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Chapter Twenty-Six

January 1812 Bloomsbury Street, London Winters Winters

“C ome,” Winters called. His man entered. Jarvis’s cunning and stealth were unmatched and impossible to replicate. He bowed to his master.

“The Bingley whelp visited Lady Montrose today,” he said in his coarse accent. “My sources say he has found the brat.”

Winters sat forward. “Impossible. We have looked everywhere.”

“And yet he found her by chance. In Hertfordshire.”

“This changes everything. If her grandmother recognizes little Miss Montrose, we may secure the business shares.” Winters grinned. Yes, all would go splendidly. He could satisfy his debtors and continue as he always had, leaving the management of his company to lesser men whilst he enjoyed the profits.

“How do you reckon that? The old bird has refused to sell. She be the trustee, and coulda done it years ago.” Jarvis folded his arms and frowned.

“Lady Montrose will not want her precious grandchild entangled in trade. Henry told me often enough that his family disapproved. Though his mother kept in touch, she did not visit more than once a year.” By his estimation, the girl had not yet reached her majority, either. Her grandmother would still make all the decisions.

“Then why’d she keep it so long?”

“People are odd when they mourn. I imagine she held on to it because surrendering it would be admitting defeat. We must confirm whether Bingley’s son has truly found Elizabeth Montrose. Then we wait for the right moment. We must time it perfectly. The girl must be acknowledged publicly before we approach.”

“I’ll keep me eye on ‘em,” Jarvis promised.

“You have done well.” Winters tossed him a bag of coins. “For expenses.” Jarvis weighed it in his hand and nodded, satisfied. With a short bow, he tucked it into his pocket and departed.

“Twelve years,” Winters said to the empty room. “Twelve years of waiting, and soon it will all be mine.”

He had plagued the lady in countless ways over the years—sending false reports, hiring strangers to approach her with claims of being her lost granddaughter. He had never expected any of them to succeed. He had wanted to break her spirit. Once she abandoned hope, she would declare her granddaughter dead. Montrose’s will had been explicit: should no family remain, his partners would gain control of his business interests.

There must be thousands of pounds by now. And soon, it would belong to him.

January 2, 1812 London Bingley

Dear Sir,

My mistress refuses to see reason. I have delayed sending her letters for now, but I cannot do so for long without discovery. Lady M. plans to attend the theater on Twelfth Night. Her box is number five and overlooks the stage. Secure a seat nearby, and ensure that Elizabeth is wearing the brooch. I shall arrange for both you and her to meet my mistress during the intermission.

Jameson

“Well, we have a way forward.” Thankfully, Jane, Elizabeth, and Darcy had joined him and Caroline that morning. Bingley had told them all, including what he had learned from Jameson.

“That poor woman!” Caroline cried, aghast. “How could someone take advantage of another in such a way?”

“It happens all too often,” Darcy replied gravely. “I have fallen victim to such schemes myself.”

“How would your parents feel about attending the theater?” he asked Jane. “It is short notice. I am uncertain whether we shall secure seats.”

“My box is available. And it is very near box five—close enough that Lady Montrose will be able to see everyone inside.” Darcy took Elizabeth’s hand. “If this fails, shall we continue to try?” he asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I shall have my happiness, even if Lady Montrose does not recognize me.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and offered him a sad smile.

“Then let us prepare.”

A note was sent to the Bennets, and they agreed to attend the theater three nights hence. Now, all they could do was wait.

Bingley lacked patience. He paced endlessly when Jane was not present to distract him. He pored over old letters, once more questioning who had sought to eliminate the entire Montrose family. Could it have been a relation, eager to advance in the line of succession? Yet, no new heir had ever been declared. The Montrose earldom remained without an earl.

Could it have been something else? His father had never been the same after that night—ever wary, always glancing over his shoulder. Perhaps a business associate had arranged the deaths, some affront by Montrose having provoked their wrath.

“It sounds like a gothic novel,” he muttered aloud. Still, he forced himself to consider it. The idea that revealing Elizabeth’s existence might yet endanger her continued to haunt him.

He blamed himself for their deaths. There—it was admitted. Foolish though it might be to shoulder the guilt, he could not cast it off. Had he arrived earlier, he might have interrupted the tragedy. Perhaps he would have stopped Elizabeth before she wandered away.

Bingley could only hope that, once all was settled, he might at last be free of the irrational shame that had followed him for half of his life.

Elizabeth

Three nights later, Bingley’s carriage conveyed him, Caroline, and Sir James to the theater, where Darcy and the Bennets awaited them just inside the entrance.

After exchanging greetings, they made their way to the Darcy box. “We must not allow her to see Elizabeth too soon,” Darcy explained. “She may cry foul and depart.”

Elizabeth took the seat beside Darcy, with Jane on her other side and Bingley beyond her. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were seated just behind them in the second row.

“Elizabeth, take these.” Darcy handed her a pair of lorgnettes. “I know you. You will be more interested in the stage than in the audience.”

“ Why ever would I be interested in them?” she asked with a touch of incredulity.

