Chapter Twenty
Darcy did not leave the study immediately following the uncomfortable conversation.
He remained where Bingley had abandoned him—before the fire, with the faint scent of spilled brandy lingering in the polished air—until his pulse slowed and his thoughts arranged themselves into something like order.
Anger was useless. It warmed quickly, flared brightly, and left nothing behind but ash.
What mattered now was the shape of the danger and how best to meet it.
He crossed to the sideboard, took up the cloth laid there for polishing, and wiped away the spill with firm strokes. The gesture was not for the sake of the furniture; it was for his mind. A small act of control in a situation threatening to splinter into chaos.
When the surface gleamed again, he set the cloth aside and stepped out into the corridor.
The house did not feel the same.
Netherfield was handsome and orderly, built for comfort and hospitality, but today the very walls seemed to listen.
Servants moved with that careful quiet that meant they had heard raised voices and did not wish to risk drawing attention.
Somewhere down the passage, a door clicked softly shut.
Somewhere else, a footfall paused and then hurried away.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. This was precisely what he had warned Bingley against: not merely the shame of losing his temper, but the inevitable spread of it. A master’s unrest seeped through a household like damp.
He had nearly reached the stairs when he heard a low voice behind him.
“Darcy.”
Mr. Hurst emerged from a shadowed alcove near the morning room, one hand half-tucked into his waistcoat pocket as if he had been waiting there longer than he cared to admit.
His expression was unusually alert. Not sympathetic—Hurst was not a man prone to sympathy—but attentive in a way that suggested he possessed information he found mildly entertaining.
Darcy stopped. “Hurst.”
Hurst’s mouth twitched. “Bingley has finally shown you his teeth, I take it.”
Darcy did not indulge that. “What do you want?”
“Ah.” Hurst lifted his brows. “Straight to it. Very well. I wanted to know whether you were aware of what is happening.”
Darcy’s stomach tightened. “If you mean his finances, then no. Not in detail.”
Hurst’s eyes flicked over Darcy’s face, assessing. “Then you truly do not know.”
“I am beginning to suspect enough,” Darcy said, voice controlled. “You imply you know more.”
“I overheard him,” Hurst replied, like this were the most natural thing in the world. “This morning. In the corridor outside his room.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “Overheard him speaking with whom.”
“With himself,” Hurst said. “Or perhaps his valet. Whoever it is that dresses him and is paid to listen when the master wishes to talk without admitting he needs counsel.”
Darcy’s hand curled at his side. “And you listened.”
Hurst’s shrug was almost elegant in its indifference. “He was not whispering. His door was partially open, and he was pacing like a caged animal. Goodness, he was speaking loudly enough that a deaf grandmother could have followed the conversation. It seemed…unwise not to absorb the information.”
Darcy held his stare. “What did he say?”
Hurst’s expression sobered a fraction, as if even he could not fully turn this into amusement.
“He said he had received another letter. From London. He said the creditors would not wait much longer. He said—” Hurst paused, the faintest crease appearing between his brows, “—that he had not understood it could become so bad so quickly.”
The words struck Darcy like cold water. Creditors. It was one thing to be strained. It was another thing entirely to be pursued.
Darcy forced his voice to remain even. “Did he mention sums?”
“No,” Hurst said. “Only that there were ‘demands’ and ‘notes’ and ‘the devil’ and ‘how could they do this to me.’”
Darcy’s jaw tightened at the childishness of that last sentiment. “And his intention to go to town.”
“Oh, yes.” Hurst’s eyes held a faint gleam. “He intends to go at once. He told the valet to have trunks packed for a short stay and to ensure that his curricle is readied, not the carriage, because he wishes to travel quickly and without fuss.”
Darcy began fitting the pieces together. Quick travel, trunks, a man of business. And a refusal to allow Darcy to accompany him. Pride and panic.
Hurst continued, tone turning more deliberate. “I did some snooping.”
Darcy’s gaze snapped. “You did what?”
Hurst did not flinch. “Do not look so moral, Darcy. You would have done the same if you possessed my curiosity and half my leisure.”
“I possess both,” Darcy said coldly. “I simply do not use them to pry into my host’s private affairs.”
Hurst’s lips quirked. “Host. That is a generous term, considering you are the only thing standing between him and ruin.”
Darcy did not reply to that. “What did you discover?”
Hurst leaned a shoulder against the wall, lowering his voice.
