Chapter 4
Rain tapped softly against the windows of Fitz’s rooms while he sorted the final pages of his dissertation into orderly stacks across the desk.
The chambers looked strangely barren already.
Half his books had been packed into crates for shipment north, and several shelves stood empty except for outlines in the dust where volumes had rested for years.
Outside, the courts of Cambridge glimmered damply beneath pale spring mist while students crossed beneath umbrellas and dripping cloaks, hurrying toward lectures soon to end for the term.
In less than a sennight, Fitz would complete his master’s degree at Cambridge. Though technically all degrees were the same, he had chosen to focus his studies on history—specifically the rise and fall of ancient civilizations.
The subject had consumed him entirely these last years, perhaps because studying dead empires felt simpler than contemplating the living wreckage of his own family.
He had scarcely thought of London in weeks.
A sharp knock sounded at the outer door.
Fitz looked up distractedly. “Come in.”
The door opened slowly.
A liveried servant stood upon the threshold wearing Darcy colors darkened by travel and rain. The man looked exhausted, mud clinging nearly to his knees, but what struck Fitz most immediately was the expression upon his face.
Fear.
A sick feeling settled instantly in Fitz’s stomach, and he rose slowly from behind his desk. “What is it?”
The servant swallowed hard, and his voice shook as he spoke. “Begging your pardon, sir…”
“What has happened?”
The man lowered his eyes. “Mr. Darcy is dead, sir.”
Closing his eyes, Fitz took a long, slow breath. “What happened?”
“He was found in his study, sir. Slumped over after supper. The physician said it was his heart.”
The room felt unnaturally silent.
Fitz had imagined his father’s death before, though never consciously. Some distant future event. A grim inevitability that would one day place Pemberley in his care.
But not now.
Not suddenly.
Not like this.
The servant twisted his hat nervously between his hands. “I am very sorry, sir.”
Fitz stared past him toward the rain-streaked windows. His father was dead. George Darcy—the immense, overpowering figure who had shaped his entire life through criticism, neglect, and impossible expectations—simply… gone.
And Fitz did not know what he felt. Grief? Shock?
Relief.
Guilt immediately followed the last thought. Slowly, he looked back toward the servant.
“Two weeks ago, sir.” The servant was now so pale, Fitz thought he might faint.
Two weeks?
“Why,” Fitz asked very quietly, “was I not informed immediately?”
The servant visibly flinched, and Fitz’s eyes narrowed. “Well?”
“It was… against orders, sir.”
A dangerous stillness settled over the room. “Whose orders?”
The servant hesitated only briefly. “Mr. Wickham’s, sir.”
Something cold flashed across Fitz’s face then.
“And why,” he asked with frightening calm, “would anyone in my father’s household obey orders from George Wickham regarding the death of the master of Pemberley?”
The servant gulped so hard that Fitz thought the man would choke. “Because Mr. Darcy always instructed the staff to treat Mr. Wickham as—” He stopped uncertainly.
“As what?”
The words emerged reluctantly. “As though he were a son of the family, sir. Or… or heir.”
Fitz felt physically ill. Of course he had. Even dead, his father still managed one final humiliation.
The servant rushed onward nervously. “At first no one questioned it, sir. Mr. Wickham said you ought not be disturbed before examinations concluded, and he continued managing matters at the townhouse as usual.”
“As usual,” Fitz repeated flatly.
“Yes, sir. Only…” The man faltered again.
“Only what?”
The servant lowered his voice instinctively despite there being no one else present. “Some of the servants became uneasy.”
Fitz folded his arms slowly across his chest. “In what way?”
The man glanced toward the door before answering. “Mr. Wickham has continued entertaining, sir. Cards. Drinking. Company arriving at all hours. He has behaved…” The servant searched visibly for a safer phrase and failed to find one. “As though nothing has happened.”
A muscle tightened in Fitz’s jaw. “And?”
“And he speaks freely of future plans regarding the London house. And Pemberely.” The servant swallowed again. “The butler and Mrs. Yates feared matters might worsen if no one informed the new master.”
The new master.
The words landed heavily.
For the first time in his life, there was no George Darcy standing between Fitz and Pemberley.
No authority above him.
No father to overrule him.
I am now Mr. Darcy.
The realization felt less triumphant than terrifying.
Fitz—Darcy—turned away abruptly and crossed toward the wardrobe. “I shall leave immediately. You will accompany me.”
The servant looked visibly relieved. “Yes, sir.”
