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Lady Catherine folded her arms. “The trust will not wait. You cannot delay action simply because it is uncomfortable.”

Darcy did not respond. His eyes rested on the ledgers before him, the black ink like scars against the page.

The dowager set her teacup aside. “You have two fronts, my boy. Close one before the other kills you.”

“And if I fail?” he asked.

Silence again.

“Then Georgiana is removed from your care,” Matlock said. “And her dowry passes from your control. That is what failure means.”

Darcy nodded once. “Then I will not fail.”

5 January

E lizabeth dragged the comb through her hair for the third time without needing to. The curls sat obediently on her shoulder, pinned precisely as they ought to be, for perhaps the first time in her life.

It was not the hair that displeased her.

She set the comb down. The teeth clicked against the vanity like a verdict.

In the mirror, her eyes refused to meet her own.

Instead, they darted to the plain black mask resting beside the candlestick.

Velvet. A touch of braid. Chosen days ago with absurd confidence—because some foolish part of her had believed that even hidden in shadows, he would know her.

Darcy noticed things. That had always been the problem.

She adjusted an earring that did not need it. Her gown—pale blue, silver-threaded—had been Jane’s idea. “It suits you,” Jane had said, hooking the back with careful fingers. “And the sleeves are like the ones you admired in Bond Street.”

And Elizabeth had smiled. Had thanked her. Had played along, as if a ribboned bodice and a borrowed mask might carry her into a world where her name had not become a punchline.

She had imagined the dance. The moment. The miracle of being seen.

It was not logical. It was not even likely.

But still.

The bedroom door creaked behind her.

Jane’s reflection appeared—hair unpinned, robe belted, eyes too gentle.

Elizabeth stilled. “No.”

“I am sorry.”

She rose from the stool. “No. No, we agreed—”

“They changed their minds,” Jane said. “Mrs. Gardiner says we cannot risk another evening of scrutiny.”

Elizabeth blinked. “So I am to stay home. For safety.”

“For dignity,” Jane whispered.

A pause.

A knock. Mrs. Gardiner stepped inside, face pale with the strain of civility. “Elizabeth, you may hate me for this, but I will not have you ridiculed like a carnival jester. Not while they are passing drawings of you like caricatures in a music hall.”

Elizabeth’s hands gripped the edge of the vanity. “Is it truly so bad?”

“It is worse than that,” said her aunt. “And it will pass. But not if you give them more to whisper about.”

Her throat was tight. Words gathered but refused to sort themselves.

Jane crossed the room, reaching for her hand. “Please. Take it off.”

Elizabeth nodded—once. Mechanical. And began to unfasten the gown.

Each hook was a little knife.

She undid them anyway.

S he did not weep.

Not when the decision was made. Not when her aunt folded the blue sash and slipped it into the drawer like a letter of rejection.

But her hands would not be still.

She laid out her writing paper with unnecessary precision. Drew her chair to the window as if summoned by dramatic instinct. Dipped her quill. Stared.

No words came. Not even a sharp one. Her wit, usually so eager to gnaw at the edges of discomfort, had abandoned her like a gentleman late to the altar.

She was not angry. She was not brave.

She was, at present, very impressively useless.

Outside, carriages rattled past—off to Mayfair, to Grosvenor, to ballrooms filled with music and people who still had names that earned invitations. Her name was now shorthand for poor judgment. A cautionary tale. A clever anecdote, if you liked your gossip a bit literary.

Behind her, Jane paced.

Mrs. Gardiner had withdrawn to nurse a convenient headache. Mr. Gardiner had vanished into his study with a mutter and a brandy glass, where he might spend the next fortnight pretending no one had ever invented newspapers.

The masque would go on. Just… not for them.

Elizabeth set the quill down. “You ought to have gone.”

Jane turned. “And leave you here to—what? Sit at the window like a Bronte heroine and listen for horses?”

“I am not the invalid,” Elizabeth said. “It is not me they speak of when they mention heartbreak.”

