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Chapter Thirty-Two

D arcy closed the front door behind him and stilled. His gloves remained in his hand, forgotten.

He had just come from Brook Street, where Mr. Ashford had received him with the poise of a man rehearsed in disappointment.

No raised voice. No outright accusation.

Just regret—and a firm reminder that his daughter’s prospects must be safeguarded.

Penelope, for her part, had not come downstairs. Not even to offer tea.

He had walked home through the cold, wind slicing past his collar, trying to calculate the next steps.

The banns had not yet been called. There was still time to salvage appearances.

Dyer might spin something for the newspapers.

Penelope might be persuaded to hold—if the scandal could be suffocated quickly.

And Elizabeth—

He dragged the thought aside. There was no time. No room. Not when Georgiana's future might depend on the next letter he sent or did not send.

The air inside carried voices. Low. Intentional. Not the idle murmur of servants or Georgiana’s scales from the music room. This was the sound of waiting. Of something already begun.

The drawing room door stood open, just far enough to suggest invitation. Or ambush. He stepped forward and saw the hats first. Matlock’s was still dusted with snow. Dyer’s rested like a ledger’s promise on the table by the stairs.

Uninvited.

Georgiana sat near the hearth, spine upright but drawn, her hands laced in her lap. On the opposite side of the room, Lord Matlock leaned on his cane with both hands, flanked by Mr. Dyer with his little leather ledger closed tight, and Lady Catherine seated stiffly as a caryatid.

No greetings. No pretense.

"You are late," Matlock said without turning.

"I was attending to business," Darcy replied, stepping inside. His coat remained buttoned.

Mr. Dyer stood up, unsmiling. "There has been a great deal of it. Especially since New Year’s."

Darcy’s eyes moved to Georgiana. She did not lift her head, but one foot tapped once against the carpet and then went still.

He turned to the others. "Let us not play at subtlety. You are not here for dinner."

Lady Catherine lifted her chin. “So. You have returned at last.”

“I had business to attend.”

“Better than what your name has been attending, if half the rumors are true,” she said. “The servants are in agony with the suspense.”

Lord Matlock, without rising, gestured to the empty chair across from him. “You may as well sit. You know why we have come.”

“I can guess,” Darcy said. “Though I had hoped you might have the courtesy to let me remove my gloves first.”

“We have all indulged you long enough,” Matlock said. “The calendar does not pause for decency. The trust dissolves in thirty-seven days.”

Lady Catherine scoffed. “If it lasts that long.”

Mr. Dyer shifted, opening the little brown ledger with the gravity of a man entering a duel. “Lord Matlock is correct. The trust must be resolved before your thirtieth birthday. The marriage provision was intended to forestall precisely this sort of scandal.”

Darcy’s teeth clenched.

The dowager—silent until now—gave a sudden snort from her corner chair. “And yet here we are. Thirty years of management and not one ounce of tact between the lot of you.”

Everyone turned.

She raised her teacup. “Proceed. It is not every day one is summoned to watch her grandson publicly harpooned.”

Dyer cleared his throat. “The concern, Mr. Darcy, is not merely your delay in marrying. It is the current instability surrounding your engagements—both personal and social.”

Darcy sat back.

Lady Catherine gave a sharp rap of her cane on the rug.

“It was only a matter of time before the Ashfords revealed their true colors. Thin-skinned tradespeople masquerading as gentry. The girl has been whisked back to Richmond as though she were some tragic heroine—when the real tragedy is the embarrassment this entire affair has cast upon your name. And Georgiana’s.

There are whispers, Fitzwilliam, whispers.

Do you understand what that means for the family? ”

“Not gossip,” Matlock said. “Blackmail. And for once, you are not the one wielding it, Catherine.”

The dowager clicked her tongue. “What did I miss? Has someone grown a conscience?”

Matlock did not flinch. “I spoke with Ashford myself. He will not proceed unless you issue a public denial. He named her only as that girl from Gracechurch Street.”

Darcy’s fingers dug into the arm of his chair. “Her name,” he said tightly, “is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Lady Catherine made a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “Yes. And she is a scandal. One you have refused to dismiss, no matter how many chances you have had.”

“I have done nothing to shelter her.”

“You have done nothing to stop the connection,” Matlock said. “Nothing to quiet the rumors.”

“I have spoken no word in her defense. And every moment I remained silent, the words sank deeper. I spoke nothing because I believed that any denial from me would be taken as confirmation of something more scandalous—something tangible. Therefore, I have issued no denials. I have sent no letters. Whatever charity I showed—” He stopped. His jaw tensed. “It was private.”