“I spoke with the steward. Netherfield’s steward.
The man Bingley hired—brought down from the north, I believe—who is now attempting to keep the estate running while his master spends his days chasing pretty girls and his evenings chasing treasure.
I do not believe you knew he had hired anyone new. ”
Darcy felt a flash of irritation. He disliked Hurst’s tone, yet he could not entirely deny the truth beneath it. “No, Bingley never informed me.” He would have liked to interview all the candidates. A dishonest steward was dangerous to an estate’s prosperity.
“The steward is anxious,” Hurst went on.
“He does not speak plainly—no servant with sense does—but it was easy enough to draw it out. Bills have been arriving steadily since the purchase. Not merely the usual accounts for improvements and household supplies, but older obligations as well. The steward believes there are debts attached to the purchase that Bingley either did not understand or did not care to examine. There are also expenses for the alterations Caroline insists upon—orders placed, workmen engaged, deposits promised.”
Darcy’s chest tightened. “I warned him.”
Hurst’s eyes flicked up. “Yes. And he dismissed you because he has never been forced to feel the weight of consequence. Until now.”
Darcy stared down the corridor as if he might see, through walls and distance, the shape of Bingley’s predicament. It was no longer a vague unease. It was becoming something concrete.
“Go on,” he said quietly.
Hurst hesitated a moment, then said, “The steward also mentioned that a letter came marked urgent, delivered by special messenger. It was from a London firm.”
Darcy’s mind supplied names automatically. Solicitors. Bankers. Men of business who did not waste money on messengers unless pressed.
“I asked,” Hurst continued, “whether Bingley had answered it.”
“And?” Darcy prompted when Hurst paused.
Hurst’s mouth tightened. “The steward said Mr. Bingley locked himself in his study for an hour and then emerged pale, demanded brandy, and sent for his valet. Shortly thereafter, he began speaking of going to town.”
Darcy’s hands clenched. “So, he intends to conceal it.”
“He intends to fix it,” Hurst corrected with a shrug. “Or to pretend at repair.”
Darcy’s gaze sharpened again. “You implied there was more.”
“There is,” Hurst said, and for once his expression held something like seriousness without mockery. “I suspect he means to access his sister’s money.”
Darcy went very still.
The man watched him closely, as though gauging how far Darcy’s temper might go. “Think of it,” Hurst said. “He is proud—he does not wish to come to you. Bingley does not wish to admit he has been foolish. He will look instead for funds he believes belong to him by right.”
“Miss Bingley’s dowry,” Darcy said softly, though he already knew the danger of that thought.
“Yes,” Hurst replied.
Darcy’s chest tightened. The very notion was reprehensible—not because it was money, but because it was security.
In families like theirs, those sums were often the only barrier between an unmarried woman and dependence.
Miss Bingley’s fortune, in particular, was her greatest asset in the marriage mart.
Not virtue, temper, or kindness, but money alone.
“If he touches it,” Hurst said bluntly, “no one will marry Caroline.”
Darcy exhaled slowly. “Someone might.” It was a weak attempt at hope at best.
Hurst scoffed. “Do not insult me by pretending Caroline has charms that outweigh her pride. Her dowry is her chief recommendation. Without it, she is merely an ill-natured woman with expensive taste.”
Darcy did not disagree. He simply said, “Is he legally able to access it?”
Hurst’s expression shifted into irritation. “That is the question, is it not.”
Darcy’s gaze remained fixed. “Answer it.”
“I cannot,” Hurst said. “I do not know.”
Darcy’s brows drew together. “You do not know whether your brother can take his sister’s dowry? That is unfortunate.”
Hurst lifted one shoulder. “There is no simple answer, Darcy. It depends upon how it is settled.”
Darcy felt a familiar tension behind his eyes—the frustration of imperfect knowledge when clarity mattered most.
Hurst continued. “If the money is held in trust—if it is tied up with trustees and conditions—then Bingley cannot simply walk into a bank and withdraw it like a man taking coins from a purse. Often, such sums are placed in the funds, and the interest is paid out to support the woman. Sometimes it is controlled by a guardian or trustees until she marries. And to my detriment, I did not take heed of such matters when I married Louisa. My father handled everything.”
Darcy’s mind turned swiftly. In the Bingleys’ case, their father had died, and Bingley as the brother had likely assumed control of many things. Yet even so—
“And if it is not held in trust?” Darcy pressed.