled on?

“Hardly. I know very well your phrasing was anything but complimentary. And that, Miss Elizabeth, is the very problem. Your pen is sharp and your wit was duller than you thought!”

She stared at him, unblinking. Her arms crossed. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She looked—hurt.

Good. She ought to be.

But she looked smaller, too. That was the part he had not expected. He had confronted her, prepared to find her defiant, scornful, blazing with outrage. Instead, she stood still, shoulders set, defending her pride because she had nothing else left.

He knew that posture.

Georgiana had worn it the night she told him what she had written, what she had lost. He had not raised his voice then either.

“What would you have me say?” Elizabeth asked. “That I was foolish? That I believed it would never leave my hands? That I thought—”

She stopped herself.

He did not answer. He did not trust what might come out.

“But you will say something,” she almost begged. “You will not let that blasted pamphlet ruin me, surely?”

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say it in the same breath as a dozen other things—reprimands, confessions, regrets. But he could not. He was too aware of how much had already slipped beyond his control.