Chapter Twenty-Five
Charles Bingley had always prided himself on waking with optimism. Even on mornings when the accounts had been dull or the weather uncooperative, he rose with the expectation that the day would improve if only one set about it with sufficient cheer. That habit deserted him now.
He lay staring at the canopy above his bed, the embroidered vines blurring as his eyes refused to focus. The room was quiet—too quiet—and the silence gave his thoughts room to roam where he least wished them to go.
Everything has gone wrong, he thought bleakly. And all at once.
It had not been a single misstep, not one catastrophic decision he could point to and correct. It had been a series of reasonable choices, each one harmless on its own, each one made in good faith—or so he had believed at the time.
How was I supposed to know I overpaid for Netherfield? he argued with the empty room. The agent assured me the price was fair. Everyone said it was an excellent estate. Darcy himself said it would suit me.
Darcy. The name brought a tightening in his chest that was not entirely envy, though envy played its part.
And the wagers—how was I to know the tide would turn? I have always been fortunate. I have always won more than I lost.
Except now. Now the losses stood stark and unyielding, numbers inked onto ledgers that refused to soften no matter how many times he read them.
And Caroline’s dowry—why should I have known it was locked away so tightly? My father never said it could not be accessed. No one ever told me I could not rely upon it in an emergency.
His man of business had always handled such matters.
Charles had trusted him implicitly. He had trusted everyone.
It had seemed a virtue once. Now it felt like foolishness.
He pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his hair.
The familiar, well-appointed chamber at Netherfield no longer felt soothing.
It felt accusatory—every polished surface reflecting a life he could no longer afford to maintain indefinitely.
Darcy, he thought again, and this time the name carried something sharper.
Darcy had everything. Wealth beyond imagining. Estates that practically ran themselves. Family connections that opened doors without effort. And now he had love. He had Elizabeth Bennet. Courting her openly, properly, with every appearance of success.
He always gets what he wants, Charles thought bitterly. And I—
He stopped himself, inhaling sharply.
No. That was not fair. Darcy had been his friend. Darcy was his friend. And friends helped one another.
That is precisely the point, he reasoned. Friends do not stand by while another sinks.
And if Darcy would soon become his brother—well. That changed matters entirely.
He had turned the idea over often enough that it had begun to feel inevitable.
I cannot afford to marry Jane, he admitted reluctantly. The truth sat heavy and unwelcome. Jane Bennet deserved happiness, security, a home free from anxiety. He could give her affection easily enough—he had always felt that—but affection did not pay creditors.
But if Darcy married Elizabeth, and he married Jane—
Then I am Darcy’s brother.
The thought brought a curious sense of relief.
Of course he would help me. He could not refuse. We would be family.
Darcy could quietly resolve the debts, smooth the accounts, give him time to recover. No one need know. It would all be arranged discreetly, sensibly, with very little trouble to Bingley.
He has so much. More than any one man could ever need, Charles thought. Is it not only right that he should share it?
The logic settled into place with alarming ease. By the time he rang for his valet, his course felt clear. He already liked Miss Bennet. Now he need only secure her hand. She would not refuse.
Later that morning, with the sun climbing higher and the day growing unseasonably warm, Charles ordered his phaeton made ready. A ride would do him good. Air and motion always settled his spirits—and there was someone he wished to see.
Miss Jane Bennet.
He penned a quick note to Mrs. Bennet, brief and cordial, requesting the pleasure of her daughter’s company for a drive. It was delivered at once.
She accepted.
Of course she did, he thought with a mixture of satisfaction and irritation. Mrs. Bennet wanted a wealthy suitor for her eldest. And Jane Bennet was kindness itself. She never refused when courtesy was involved.
When she appeared at the drive, pale blue gown and straw bonnet perfectly suited to the gentle weather, Charles felt a flicker of the old warmth stir within him. She was beautiful—everyone said so—but more than that, she was good—steady and reliable.
She would make an excellent wife, he told himself firmly. And once Darcy is bound—
He assisted her into the phaeton with practiced ease and took the reins. The horses set off at a measured pace, wheels crunching softly over the gravel before turning onto the road.
They spoke at first of innocuous things. Of the weather and then of the previous evening at Lucas Lodge.