He chuckled and leaned in to murmur. “Because people come to the theater to see and be seen. Though you have never been of their ilk.”

“ Much Ado About Nothing is one of my favorite plays by the Bard. I do not intendto miss a moment of it.”

A signal was given, and the performance began. Elizabeth watched, wholly absorbed until Darcy nudged her gently. He gestured toward a box slightly behind and to the left of theirs. “That is Lady Montrose,” he murmured.

Elizabeth raised the lorgnettes to her eyes to examine the lady more closely. “She is very elegant,” she whispered. Lady Montrose’s hair was white—had it once been blond? She appeared only a little older than Mr. Bennet, who still had color in his locks. Faint lines marked her face, and an unmistakable air of sadness and resignation clung to her. She lowered the lorgnettes, her eyes stinging with sudden emotion.

Do I belong to your family? she asked the lady in her mind. Some part of her longed to cry out , I only wish to know who I am! Yet she did know. She was Elizabeth Bennet, the second daughter of Thomas and Fanny Bennet of Longbourn. She had a loving family and an idyllic childhood. Truly, she had no cause to repine. Still, until the mystery of her past was resolved, she could never feel fully at peace. There would always be a gaping void in her heart—and in her thoughts—where memories ought to dwell.

The intermission arrived far too soon. Darcy rose without hesitation, intent on accompanying her. “You will be more likely to gain entrance if you go in my stead,” he advised. Bingley remained in the box.

Jameson met them outside. The man stared openly at Elizabeth. “He was not exaggerating,” he murmured, astonished. “Where is Mr. Bingley?”

“We thought it wiser that I escort Miss Elizabeth.” Darcy answered smoothly, his tone both courteous and firm. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, to see Lady Montrose.”

At the name, Jameson straightened and nodded with eager approval. “Come, I shall escort you, sir. Miss.”

They stepped into the corridor, and Elizabeth remained close behind Darcy, irrational fear thrumming through her veins. In mere moments, she would know—without a doubt—whether the lady would receive her.

“Mr. Darcy to see you, ma’am.”

“Darcy? George Darcy’s boy? Well, I suppose I ought to greet him. Show him in, Jameson.”

At the servant’s bidding, Darcy stepped forward, drawing Elizabeth with him. They parted the curtain, and there she was.

Lady Montrose did not rise, nor did she turn; she waited for them to approach. As they neared her seat, a delicate fragrance reached Elizabeth’s senses—citrus, jasmine, and rose. She gasped as pain exploded in her head. Clutching her scar, she cried out—then everything went black.

When she came to, she found herself in Darcy’s arms. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and she drew in a sharp breath as she attempted to sit up. Jameson had drawn the curtain to afford them privacy.

“Easy, Elizabeth. You suffered a fall.”

Blinking, she touched her temple. “What…?”

“You bear a striking resemblance to my late daughter-in-law”, came Lady Montrose’s calm observation. “None of the others looked even remotely like her.” Elizabeth turned and met her gaze. The lady sat in a chair now positioned to face the spot where she had fallen.

Elizabeth made another attempt to rise, and this time, Darcy allowed it. Her shawl lay crumpled on the floor, and she bent to retrieve it.

“Who hired you?” the Dowager Countess asked bluntly.

“I shall not be called a liar, madam,” Elizabeth replied sharply. “I came to you with good intentions, hoping to solve the mystery of my past. If, in so doing, I might ease your sorrow, then so much the better.”

“You are a very good actress. Have you considered the stage?” Lady Montrose pulled her reticule open and drew out a small bottle. She began removing her gloves, one finger at a time, her eyes remaining fixed on Elizabeth.

“I was raised as the daughter of a gentleman. I would never.” Elizabeth held her gaze steady until Lady Montrose looked away.

Stepping to Elizabeth’s side and touching her arm with subtle assurance, Darcy said, “I have remained silent until now, but you will not insult Elizabeth further.”

“I never imagined a Darcy would take part in such a deception,” Lady Montrose replied with cold detachment. “Your father and I were acquaintances, though I have never met you . What would he say if his son sullied the family name by putting forward little upstarts?”

Though the words were cutting, Elizabeth glimpsed something beneath the surface—an undercurrent of emotion—the barest shred of hope. Still, her heart ached from the insult, and she longed to leave.

“Enough.” She placed a hand against Darcy’s chest. “I do not require her approval to be happy. I have you , my love.” She gathered her shawl, but as she adjusted it, the brooch slipped into view—directly within Lady Montrose’s line of sight.

“Wait,” the lady said as Elizabeth turned to go. “Where did you get that?”

“My adoptive parents saved it for me. I was clutching it in my hand when I was found.” Elizabeth placed a hand over the brooch as if to protect it.

Lady Montrose gasped. She fumbled with the bottle from her reticule, uncapped it, and dabbed a little on her hands. The scent wafted toward Elizabeth—and with it, a memory surfaced.

“Citrus, jasmine, rose,” she murmured. “I once soaked a handkerchief in it. Mama was livid and scolded me endlessly, but I kept it under my pillow…so I could remember you when you were away.”

