Page 1 of The Same Noble Line (Darcy and Elizabeth Happily Ever Afters)

1 December 1811

Fitzwilliam Darcy slammed his grandfather’s journal shut, his hands trembling as he shoved it aside. He felt as if a metal band had been fitted around his chest and was slowly being tightened. He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace the length of his study, the fire in the hearth snapping and hissing, casting flickering shadows that matched his dark mood.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet haunted him. No matter how he tried, he could not drive her from his mind—her fierce gaze, her sharp wit, her lovely, intelligent eyes. She stirred in him feelings of desire and fear in equal measure. He had hoped by returning to London he would feel less. He had been wrong.

But Miss Elizabeth was not the only Bennet causing Darcy grief this night.

His pace quickened, each step more agitated than the last. From the moment he had laid eyes on Mr. Bennet, something had gnawed at him, a sense of familiarity he could not shake. Mr. Bennet rarely appeared in company, and it was not until the end of the Netherfield ball that Darcy had seen it.

He returned to the desk, his eyes unwillingly drawn back to the journal, to the sad family history it contained. He opened it to the page he had been searching days to locate, the page he only knew of because when he had reached his majority, his father had revealed its existence.

18 February 1758

After six weeks of pain and torment, the house is quiet tonight. Although it was a very near thing, the heavens have been merciful enough to spare my beloved Arabella, and our second son, praise God, grows stronger each day. Yet, I cannot shake the shadow of that first-born boy, the elder twin, who came into this world so frail that the midwife shook her head and whispered of his death.

How does a man grieve a child he never held, whose face he did not even glimpse before he was taken away? The midwife claimed the boy would not survive the night, yet in the morning, she and he were gone—and having not left my wife’s side, I was unaware for some time after. Even now, despite every effort, no word of either has reached us here. The agony of it has worn on me as much as my fears for my wife and second son.

I am reminded, as any man would be, that the Almighty has seen fit to spare my wife and to bless us with one strong son, and for this, I am endlessly grateful. It is his life and health—and Arabella’s—that we must hold dear, yet at night I lie awake and wonder: did our first-born indeed find his rest, or does he yet live, perhaps never to know his blood and birthright? Who he truly is?

I pray that if he is in God’s care, he lies in peace. But if he remains in this world, I pray he is safe and that somehow, he feels the bond of kinship, even if he cannot name its origin.

Darcy pushed the journal away again.

Mr. Bennet was similar enough in both appearance and figure to Darcy’s late father to be unsettling. The man’s age seemed right. He was tall, as George Darcy had been. Yet Mr. Bennet’s crooked smile was what had first alarmed Darcy. It was precisely like his father’s, half upturned mouth, half crooked, twisted sarcasm. Darcy’s father had not employed it often, but it was so different from his normal good nature that it was indelibly impressed upon Darcy’s memory. When Mr. Bennet had smiled that way at the obsequious Mr. Collins as they waited for their carriage to be brought around after the ball, something icy had taken hold of Darcy’s heart.

A wave of nausea curled dangerously in his stomach. Twins so seldom lived that to lose only one was considered a successful birth. Even his grandmother had lived, though she had been unable to bear any other children. The midwife, perhaps believing they would all die and fearing for her reputation, had disappeared. But why would she not have left the ailing infant at Pemberley so that he might be buried with his family? Were his grandfather’s fears borne in truth? Had the child lived?

Could that babe be Mr. Bennet?

If it was true, everything Darcy thought he knew—about Pemberley, about his own legacy—was a lie. His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed into a chair that creaked sharply under the sudden weight. He pressed his hands to his temples, as if that would erase the very possibility, blur it, force it to fade.

But it would not.

It was one thing to be tormented by his attraction to Miss Elizabeth, to grapple with the impropriety her family displayed so freely, but this was something else entirely. This was not about Miss Elizabeth or his disquieting fascination with her. If he was right—and he fervently hoped he was not—she might not be so unsuitable a choice after all. No, this was not about his own feelings. It was about Pemberley.

When Darcy's father had reached his majority, he had been the last Darcy to inherit Pemberley under the entail. He could therefore leave it to anyone he wished. Of course he had left it to his only son, but if his father's elder brother still lived, George Darcy had not possessed the right to inherit at all—or to pass the property to his son.

Everything Darcy had ever known, ever worked for, ever trusted in, now rested precariously upon a single, terrifying possibility: Mr. Bennet might be the rightful heir to Pemberley.

