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Chapter Thirty-Five

T hey emerged from the pews just as the final hymn ended—a soft swell of voices folding into silence.

Captain Marlowe hooked Elizabeth’s arm with careful politeness, the angle of his wrist so precisely correct it might have been rehearsed with a drill sergeant.

He offered a gentle nod to the Gardiners and Mr. Bingley, his back already straightening as though someone had rung the bell for inspection.

“Thank you for coming,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her ear. “I know it is no easy thing to be stared at.”

“I am rather used to it,” Elizabeth said wryly. “Though the quality of the whispers has certainly declined.”

Marlowe chuckled—too quickly. His eyes skated past her shoulder, already half-searching for the exit.

A gentleman approached—uniform immaculate, face wind-burnt, and bearing the clear, weathered edge of someone more accustomed to rigging than hymnals.

“Ah—Harcourt,” Marlowe said. “Miss Bennet, may I introduce Commander Harcourt? We served aboard the Inflexible. Harcourt once lost a tooth in the middle of the Strait because he would not let go of the ropes until the sails were stowed.”

“A misplaced sense of duty,” Harcourt said with a crooked grin. “I regret nothing.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “It sounds rather more valiant than anything I have achieved this week. I only lost my appetite.”

“Do not be so sure,” Harcourt said with a brief glance at the onlookers. “Captain,” he added, more quietly, “might I steal you for just a moment? A bit of navy business.”

Elizabeth caught the hesitation in Marlowe’s step. He looked to her, then back to Harcourt. “If you will excuse me, Miss Bennet—just for a moment.”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “You are nothing if not diligent.”

He bowed and walked off with Harcourt, their heads already close.

Elizabeth folded her hands and focused grimly on the cobblestones.

Around her, the air thickened—tight with judgment, prickling with the unmistakable cadence of whisper and glance.

A dozen faces she would not recognize tomorrow.

A dozen opinions she could not change today.

The letters in her pocket rustled like bad decisions.

Her father’s had been all irony and mild doom. “I admit to some admiration for the efficiency with which you’ve undone every hope of your mother’s acquaintance.” It might have been a joke. Possibly. Or not.

Her mother’s had been four sentences long, all of them sharp. No my dear. No signature. Just a warning about her “ruined name” and a promise never to introduce her again. As if introductions had ever been the problem.

She did not mean to carry either letter. But they felt oddly suited to the occasion.

Across the walk, Marlowe stood in tight conference with Harcourt. They kept glancing back—subtle, practiced, not urgent enough to be professional. She was not fool enough to believe they were talking about maps.

Then Mr. Bingley appeared, blessedly earnest.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, voice softer than the weather deserved, “would it be dreadfully forward of me to ask… might I call this afternoon?”

Elizabeth blinked. “You wish to be our guest?”

“If it would not trouble your aunt and uncle. I had hoped for something informal. Tea, perhaps. A few moments of company more hospitable than the broadsheets.”

Jane smiled—the first real one in days. “I am certain they would be very glad of it.”

“You are very welcome,” Elizabeth said. “The papers have been quite inhospitable of late.”

“Courage or folly to read them at all,” Bingley murmured.

“A weighted mix,” she said. “Heavy on the folly.”

He laughed, almost sincerely.

Footsteps sounded again. Marlowe approached with his usual dignity, gloves tucked neatly beneath his arm. His smile was faint, respectful, and devoid of pulse.

“Forgive me, Miss Bennet. A minor question of charts. I hope I did not keep you long.”

“Not at all,” she replied, with a smile so dry it could powder a wig.

He turned to Jane and Bingley, offered greetings with all the warmth of a man reading stage directions, and then—again—excused himself. “There is something else I must say to Harcourt. I shan’t be a moment.”

Elizabeth watched him go with the weary patience of someone observing a very polite tumbleweed.

“He seems… attentive,” Bingley offered.

“That is the common opinion,” Elizabeth said.

“Not mine,” he said quickly. “Only—he returned for but a moment, and then… walked away again. Odd.”

Elizabeth laughed, short and bright. “Oh, he is merely showing off the naval version of courtship. Advance. Retreat. Repeat until morale improves.”

Bingley looked briefly startled, then amused. Jane touched his arm, and the moment passed.

“I will look forward to tea,” he said. “Your aunt’s table is always less… drafty.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “And full of fewer uniforms.”

He bowed and vanished into the crowd.

Marlowe returned. Again.

