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Chapter Thirty-Eight

D arcy had not planned to leave half-dressed with hardly a straight line to chase.

He had planned, in fact, to hire someone, pay for information, find out where she had gone, but there seemed to be almost no one he could risk asking.

He could just go… drive north, with little but a prayer that he had chosen correctly. Time was short, no room for mistakes.

And also no room for indecision. Damned if he jumped, damned if he stayed still.

That left him with little plan at all—except to pace the study like a caged animal, reread the map of Derbyshire without blinking, and possibly lose the final fragments of his sanity somewhere beneath the west edge of Lambton.

But after the third circuit of the rug and the second scalding cup of tea he did not remember pouring, he found himself staring at the door as if it might open of its own volition.

As if, by sheer will, he might conjure her silhouette there—dark curls, dark eyes, some scathing remark perched on her lips.

He was halfway to summoning Jackson when the door creaked open on its own.

His breath caught. He turned, half-risen already, heart surging despite itself.

Elizabeth? Had she come? Here to hold him to his silly old promise—the one he would spill his life-blood to keep!

But no.

Not Elizabeth.

The dowager swept in without knocking, two shawls slung over one arm and the faintly murderous look of someone who had, once again, been forced to manage all the world’s foolishness before breakfast.

“Pack your coat,” she said without ceremony. “And your map, before you rub the ink off it with your anxious fingers.”

Darcy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Unless you want to settle your bones in London, she sniffed. “I daresay Miss Lavinia Watson would have you, as would Miss Pamela Darnall and—”

“As I want none of them,” he interrupted, “I cannot think why you are rattling off names.”

She raised her brows. “Are you sure? You could still settle matters in time, if you secure a lady before the weekend. The banns can still be called. Your father's terms met, just in time.”

Darcy closed his eyes. “I know. I have thought about it from every angle. But…”

“Indeed, indeed. Only the girl who pinned her ribbon on you will do. And I believe we both know she has probably gone to Derbyshire, so I have ordered the smaller carriage,” she continued, as if he was not turning to stare at her incredulously.

“The large one rattles too much over gravel. And I have no intention of arriving like a corpse shaken out of its wrappings.”

“You are coming with me?”

She gave him a look of such withering incredulity that he almost sat down. “I am not letting you gallop off like some doomed knight while I wait for the scandal to reach my breakfast tray. I am old, not irrelevant.”

He opened his mouth. Shut it again.

The door opened a second time. Darcy looked up—and froze.

“Richard?” The name came out half-astonished, half-accusation, as though his cousin had just materialized from a cannon blast instead of the front hall.

The colonel stepped in with the breezy confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was walking into.

“Afternoon, all. Two months’ leave, as of today.

” He dropped his travel cloak onto a chair with a flourish.

“My regiment has finally been billeted near London—I was only just freed from garrison duties and constant drilling. I’ve been in barracks so long that I nearly forgot what society looked like. ”

Darcy stared, trying to place his reaction. “But you were supposed to be in Eastbourne until spring.”

“Yes, well, the posting changed—the men needed a proper winter billet, so they sent me home. And I took it, of course.” Richard stripped off his gloves and flung them onto a side table with all the ceremony of a returning hero.

“I mean, you knew I was still in England? I am not that useless that you forgot all about me, I hope?”

The dowager did not look up from her tea. “Your usefulness ended with your christening.”

Richard gave a gallant bow. “And yet, here I stand.”

He turned to Darcy, taking in the scattered map, the flint-eyed dowager, the general air of gathering doom. “Now, what is this? I see the war council is convened. Am I too late to veto the madness, or have you already declared a crusade?”

The dowager, without so much as a glance, began rearranging the tea service. “You may ride behind us if you like. Or cling to the undercarriage like a raccoon. I am beyond caring.”

Richard blinked. “Us?”

“She is coming with me,” Darcy muttered, one hand dragging down his face. “Apparently.”

Richard tilted his head. “Where?”

Darcy gestured vaguely toward the map.

“That explains nothing,” Richard said. “Have we declared war on Matlock? Did the butler offend you again? Are you hunting a particularly elusive pheasant?”

The dowager buttered a scone with ruthless precision. “He is chasing a woman.”