The weight of this realization was suffocating. Darcy could ride north in the morning and speak with Mr. Bennet. Tell him everything. Reveal the story these crumbling journals told.

But if he did, Pemberley might no longer be his.

The thought pierced him like a dagger. Pemberley was more than an estate. It was the very core of who he was. Generations of Darcys had shaped it, built it, preserved it. It was his father’s legacy. It had been entrusted to him, with the expectation that he would safeguard it for the future. Could he risk it all on an old journal and a few physical similarities?

He exhaled sharply. He could see it now. Mr. Bennet’s calm acceptance, perhaps even gratitude, for the revelation. And then the inevitable: Pemberley passing into Bennet’s hands.

He could say nothing. What was a smile, after all? A similarity in build and looks? It might be nothing at all. The journal could disappear. He would remain master of Pemberley, just as he had been since his father’s death. He could continue his life unchallenged, his reputation intact.

He could marry Miss Elizabeth, for if her father was a Darcy by birth, then so was she. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, attempting to quell the megrim he knew would come. If she was a Darcy by birth, then Pemberley belonged to her branch of the family, not his. She might not even want him were his status so diminished. It was a humbling thought.

But how could he keep such a secret?

His father had only rarely spoken of his twin, but then he had never met Mr. Bennet. Could Darcy continue on as though nothing had changed, all the while knowing that he might possess a fortune that was never supposed to be his?

The very thought disgusted him. And yet the alternative was too crushing to face.

Agitated, Darcy pushed himself out of the chair and stood before the hearth, staring into the flames as if they might hold the answer. His entire life had been built on responsibility—his duty to his family and those who depended upon them. Pemberley had been his reward for that steadfast adherence to principle. He had earned it.

But if he kept silent, what kind of man would he become? Darcy locked his hands together behind his back. He could have Pemberley or his honour—but not both.

The fire’s glow dimmed as Darcy continued to stare into the flames long into the night, the weight of the decision hovering over him like a shroud.

The sunrise found him still in his study, eyes gritty with exhaustion, and resolved upon a plan.

For now, he would say nothing. He needed more information, more time. After all, Mr. Bennet might not be the missing heir. A few physical likenesses, no matter how much they reminded him of his father, were not enough for Darcy to relinquish his birthright. He would speak with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana first. Fitzwilliam had always been his confidant, and Darcy had never needed him more.

The thought of telling his sister, however, made his chest ache. She loved Pemberley as much as he did. To tell her that it might not be theirs, to shake the foundation of everything she knew—it would break her heart anew, just as it was beginning to mend from the events of last summer. Fitzwilliam would understand the logic, but his protective nature combined with his loyalty to the Darcys now in possession of the family seat would complicate everything.

He would send word to Fitzwilliam. Georgiana was already here, returned from Matlock House when the rest of Fitzwilliam’s family had left for Derbyshire. He would approach her when the time was right, but not today. He needed more time to decide how to tell her without causing unnecessary distress. Fitzwilliam could help with that. As her guardians, perhaps they could tell her together.

For now, the secret would remain his. But not for long.

When he stood, he felt aged, like an ancient oak trying vainly to support its branches. He sighed deeply, then took his first step towards the uncertain future that lay ahead.

His cousin Fitzwilliam arrived before noon, his military bearing evident in his swift, purposeful stride. The study door closed behind him, and he stood as though for inspection, his fingers curling into his palms as though preparing for a brawl.

“Darcy, your note was unusually terse, even for you. What is amiss? Is Georgiana well?”

“She is well.”

Fitzwilliam’s tension eased slightly. “What, then?”

Darcy gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I find myself in need of your counsel on a delicate matter.”

His cousin's keen eyes studied him. “You look as though you have not slept.”

“I have not.” Darcy reached for the journal that lay before him, hesitating before touching its worn leather cover. “I may be allowing my imagination to run wild, but I cannot shake a troubling possibility.” He pushed it across the desk. “Read this entry. February eighteenth, seventeen fifty-eight.”

The colonel did as bid, his face growing thoughtful as he absorbed the words. When he finished, he looked up. “And?”

“There is a man—”

Fitzwilliam knew at once where Darcy’s thoughts tended. “You have reason to think you have found some trace of this child?” His words were laced with doubt. “That he yet lives?”

“I cannot be certain. Indeed, I may be entirely mistaken.” Darcy rose, unable to remain still despite his weariness. “But there are similarities between a Mr Bennet of Longbourn and my father that I cannot discount. Small things, perhaps insignificant.” He broke off, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “It may be nothing at all. Yet if there is even the slightest chance . . .”