The dowager stirred in her chair. “And rightly so. If more men had the sense to protect a lady without parading their virtue—”

Darcy shot her a look. Sharp. Silencing. Her mouth thinned, but she said no more.

Lady Catherine folded her arms. “You admit there is a connection.”

“There was concern. There was… friendship. There was a moment when I believed—” He pressed his lips together. No. Not here. Not in front of them.

“A moment?” Lady Catherine cried. “You were the only one who thought it a moment. The rest of us saw something far more deliberate. The girl has been watching you for months—presumptuous, indiscreet—always speaking out of turn. I thank Heaven I had the presence of mind to keep Mr. Collins from making his visit to Longbourn when he first wished it. I warned him that sort of family could not be trusted.”

“Enough,” Darcy said, standing. “She is betrothed. To another. That is all that matters.”

But even as he said it, his stomach turned. Because it was not all that mattered. Not to him. Not anymore.

“For now,” Matlock said. “Until the next pamphlet.”

Dyer lifted a page from the ledger. “The current concern is Miss Georgiana. A petition has been submitted to the court to review her guardianship.”

Darcy stiffened.

“On what grounds?”

“On the presumption,” Dyer said, “that her current guardian has failed to preserve her dignity.”

“And who precisely raised that petition?”

Silence.

The dowager reached for another sugar lump. “Ah, so it is war now, is it?”

“It is not war,” Matlock said flatly. “It is consequence.”

The dowager sighed. “No, no. It is war. That is why your nose looks like that.”

Matlock scowled. “There is nothing amusing about this, Mother.”

“Everything is amusing,” she said, sipping. “Or at least it should be.”

Lady Catherine ignored them both. “If you will not fix it, Darcy, then we must. I can make inquiries. There are families of quality who would take Georgiana—quietly. With supervision.”

The dowager set down her cup with a clink. “Well then. War it is.”

Darcy turned on his aunt. “You mean to remove her from me?”

“If you cannot fulfill your obligations, then yes.”

“I have fulfilled every one of them,” he said. “I have protected her. I have raised her. I have—”

“You have delayed,” Matlock said. “You have dithered with feelings and fancies and waited too long. And now you may lose everything.”

Dyer cleared his throat. “The trustees have not yet ruled on the petition, but they will require assurances—public, concrete, and binding.”

Darcy did not answer.

“You want a solution?” Lady Catherine snapped. “Then marry. Take Anne, as you were meant to. Secure the estate, restore your name, and cease this indulgent dithering. Anything less is a disgrace to your father’s memory—and a betrayal of mine.”

“I will not be dictated to.”

“You are being dictated to,” Matlock said. “By your own father. By the trust. By the terms of his will. And now, it seems, by Wickham.”

Darcy’s jaw locked.

Lady Catherine twisted in her seat. “Wickham? The steward’s son? What does that wretch have to do with anything?”

Darcy did not answer.

Dyer cleared his throat. “There have been… letters that have come to light in the last weeks, my lady.”

“Stolen letters,” Darcy said curtly. “Given to Miss Bingley. She used them to stir the very rumors we now chase like foxes.”

“And you let her keep them?” Lady Catherine barked.

Darcy glared. “I was too incensed to even take them from her hand, but Bingley sent them over himself. I have them now. That is all that matters.”

“Not quite all,” Matlock said. “I understand there are more. Where is Wickham?”

“I am pursuing him,” darcy said through gritted teeth.

“Pursuing him?” Matlock repeated. “What does that mean? Have you called in a solicitor?”

“I have written to his commanding officer,” Darcy said. “He has not replied.”

Lady Catherine sniffed. “Then send someone who will not embarrass us. You are not a bailiff, Mr. Darcy, and he is the son of a servant. If you imagine a letter is sufficient to call back what has been handed over to scoundrels, you are more na?ve than I feared.”

Dyer adjusted a page in his ledger. “If the letters exist and can be traced, there may be grounds to sue for theft or defamation—perhaps coercion. But a case against Miss Bingley would be stronger. You are still on speaking terms?”

The dowager gave a sound of disgust. “Barely.”

“They are her publications,” Dyer said. “Mr. Wickham’s involvement will be harder to prove unless he admits it. But Miss Bingley is vulnerable—she is unmarried, without estate, and deeply dependent on her brother.”

“Who has no control over her whatsoever,” Darcy muttered.

Matlock leaned forward. “Then make him.”