Elizabeth blinked rapidly, her vision blurring, then fixed her gaze on her grandmother. Lady Montrose had risen, the bottle still in hand, her reticule falling to the floor. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the brooch. Elizabeth nodded and unpinned, the brooch, placing it into the lady’s outstretched hand.

“I gave it to Amelia,” she said, voice thick with memory. “On the birth of her son. Our line felt secure when Harry was born.” She handed the bottle of oil to Jameson and then reached into the cluster of necklaces at her throat, selecting one. “I never take this off,” she murmured, fastening her fingers around it. “So that I may always remember my family.”

Suspended from the end of the chain was what appeared to be a key. Its top bore the intricate design typical of such, but the bottom resembled a pin. Notches marked it in odd places, and another memory stirred in Elizabeth’s mind.

“A locket,” she murmured. “It is a locket. And I could never open it because I left the chain with the key in Mama’s room.”

Without hesitation, Lady Montrose lifted the chain from her neck and handed it to Elizabeth. She took it and promptly fitted the pin into the small hole at the top of the brooch. Pressingdown gently, she felt it click. The front of the brooch sprang open, revealing two finely painted miniatures. On the left were a man and a woman; on the right, a little girl cradling a baby.

“My dear Elizabeth!” Lady Montrose cried. “Oh, my darling girl!” She pulled Elizabeth into her arms, and the two clung together, tears falling freely.

“You must come to my home at once! I shall not rest until you do. Please, say that you will.”

Darcy cleared his throat. “May I suggest we rejoin the rest of my party after the performance? If we remain in our boxes until the crowd has dispersed, it may help prevent gossip before we are prepared to address it.”

“And what part have you in this, Mr. Darcy?” Lady Montrose asked, arching a brow.

“Charles Bingley is my closest friend. I was with him in Hertfordshire.”

Lady Montrose frowned. “Do not think I failed to notice the familiar way in which you held my granddaughter.”

“He is my betrothed, your ladyship,” Elizabeth said hurriedly.

“None of that. Your ladyship indeed,” she replied, waving a dismissive hand. “I am your grandmother , or grandmama . As for you, Darcy, I shall not say I am entirely pleased to know Elizabeth’s heart is already spoken for, though I ought to have known. She is a rare beauty.”

Her features softened. “Still, it is a comfort to learn Marston Hall lies but twenty miles from Pemberley. We shall settle the particulars later. Jameson! Open the curtain!”

Elizabeth and her grandmother spoke through the last hour of the play. Darcy departed long enough to inform those in his box of what had transpired and how they ought to proceed, then returned promptly to his betrothed’s side.

When the theater had emptied but for a few stragglers, Bingley and the Bennets came to Lady Montrose’s box. Bingley lingered at the threshold, uncertain—fearing another reprimand. To his astonishment, Lady Montrose came directly to him and kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “I am in your debt.”

“It was Darcy who put the pieces together,” Bingley mumbled. Then he brightened. “I am so relieved, your ladyship. When the curtain of your box opened following the intermission, and I observed you and Elizabeth speaking so warmly, I could scarcely contain myself.”

“And who is this?” Lady Montrose turned to Jane. “Oh, you are a pretty girl!”

“This is my sister, Jane,” Elizabeth said. “She is betrothed to Mr. Bingley. And here are my mama and my papa. They saved me.”

Mrs. Bennet stepped forward, her nervousness evident as she curtsied and twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “Your ladyship,” she murmured.

Lady Montrose took her hand. “I cannot thank you enough,” she whispered with great emotion. “You are truly the best of women and mothers. I do not know it all, but my Elizabeth assures me you and Mr. Bennet raised her as your own. I shall not forget that.”

“Will we see her again?” Mrs. Bennet blurted. “It is only…we love her so dearly.” Tears filled her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief.

“I know what it means to be separated from those I love. I would never subject another to such pain.” Lady Montrose next addressed Mr. Bennet. “Elizabeth has no need of a dowry now,” she said kindly. “If it would benefit you or your other daughters, you may use it elsewhere.”

“It is hers,” Mr. Bennet replied firmly. “Ten thousand pounds—the same as Jane and all my girls.”

“She is heir to the earldom,” Lady Montrose revealed, raising a brow. Gasps of astonishment sounded around the box. “Her father’s business holdings are hers as well. Our Elizabeth is a very wealthy woman. I suppose I ought to be grateful to Mr. Darcy for securing her affections. It will save me the trouble of turning away fortune hunters.”

“If it pleases everyone,” Darcy interjected, “I propose we move to Darcy House. Elizabeth’s trunks might be sent for and discreetly deposited at Montrose House. From there, we may consider how best to proceed.”

All having agreed, they departed. Darcy sent the Bennets and Bingley in his own carriage. Caroline and Sir James had already departed in Bingley’s conveyance—they would make Lady Montrose’s acquaintance at a later time. Darcy accompanied Lady Montrose, Jameson, and Elizabeth in her ladyship’s carriage, and together they made their way to Mayfair and Darcy House.