Fitzwilliam was silent for a long moment, considering. “After fifty years, Darcy, it would be nigh impossible to prove that your Mr. Bennet is in fact this missing twin.”

“I know.” Darcy's voice was tight. “But it might be possible to prove that he is not .”

“And if you are unable to do so?” Fitzwilliam’s expression was stoic, which did not fool Darcy in the least. He sighed.

“Then at least I will have a clear conscience. I will know that I have done my best.”

Fitzwilliam studied him silently. “You are determined, then.”

Darcy chuckled unhappily. “Would you expect any less?”

The colonel stared at him and at last shook his head. “No, I suppose I would not.” He tapped his fingers absently against the arm of his chair, his gaze drifting toward the fire, which he stood to feed and coax back to life. “Still, this is no small undertaking. It will require a good deal of patience and a great deal of luck.”

Darcy’s mouth twisted wryly. “I have never been fond of relying solely on patience or luck.”

“No, you have not.” Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs and warming himself by the hearth. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought.

“Do you recall that incident at Cambridge? The mathematics competition?”

Darcy's jaw tightened. “I do.”

“You discovered an error in your work—a minor one that did not affect the final answer. You could have said nothing. Instead, you spent the night agonising over it before confessing the mistake. You lost the competition by a half a point. Embarrassed yourself. Your father—”

“Do you imply that this is the same sort of situation? That it would be better if I did not pursue this?”

“I merely suggest, again, there is no reason to do so.”

Darcy glanced up at his cousin. “As for Cambridge—I was embarrassed, but my father was not. He was proud. He was already ill by then, if you recall.”

Fitzwilliam nodded.

“He said it had made him reflect on his life. That perhaps he and my mother had been too conscious of the family’s status. That our name, our position, even our wealth, were largely accidents of birth.”

“I never knew that” Fitzwilliam replied quietly.

Darcy nodded. “I did not believe it, not really. But this I did believe: He told me that honour is not doing what is right when it benefits us. It is doing what is right when it does not.” He moved to stand behind his father's desk, surrounded by the ledgers his family had amassed over the generations, each volume a testament to the legacy he had inherited. The memory of his father’s words pressed upon him like a physical thing. How often had they guided his hand, stayed his tongue, shaped his choices?

“I must at least investigate,” he declared, his voice firm despite his inner turmoil. “Even if it leads nowhere. Father would expect no less.”

“Did Father really say that?”

Georgiana had opened the door and entered while they spoke. The door was closed behind her, and she was leaning against it, her face pale. Her eyes darted from him to Fitzwilliam and back.

“He did,” Darcy said when he had recovered from his surprise. So much for planning a way to broach the subject gently.

Fitzwilliam’s voice was low and grave. “Pemberley is yours. You have been raised your entire life to be its master. You have been its master for nearly five years already.”

Darcy’s jaw clenched, and he stared at the floor, refusing to meet his cousin’s gaze. He was weary. “If Mr. Bennet is the rightful heir, what choice do I have?”

“Are you even listening to me? You are under no obligation to investigate further. In fact, you may be honour-bound to leave it be. Do you honestly believe a man such as the one you describe can maintain an estate as vast and complex as Pemberley? You know better than anyone it is not just a piece of land—it is generations of work, responsibility, discipline . If this man takes over, there is every chance he will run it to ruin within the year. What will everyone who depends upon the estate do then?”

Darcy grimaced and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “I am aware. But if Mr. Bennet is the rightful heir, then Pemberley is his by law.” It was as painful to say the words as it would to be to have a sword run him through.

Georgiana, who had been listening in silence, looked anxiously between them. “What would happen to us?” Her voice was soft, hesitant.

Darcy’s expression softened as he glanced at his sister. “I am certain the earl and countess would take you in to live with them.”

“And you?” she asked quietly.

He had no reply.

Fitzwilliam’s voice cut through the silence, his tone even sharper now. “If Bennet is declared the heir, everything falls to him. Pemberley, the lands, the income—the better part of Georgie’s fortune. Everything you have worked for. All of it. The two of you would be left with almost nothing unless this Mr. Bennet chose to assist you.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “As one of her guardians, I cannot allow you to hand Georgie’s fortune over to someone else. You had best leave this alone.”

Darcy’s shoulders tensed. “I have told you why I cannot,” he said quietly, the words edged with bitterness.