Jane’s chin lifted. “No. But I will not pretend nothing has changed. He—”

“Do not.” Elizabeth’s voice cracked. “Please.”

The silence settled again. And then, soft, like peeling back the edge of a sealed letter:

“He was my friend, Jane. More than my friend.”

Jane came to her. Sat beside her. Took her hand without a word.

Elizabeth stared at the hearth, where a log popped and scattered sparks like warnings.

“I think,” she said slowly, “if I had told him sooner. If I had trusted him enough to be honest instead of clever. Perhaps none of this would have happened.”

Jane’s brows creased. “You cannot mean that.”

“But I do.” Elizabeth gave a short, dry breath that might once have been a laugh. “Every woman wears a mask. I just happened to choose the one that matched my dress.”

Jane searched her face. “Then what will you do?”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I will marry Captain Marlowe,” she said. “Or try to. Unless he disappears, like every other man who has ever made eye contact with me.”

“That is not fair.”

“No,” she said. “But it is statistically accurate.”

The silence stretched until Jane broke it, her voice tentative: “If you asked me to write to him, I would.”

Elizabeth looked at her. “Who?”

“Mr. Darcy.”

The name landed like a door shutting.

Elizabeth turned away. “No. I do not even know what I would say. And he has his own problems. He does not need mine.”

Another coach passed. Candlelight glimmered on the panes. Someone inside laughed.

She imagined him out there, maybe laughing too. Maybe not.

She let go of Jane’s hand. Stood. Smoothed the front of her gown.

“We will not speak of it again.”

And crossed the room like a woman who had practiced walking away from things she wanted.

7 January

“ W ould you mind tying this for me, Jackson?” Darcy said at the door, holding the coat at its collar rather than slipping it on.

The butler’s fingers worked the knot as Darcy turned away. “Sir?”

“My coat—yes.” Darcy drew a steadying breath. “Important morning ahead.”

Jackson paused. “Engagement call to the Ashfords, sir?”

Darcy looked at his own reflection in the hallway mirror—sharp suit, gloved hands pressed flat at his sides. He nodded. “It is time.”

Jackson ceased tying. “Very good, sir.” He straightened and stepped back.

Darcy slid his arm into the sleeve, then paused, hand against the lapel.

Why am I doing this?

He visualized Elizabeth’s eyes—clear, wounded, unsparing—still after every insinuation. His proposal to Miss Ashford had been made from caution and duty. Now it had come to feel like exile.

He tugged the front closed and picked up his gloves from the hall table. Jackson took them, circling to place them on Darcy’s hands.

“You look… resolved, sir.”

He drew his hands free. “Resolved.” The word tasted like parched parchment.

Jackson inclined his head. “Shall I see you to your carriage?”

“Yes.”

Each step away from the mirror was a step further from the future he had once hoped for. By the door, he paused again.

“Jackson.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Let the coachman wait in the front courtyard. No haste, please.”

Jackson bowed again. “As you wish, sir.”

Darcy closed the door and descended the stairs. Foot by measured foot, he carried his decision with him—an unspoken oath heavier than any coat. He swayed slightly on the last stair, hand braced against the wall. It passed. Or it did not. He straightened anyway.

“ M r. Darcy.”

She rose when the butler announced him, as dictated by etiquette, and remained standing while he approached.

Her gown was pale lavender, her posture a portrait of modest composure—though her hand, resting lightly on the chair back, gave her away.

She did not reach for him or even light up as he entered the room. She never did.

He bowed. “Miss Ashford.”

She curtseyed with practiced grace. “You are come early, sir.”

“I thought it best.”

“Indeed.” She turned toward the hearth. “My father is expecting you.”

Darcy followed her glance. Mr. Ashford remained seated, one leg crossed over the other, the Morning Chronicle open across his lap as if to remind all present of what had been printed and what could not be unsaid. He did not rise.

“Mr. Darcy,” Ashford said with a nod.

“Mr. Ashford.”

“Take a chair, if you please. Let us speak with candor.”