Richard’s brows leapt. “What sort of woman? Because if this is another ill-fated dance with Miss Featherstone, I must remind you that you are still banned from three counties.”

Darcy made a strangled sound and turned away.

Richard snapped his fingers. “Ha! I knew it. Now, let us see… who do we know in Derbyshire? No duchesses, no actresses. I recall no widows of suitable temperament. Well, the only female entanglement I recall from Derbyshire was probably one you would rather I forgot. Could it be…” He rubbed his chin with mock gravity. “No. Surely not.”

“Probably not, if it is one of your guesses,” Darcy shot back testily. “You could not possibly know—”

“Tell me it is not the girl from Hertfordshire,” Richard laughed.

Darcy’s mouth froze, wide-open and useless.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “I knew it! I always knew those fine eyes and that sharp tongue would— Oh, Grandmother, do tell me I am right. I could do with a laugh and a bit of good gossip.”

Darcy cleared his throat and sent a swift glance at his grandmother.

Richard’s brows shot up. “Good God, it is her! About bloody time, I say.”

“I never confirmed that,” Darcy muttered.

“You did not have to. You just twitched like a man being accused of treason. That is confirmation enough.” He barked a laugh. “You are chasing the auction girl? The one with the pocket-sized disdain and the eyebrows sharp enough to open post?”

“She has a name, which you know very well.”

“Yes, but you always used to flinch whenever I said it. Shall I make up some code so we can all be clear, or are we beyond caring at this point? Let me see, she deserves something regal. Lady Sarcasm of Upper Smirkshire. Has a nice ring to it, does it not?”

Darcy turned away, muttering something about maps and post schedules and whether Mr. Gardiner kept his own carriage.

Richard’s grin turned feral. “Well. I will be damned. The auction girl.” He leaned against the fireplace like a man settling in for sport. “Right. Catch me up. What happened? Did you ruin it? You ruined it, did you not?”

Darcy stared into the fire as if hoping it might leap up and swallow him whole.

Richard’s grin widened. “Excellent. This will be fun.”

Darcy exhaled. “There was… a letter. And then a contract. And then a wedding. Which did not occur.”

Richard made a gleeful little noise. “So, all the romantic notes. In character for you, I might add.”

“You are enjoying this too much.”

“I have not had brandy or a proper scandal in six months. You are dessert, cousin.”

Darcy pressed a hand to his temple. “I am not explaining all of it.”

“You do not have to,” Richard said breezily. “The despair radiates off you like heat.”

He wandered toward the window and peeked out. “Are we fleeing under cover of night or just under cover of shame?”

“I am not fleeing,” Darcy said through his teeth. And you are not coming with me.”

“Good luck with that. You will need someone to keep the locals from fainting. Or shooting you.”

“I am not sure it will come to that,” Darcy muttered.

“You say that now,” Richard replied, “but you are heading to the middle of nowhere in pursuit of a woman whose last contact with you probably did you no credit whatsoever. Sounds like a love story or a cautionary tale, depending on the reader.”

26 January

T he road narrowed the farther they went.

Trees pressed close on either side now, winter-bare and solemn, their branches rattling softly against the wind.

Elizabeth pulled her cloak tighter as the carriage swayed, the horses plodding steadily up the rise.

Every mile that passed dulled the noise of London—but not the echo inside her.

She did not sleep the night before. She had stared at the pale ceiling of her room until it blurred, the pages of that awful pamphlet crumpled in her hand.

No wedding. No gathering. No ceremony. Her gloves had remained untouched on the dressing table, pale silk and senseless. The announcements she had penned days earlier now sat in a heap by the hearth, their elegant script curling into soot.

It was not cowardice, she told herself now, watching a stone wall blur past the window. It was not weakness to leave when all strength had been wrung from her. London had turned its head; society had made its judgment. Staying would have been theatrical at best, self-flagellation at worst.

But it still felt like failure. And not even a spectacular one—just the small, creeping kind. The sort that stains your name and leaves you in exile, clutching your pride like a child left behind at the market. If there were prizes for dignified disgrace, she might yet take a ribbon.

And yet… she hated the view of herself, fleeing the scene before the curtain fell.