“Shall we walk?” he asked.

She took his arm.

And as they descended the steps, her fingers barely touching his sleeve, Elizabeth looked to the sky above—grey, dull, and unimaginably vast.

Not unlike the future.

And frankly, she had seen more compelling prospects at the bottom of her aunt’s sewing basket.

T he door to the study clicked shut behind Mr. Dyer, the sound nearly drowned by the wind scratching at the windowpanes. Darcy did not rise.

“You are late,” he said.

Dyer removed his gloves with deliberate care. “It is Sunday, sir.”

“It is the nineteenth,” Darcy replied, his gaze fixed on the fire. “And I marry in two days. I require action on this matter.”

That silenced the man, if only for a moment. Dyer approached the hearth and cleared his throat. “I came as soon as I could. Your note conveyed urgency but lacked detail.”

Darcy turned, his posture sharp and controlled, though his voice betrayed the pressure coiling beneath. “The gossip continues. Quietly now, but it spreads like smoke. I want it stopped.”

Dyer sighed and opened his ledger, though they both knew it was a hollow gesture. “You know very well there is no statute against idle talk. What would you have me do? Arrest every footman in London?”

“I want Wickham named,” Darcy said, his voice already fraying. His hands were clenched behind his back—but barely. The restraint cost him.

“Formally. Let it be known that the rumors stem from his theft—his breach of trust. Let the scandal attach to his name.”

Dyer blinked. “You paid him. You secured his silence. And now you want to unmake the deal?” Dyer asked, incredulous. “You gave him gold and safe passage. What would you give next—your reputation?”

“I secured possession of the letters. That is not the same. He has poisoned my sister’s name.

And I let him,” Darcy snapped. “I thought I could pay him off and bury it. But it festers. It spreads. He stained my house— mine —and you ask me to let it pass? You ask me to stand in the street and smile while they whisper in doorways?. And he will do it again if he is allowed to vanish into comfort. I will not have him sailing south with his pockets full and his name intact.”

“You would rather bring him into court?” Dyer asked slowly.

Darcy did not answer. His silence was answer enough.

Dyer’s voice gentled, though it lost none of its caution. “Mr. Darcy, if you proceed in that fashion—if you make this matter public—you risk implicating yourself. He was once your father's ward. A man known to your family. The court may view it as an internal dispute, not a criminal act.”

“He stole,” Darcy said flatly. “He manipulated a child.”

“And you paid him to go quietly. So now, should you reverse that course, the court will ask why.” Dyer held his gaze. “And they will not like the answer.”

Darcy crossed to the window and stared out at the square. The day was grey, the sky low with threat. “Georgiana is sixteen. She does not leave the house without a chaperone,” Darcy said, the words strangled. “And yet they speak of her as if she had run to Brighton with her dancing master.”

He slammed a hand against the window frame. “They are punishing a child. For trusting. For being kind.”

“It is cruel,” Dyer admitted.

“It is more than that.” Darcy turned, his voice colder now, each syllable honed to a point.

“It is calculated. Wickham knew what he was doing when he passed those letters. He let her words—private words—fall into the hands of a woman who would weaponize them for her own advantage. And I gave him coin for it! As if it were a transaction—as if her trust could be bartered like a parcel of land. And Miss Bingley did not hesitate. She carried them into my uncle’s drawing room like a gift for a Roman emperor. ”

Dyer winced. His hand curled around the edge of the ledger, though he did not speak.

“Do not mistake this for a fit of sensibility. I do not seek sympathy, Mr. Dyer. I seek a remedy. There must be some—”

“There is no legal path for vengeance,” Dyer said carefully.

“Not for gossip. Not without you dragging Mr. Bingley through the mire as well, and I believe that would strain more than your conscience. You cannot both pay the blackmailer and prosecute the crime. The court will not let you be hero and victim both.”

Darcy said nothing, but his mouth tightened.

“You said Mr. Bingley has… removed his sister?”

“He has,” Darcy said. “He sent her to Bath under some pretext. But I cannot ask him for more. Not without losing the friendship of a good and innocent man, which is a thing I am unwilling to do.”

“And you cannot afford to lose Lord Matlock,” Dyer added.

Darcy’s eyes narrowed.

“I mean politically. Not personally. His influence carries weight with the court. Should he withdraw support from your guardianship, or begin to whisper about impropriety within the family, you will find yourself defending more than your sister’s honor.”

Darcy’s fingers flexed once at his side.