Darcy obliged. He did not remove his gloves.

They were all still settling into the idea of one another—of what this alliance was meant to be. No warmth. No secrets, certainly, but no softness either. It had never mattered before. That had been the point. And yet now—

Now it was all he could think about.

The scent of pine logs drifted up from the fire. The mantel clock ticked once, then again.

“I presume,” he began carefully, “that you are aware of the nature of the… commentary being passed about town.”

Miss Ashford inclined her head. “It would require a certain deafness not to be.”

Ashford lowered the newspaper with the precision of a man who had read every column more than once. “It was evident enough at the Hayworths’ masque.” His mouth flattened. “The tone of the evening was not what one expects from polite society.”

Darcy’s spine straightened. “I am sorry you found the atmosphere disagreeable.”

Ashford made a low sound of acknowledgment.

“I did not say I found it disagreeable. I said it was instructive.” He set the newspaper aside, eyes now wholly on Darcy.

“These whispers—about your engagement, about your family—cannot be dismissed as idle mischief. One begins to hear... patterns. The haste of your courtship. The inheritance clause. Your sister’s—situation. ”

His gloves had begun to itch. The seam pressed against the base of his thumb like a warning. He flexed his fingers, trying to shift the pressure. It only made the stitching groan.

“No daughter of mine will be made the object of mockery.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Nor mine.”

Ashford sat back. “I had supposed you a man of good character. And I have not yet been persuaded otherwise. But I cannot feign ignorance of what is being said. If my daughter is to go forward in this alliance, she must do so with confidence that your name will not be a source of derision.”

Darcy said nothing at first. His hand hovered briefly near his watch fob, then lowered again. A gesture not of uncertainty but restraint.

Ashford continued, his tone more measured. “I am not disobliged to the marriage. You bring resources. Connections. A certain gravity. But that gravity must carry us through the storm, not be the storm itself.”

Darcy lifted his gaze. “I do not disagree, sir.”

That earned him a glance. Not admiration, precisely—something cooler. Assessment.

Miss Ashford folded her hands in her lap. “Do you intend to end the engagement, Mr. Darcy?”

It was so simply put. As though it were hers to dissolve. As though it had not taken every ounce of his family’s calculation to engineer this arrangement in the first place.

He met her gaze. “Not unless you require it.”

“I require only clarity,” she said. “And dignity.”

“You shall have both.” He paused. “I will see to it.”

She did not smile. She never smiled. She did not reach for him or even light up as he entered the room. She never did.

Elizabeth had once smiled at him like the sun had changed course. And he—blast him—he had been too proud to orbit her.

Mr. Ashford cleared his throat. “You understand, sir, that my daughter’s social standing rests upon more than your private assurances. These rumors—this association with scandal—places her in peril.”

Darcy’s hands tightened in his gloves.

They were talking about association. About proximity. As if he had merely stood too near something vulgar.

As if that were all he had done.

“I am aware,” he said flatly.

Ashford’s eyes narrowed. “If you cannot prevent your name from being dragged through the pamphlets, you must, at the very least, preserve hers.”

Miss Ashford spoke again, her voice even. “We must maintain appearances. That is all.”

And here, Darcy felt the full absurdity of it.

This was the arrangement he had chosen. This was the alliance he had pursued to save his name, his sister, his estate.

He was fighting to preserve the possibility of marrying a woman he did not love, who had no expectation of being loved, because the woman he did love was no longer an option.

“Then we proceed,” he said. “On those terms.”

The words felt wrong in his mouth. Not bitter. Not sharp. Just… hollow.

He had always imagined love as something to fight for. Instead, he had buried it—alive—and called it strategy.

Miss Ashford gave a shallow nod. “Very well.”

Ashford stood. “Your time grows short, Mr. Darcy. I suggest you use it wisely.”

Darcy rose. “I intend to.”

He bowed to her again. “Miss Ashford.”

She dipped her chin, the gesture precise and perfunctory.

He walked out without looking back. Not because he did not want to. Because there was nothing to see.