By the time Charles Bingley arrived half an hour later, Darcy’s rooms had dissolved into controlled chaos. Open trunks covered the floor while books, papers, and clothing disappeared rapidly into traveling cases with none of Fitz’s usual precision.
Bingley stopped short in the doorway.
“Darcy? What in heaven’s name—”
Darcy looked up from the desk where he was shoving correspondence into a leather portfolio. “My father is dead.”
The words sounded unnaturally flat even to his own ears.
Bingley’s face changed instantly. “Good heavens. I am so sorry, man.”
“He died two weeks ago.” Darcy continued packing without pausing. “Wickham prevented notice from reaching me.”
“What?”
Fitz gave a short humorless laugh. “Apparently my father encouraged the household to obey Wickham as though he were his son.”
Bingley stared in disbelief. “That is madness.”
“Yes.”
For several moments only the sound of rain and hurried packing filled the room, then Bingley said firmly, “I am coming with you.”
Darcy looked up immediately. “No.”
“Yes.”
“There is no reason whatsoever for you to involve yourself in this.”
“There is every reason.” Bingley crossed fully into the room. “Darcy, your father has just died, Wickham is behaving abominably, and you have no carriage.”
“I can take the post chaise.”
“In the middle of term-end travel?” Bingley snorted. “You will arrive in London sometime next winter.”
“I will not take advantage of your generosity.”
That actually caused Bingley to laugh despite the circumstances. “My dear Darcy, if I must practically wrestle you into accepting assistance, it no longer qualifies as taking advantage.”
Darcy opened his mouth to refuse again, but Bingley cut him off immediately with the wave of a hand.
“Classes are finished. I was returning to town within days regardless. My carriage is excellent, my horses are fast, and my sisters will forgive the delay if I tell them there is a scandalous death involved that has caused you to inherit.”
Despite everything, the corner of Darcy’s mouth twitched faintly.
Bingley pointed triumphantly. “There. You almost smiled. Clearly you require supervision.”
The absurdity of the remark loosened something painfully tight inside Fitz’s chest. For years now, he had faced every difficulty alone because experience taught him that dependence led inevitably to disappointment.
Yet Bingley stood before him now offering help with no hidden motive whatsoever.
No manipulation. No mockery. Simply loyalty and friendship.
At last, Darcy nodded once. “Very well.”
Bingley’s expression softened immediately. “Good. I can be ready to leave within the hour.”
As Bingley turned briskly toward practical arrangements, Darcy looked once more around the half-packed rooms that had served as refuge for so many years.
Then he glanced toward the rain-darkened windows beyond which the bells of Cambridge tolled faintly through the mist. His old life had ended while he sat peacefully amongst books believing there would still be time.
Now, London waited for him.
And so did Wickham.
∞∞∞
The journey to London took two miserable days.
Rain pursued them the entire distance southward, turning roads into trenches of mud and slowing even Bingley’s excellent horses to an exhausting crawl.
More than once the carriage wheels sank deeply enough that both postilions and hired laborers were required to haul them free again.
By the time they finally crossed into London on the evening of the second day, darkness had already settled heavily over the city, reflecting dimly off rain-slicked streets and rows of lamps blurred behind mist.
Darcy sat stiffly silent for the final hour of travel.
The idea of his father being dead did not feel entirely real.
Part of him expected George Darcy to appear irritated and impatient the moment they entered the townhouse, demanding to know why Darcy looked so grim or why the journey had taken so long.
Instead, only silence awaited him.
Or so he thought.
The front door opened before the carriage had fully stopped, revealing the butler standing rigidly in the entrance hall with visible relief flooding his face.
“Mr. Darcy,” he said hoarsely.
Darcy stepped inside quickly, rainwater dripping from his greatcoat onto the marble floor. Behind him, Bingley entered carrying the restless energy of someone prepared for either disaster or violence.
The house smelled wrong.
Wine.
Perfume.
Stale smoke.
Laughter echoed faintly somewhere deeper inside, and Darcy stopped. At the same moment, a woman’s shrill giggle floated down the corridor followed immediately by Wickham’s unmistakable voice.
“…told him the old man was practically immortal—”
Darcy’s expression went utterly still.
The butler lowered his eyes. “Sir—”
But Darcy was already moving.
He crossed the hall with long furious strides, Bingley following instinctively behind him. A pair of servants flattened themselves hastily against the walls as Darcy passed. One footman nearly dropped an empty bottle in his haste to escape the corridor.