Page 43 of The Difference of a Darcy
She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you think the safe you mentioned is still in there?”
“I believe so,” he said. “It was built into the masonry—my father’s doing. The staff did not know of it, and Georgiana—myGeorgiana—was also unaware of its existence.”
She eyed the ramshackle building. “Do you think it safe to go in?”
“I doubt anyone lives there now, and it was solidly built. Even if it has been neglected for a year or so, the worst danger should be no more than dust and cobwebs.”
“Perhaps I should go in with you, then.”
“No.” His voice was firm. “I need you to wait outside, to keep watch. I will go inside alone.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Smith, you will wait under the lamppost. Keep your cloak drawn about your face. If anyone comes, or if I do not return in ten minutes, you must leave at once. Return to your aunt and uncle’s.”
She looked far from satisfied, but she nodded. With a wry smile, she said, “I will do my best to look disinterested, not anxious. No one suspects a woman who is bored.”
Reluctantly, Darcy removed her hand from his arm and approached the entrance. The snow muffled his steps as he approached the chained gate. He pressed his gloved hand against the iron—cold, unyielding—and stared up at the house that had once been his sanctuary.
“Not anymore,” he muttered, glaring down at the brass D on the knocker that was now tarnished green from neglect.
With a glance over his shoulder at Elizabeth’s form beneath the lamplight, he removed his set of keys from his greatcoat pocket. Fortunately, it still fit the gate, which meant it would also be able to open the door.At least Wickham’s laziness is good for something.
The gate creaked open with a protesting groan. Darcy stepped inside, boots crunching through the icy drift that had accumulated on the front steps. The massive door loomed dark above him, and though the key turned easily in the lock, it took all his strength to shove it open.
The hinges shrieked.
He winced and paused, listening—but no voice answered, no hurried footsteps came to investigate.
The house was still. Empty.
Darcy stepped into the entry hall and pulled the door closed behind him. The familiar scent of oak and lemon oil was gone. In its place was the sharp tang of mildew and cold stone. The air felt hollow, as though the very walls were holding their breath.
He did not light a lamp—there was no need. His steps were sure, his path etched in memory. The soles of his boots echoed too loudly on the marble floor.
To his left, the grand staircase curled upward into darkness. He looked away.
Georgiana had once tripped down those steps in slippers too large, laughing as the governess gave chase. He had caught her at the bottom. She had thrown her arms around his neck.
He turned his face toward the corridor and walked on.
Past the music room withs its door ajar, a sheet of music left yellowing on the floor.
Past the salon where his mother once read aloud, her voice lilting over a novel, her hands busy with embroidery. The fire had always been lit there. Always.
Now the hearth was dark. The ashes long cold.
He reached the study.
This door was closed, as it had always been in his father’s time. Darcy placed his hand on the latch, hesitated—and pushed it open.
Dust motes swirled in the beam of gray light filtering through the cracks in the shuttered window. The old desk stood sentinel by the fireplace, its surface covered in a fine film of neglect. Books sagged on the shelves. A pair of gloves lay curled and brittle beside an empty brandy decanter.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
His breath misted faintly in the air. He went to the far corner of the room, knelt, and reached behind the false panel of the wainscoting.
The latch stuck—swollen from cold or damp—but after a moment it gave way. The panel creaked open, revealing a narrow cavity.
