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“I shall not.”

“Good night, Mr. Darcy.”

“Good night.”

She left without offering her hand. He watched her pass through the doorway and heard her steps continue toward the stairs.

For a little while he remained beside the instrument. The candles still burned, the music lay in order, and the room retained every sign of a successful evening. He had enjoyed most of it. Caroline had given him ample reason to be grateful, and he had chosen its end to tell her that gratitude would never become the thing she wanted.

There was no satisfaction in having done it. He could only regret that he had allowed her to spend so long hoping he would say something else.

Before he went upstairs, Darcy closed the lid of the pianoforte and made certain no loose music had been caught beneath it. He left the room as Caroline had arranged it.

Chapter Thirty-eight

THE SUM AT the foot of the page was wrong.

Darcy added the figures again, this time upon a separate sheet. Elizabeth watched him set down the pen with the care his healing hand still required.

“Well?” she asked.

“The clerk omitted the candles.”

“Then he and I have something in common. I had forgotten them, too.”

“You objected to the entire account ten minutes ago.”

“I objected to reading another list without knowing what we hoped to find.”

“We wished to know whether she received the linen she asked for.”

“And now we also know that a dead clerk could make a mistake.”

Mrs. Reynolds smiled as she gathered her copies. They had spent an hour in the little sitting room behind the library, comparing an old household account with a page from Mara’s papers. Nothing they found that Wednesday afternoon altered their understanding of the danger. It established only that Elspeth had required more linen than the household first allowed her, and that even the cost of what she received had been added incorrectly.

Darcy wished every inquiry might end in so small a correction.

Elizabeth tied the copied pages together with ordinary string. Her fingers completed the knot neatly. He had become attentive to every length of thread she touched, and was sometimes ashamed to discover how often he watched for an extraordinary movement when she was merely putting her work away.

Mrs. Reynolds took up the parcel.

“I must see Cook before she sends someone to fetch me. Will you leave the account here, sir?”

“Certainly.”

“I shall return it to the office after dinner.”

She left them, carrying only her own papers. Darcy closed the account book and moved it clear of the fresh ink. Elizabeth rose to replace a volume she had taken from the library before their work began.

“Have you finished it?” he asked.

“Nearly.”

“You have brought it down to put it away.”

“I am deciding whether the last chapter deserves the trouble.”

“That seems hard upon an author who has already entertained you through the others.”