The idea of stripping Georgiana of her fortune was abhorrent to him. Relying on Bennet’s charity would be nearly as bad. Pity was a burden he had never had to bear, and the thought of being dependent on the very man who might take Pemberley from him? Take his sister’s independence from her? It would be a humiliation beyond anything he had ever experienced.

Georgiana’s brow furrowed in concern. “But Papa separated my fortune from the estate. Has he not done the same with your wealth, Brother?”

“Georgiana,” Darcy said with a deep sigh, “if Mr. Bennet is the heir, then anything Father did is not legal and can be rescinded. Mother’s fortune was ten thousand pounds. As it came from the Fitzwilliams as her fortune and is mentioned in the marriage articles, it is not subject to the entail. The remaining twenty came from Pemberley and would be.”

His sister paused thoughtfully before saying, “Surely Mr. Bennet would not leave us in drastically reduced circumstances. You would be next in line to inherit after him. Would he not show kindness, given the situation? If it is true, he is a Darcy, the same as we are.”

All he had seen of Mr. Bennet was a torpid man with a tendency to acerbity. “He is in very good health, and his wife is younger than he. It seems unlikely, but it is still possible they could sire an heir, given a reason.” Or he might outlive his wife and marry again to a woman of child-bearing age. "And Georgiana—he is not subject to the entail, for if he is the heir, it dies with him. He may leave Pemberley to anyone he chooses."

Fitzwilliam’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair. “Even if this Mr. Bennet were inclined to be generous, Pemberley is more than just its wealth.” He addressed Georgiana directly. “It is your father and brother’s work, your family’s home. It is not something he can simply hand over, no matter what the law says.”

He felt the weight of Fitzwilliam’s words settle over him. Pemberley was more than land or income. It was the very heart of the Darcy family, the one thing that connected him to everything and everyone he had ever known. But Georgiana was right too. If Mr. Bennet was truly the heir, he was a member of the family. The senior member.

Miss Elizabeth might be a Darcy. It was the only thing that could hearten him in all of this. Of course, that meant her mother and younger sisters were as well. He frowned.

Fitzwilliam leaned forward, his tone quieter but still very solemn. “You have to consider what Pemberley would become.”

“I do not know what that is, and neither do you.” Darcy closed his eyes when he recalled his sister was listening. She ought to be able to depend on him for decisive action, not this weakness, this uncertainty.

She stood and moved toward him, her small hand resting lightly on his arm. “Whatever happens, Brother, we will face it together. If Mr. Bennet allows me to keep my fortune, you can invest it, perhaps, and we can live comfortably on the interest.”

He would never take the interest from his sister’s fortune—that money was hers. He had some investments of his own from before he had inherited, but it would not support them in anything like the comfort they now enjoyed. And he doubted that any man would release so much money from his inheritance to support a niece he had never met, particularly when he had five daughters of his own to dower. Still, Georgiana’s words were a balm to his troubled mind. He placed his hand over hers, drawing strength from her loving gesture.

They all remained silent for a time. Then Fitzwilliam stood. “Let us not act hastily. We need more information before you turn over everything and everyone currently under your protection to a stranger. I would normally send one of my men to investigate, but the utmost discretion is required in this matter. So, if you are certain you wish to pursue this course—” He stopped and looked at Darcy.

Darcy met his cousin’s eye and nodded slowly. “Then I must return to Hertfordshire.”

“And when you do, we will accompany you,” Georgiana said, standing.

“Wickham is there,” he told her, and cursed himself when she paled. He could have delivered that bit of news more gently.

Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows rose, and the corners of his mouth turned up. “Is he, now?”

Darcy nodded. “I only saw him once, but he has joined the militia that are stationed in Meryton.”

“That offers the perfect reason to return then,” Fitzwilliam said. “But Georgiana, it would perhaps be best if you did not accompany us.”

Georgiana considered Fitzwilliam’s warning for a moment before shaking her head. “I am not out, so we will not be in company. However, I would like to meet the Bennets. They may be my cousins, after all.”

Darcy wanted to insist she remain at home, but Fitzwilliam was already nodding.

“Of course. We cannot allow your brother to face the fearsome Bennets on his own, can we?”

Georgiana smiled, but Darcy understood the message behind Fitzwilliam’s light tone. He wanted Georgiana present to remind Darcy what was at stake. He was coming to ensure Darcy did not let his sense of honour drive them both to ruin.