Page 22 of One Night with Mr. Darcy

The wages of sin…

She shuddered.

Death, then.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MR. DARCY THOUGHTabout his son every morning and every night for the next two years.

He made no contact with Elizabeth, and he did nothing about it.

Then, one day, a rider came with a letter, and it was news that his aunt, Lady Catherine, was dead.

While he was preparing for the journey to Rosings for the funeral, he got news from his cousin Richard Fitzwilliam that the rest of the family had just discovered the place had been left to a parson’s wife—well, since she was married it was good as the parson’s, though he was apparently on his deathbed and not long for this world. The family was quite aghast at the news. Richard, on the other hand, thought it was a good joke, and he even said that it would be even more funny if he swooped in there and married the widow. Once she was a widow, that was, which was said to be imminently.I’ve heard she’s passingly pretty even though she has buck teeth,he wrote.

Darcy crumbled the letter up and tossed it in the fireplace.

She does not have buck teeth,he thought fiercely.

He sought out his sister, but he didn’t find her anywhere in the house.

Grumpy, he stomped down the stairs to the servants’ dining room and stuck his head in, looking for Georgiana’s maid.

Instead, the butler came up, fussing over him. “Ring for me, sir, and I shall be quite happy to see to anything for you. You don’t need to bother yourself, coming down here.”

“Fine,” said Darcy. “I’m looking for my sister. Does her maid know where she is?”

“Clara!” shouted the butler.

Georgiana’s maid presented herself, white-faced, shaking a bit. She eyed the butler.

“Come now, Clara,” said the butler. “Don’t tell me you don’t know where your mistress is.”

“W-well, Mrs. Reynolds has said that we must not worry Mr. Darcy about it, since he had tried to put a stop to it in the past.” Mrs. Reynolds was the housekeeper.

Darcy felt a shot of alarm go through him. “She’s in the rectory.”

Clara cringed. “But it’s not whatever it is you worry about it being, sir. Reverend Wickham, he’s a holy man.”

Wickham. Darcy clenched a hand into a fist.

“It’s Thursday, sir,” said Clara in a wilting voice. “She always goes to the rectory on Thursday afternoons.”

“Always?” said Darcy, not liking this at all. “For how long?”

“For… always.” Clara was miserable.

He heaved, drawing breath through his nose and letting it back out again. He shifted uneasily on his feet. “Well,” he said, trying to sound casual, though it was too late now, “I shall simply go down there, then. My sister needs to be informed that her aunt has died. It’s important news. We’ll be making ready to leave and go to Kent quite soon.”

No one objected—not that they would, because he was the master of the house.

He supposed it sounded reasonable enough, what he’d said.

It was only that some of the staff, Mrs. Reynolds especially, seemed to think he was being ridiculous about Wickham.

Perhaps he was.

He didn’t even know exactly what it was he was worried about.