“Sir William seemed quite pleased with his discovery,” Jane said carefully. “Though I fear the excitement has grown rather…unwieldy.”
Charles laughed shortly. “Unwieldy? Nonsense. A little enthusiasm never hurt anyone.”
Miss Bennet’s hands folded in her lap. “I am not certain that is true.”
He glanced at her sidelong. Her expression was composed, but there was a tension about her mouth he did not like.
“And still,” he said lightly, “it does make one wonder what else might be found. Hertfordshire has not been so thoroughly explored as people suppose.”
Jane did not answer at once. The silence pressed.
“You grew up here,” he continued, his tone sharpening despite himself. “You must have heard stories. Roman roads, old settlements—such things leave traces.”
Miss Bennet turned her face toward him then, and he saw it: the flicker of alarm she could not entirely suppress.
“I have heard stories,” she said slowly. “As everyone has. But stories are not facts.”
There, he thought. That was it.
“You look quite weary,” he remarked. “Have I touched upon something delicate?”
“No,” Jane said at once, too quickly. “I simply do not care for speculation.”
Charles’s grip tightened on the reins.
“Speculation is not so very different from curiosity,” he pressed. “And curiosity is natural. Particularly when one considers how often such treasures are…concealed.”
Jane shifted in her seat. “I do not know what you are implying, Mr. Bingley.”
He smiled, though there was little warmth in it. “Only that some families might prefer discretion to honesty.”
Jane’s color rose. “That is unkind.”
“Is it?” he countered. “Or merely inconvenient?”
She turned fully toward him now, her voice firm despite its softness. “If you suggest that my family—or any family here—would behave dishonorably, I must insist you stop.”
The horses slowed as his attention wavered. He had not intended to press so hard—yet the certainty had seized him, fueled by every whispered rumor, every knowing glance.
They are hiding something, he thought. I can feel it.
“I meant no insult,” he said stiffly. “But your reaction speaks volumes.”
Jane shook her head. “It speaks only to my discomfort at being interrogated.” She drew a steadying breath. “Please take me home.”
The request landed like a slap.
“Jane—”
“It is Miss Bennet. Now, if you please.”
He obeyed, turning the horses with a jerk that startled them both. The rest of the ride passed in strained silence.
When he helped her down at Longbourn, Jane thanked him politely—too politely—and withdrew without another word.
Charles watched her go, his chest tight with frustration and something perilously close to resentment.
She is protecting someone, he decided. And if she will not tell me—
Then he would find out himself. As he drove back toward Netherfield, his thoughts raced ahead of the road.
Gold does not simply appear in one place, he reasoned. If Sir William found a brooch, if bronze coins are turning up—there must be more. And Longbourn land sits right beside it.
He would investigate and he would uncover whatever the Bennets were concealing. He had a right to protect his interests—to secure his future. And if that future required action, then so be it. Charles Bingley’s smile returned as the familiar facade settled back into place.
It will all come right, he assured himself. It always does.
Elizabeth had been standing at the window for some time, though she could not have said precisely how long.
The familiar view of the drive—curving gently toward the road, bordered by hedgerows now tinged with autumn—blurred in and out of focus as her thoughts wandered.
She told herself she was merely enjoying the warmth of the day, yet her gaze returned again and again to the same stretch of gravel.
At last, the phaeton appeared, its wheels crunching sharply as it turned in at the gates.
Elizabeth straightened at once. She watched her sister descend, noting the stiffness of her movements, the way she tipped her head with more formality than affection.
Jane did not linger. She did not look back.
That alone told Elizabeth everything.
Jane entered the house with quick steps and came directly to the drawing room, her cheeks flushed not with pleasant animation but with restrained emotion. The moment the door closed behind her, she let out a breath that trembled despite her efforts to steady it.
“Lizzy,” she said, her voice low but tight. “I fear I have been very much mistaken.”
Elizabeth crossed the room at once and took her sister’s hands. “What did he do?”
Jane shook her head, pacing a little before stopping again. “He questioned me. Pressed me. Not about trifles, but about…things. About treasure. About what might have been found here in the past.” Her lips pressed together. “He would not leave it alone.”
Elizabeth felt a chill slide down her spine. “Did he accuse us outright?”