Elizabeth kissed along his chin line, feathery touches of her lips and tongue dancing along the sensitive part of Darcy’s neck. “You were very tender with Georgiana this evening.”

“Georgiana is my sister, and I protect those I love.” He now loomed above her, poised only inches from her mouth.

She smiled seductively at him without looking away. “Then I am blessed, my Husband, that you love me.” Her voice was husky.

Darcy felt a bit lightheaded, as he always did when he realized that Elizabeth belonged to him forever. When they had met in Hertfordshire, her eyes had engaged him from the beginning, and he had found himself falling into their depths. He had fought valiantly—had tried desperately not to fall in love—but he was in the middle before he knew that he had begun.

“Have I told you today how beautiful you are?” he asked, his voice a raspy whisper. Darcy lowered himself against her, pressing his chest against her body. He heard Elizabeth suck in a slow breath. Darcy’s mouth found hers, and he quickly deepened the kiss. “I love you, Elizabeth Darcy,” he murmured close to her ear before kissing down the length of her neck.

“Fitzwilliam,” she pointed out,“Georgiana is in the next room.”

He moved against her. “I can be very quiet.”

Elizabeth murmured, “I doubt that, my Husband.”

“Then I will prove it to you, Mrs. Darcy.” He took her lips again, his tongue invading her mouth. Instinctively, Elizabeth moaned and moved closer to him. Darcy stifled the groan in the back of his throat. He let his touch speak for him. Lost to sensation, neither Darcy nor Elizabeth heard the faint click of the lock along the inside wall.


Mr. Baldwin reported his lack of success: “I searched every room, Mr. Darcy.”

“And nothing?”

“Nothing, sir—nothing except a very angry Lady Catherine.”

Darcy snorted.“My aunt is generally dissatisfied with one thing or another.”

The butler smiled faintly.

“We have a problem—missing bed linens, missing candelabra….” Darcy purposely omitted the mystery in Georgiana’s room the preceding evening.

“Missing food,” Baldwin added.

“What do you mean?”

Baldwin nervously shifted his weight.“A round of hard cheese, sir, and two loaves of dark bread and one of Mrs. Jennings’s rhubarb pies.”

“You jest?”

“No, sir—the lady swears she made six, and there are but five.”

“This becomes more bizarre by the moment. Do you have any inkling—even a glimmer of an idea who might be to blame, Mr. Baldwin?”

The man looked around sheepishly to observe if anyone could overhear. “The staff, sir, some…they think it is one of the Shadow Ghosts…while others say it is the work of Black Shuck.”

“Tell me, Mr. Baldwin, you really do not believe such poppycock. Black Shuck?”

“The snow, Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny this is an unusual storm—just like the unusual storm back in Suffolk all those years ago. People swear that Black Shuck appeared at the Bungay and Blythburgh churches in 1577, and only this past week, Mr. Stalling says he saw a black shaggy dog near the Darcy family cemetery.”

Darcy closed the door to ensure privacy. “Mr. Baldwin, you must stop this nonsense. We are not living in the times of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. The Vikings left England long ago, and they took the legends of Thor’s Shukir and Odin’s huge dog of war with them. We live in a time of industrial advancement. I cannot have you and the rest of the staff repeating such stories. I am well aware of Reverend Abraham Fleming’s version of what happened in the sixteenth century in Suffolk. I, too, once thought it a great tale of mystery, but I left those stories behind when I left childhood.”

“I understand, Mr. Darcy. Such tales are for those of a lower house. I will convey your message to everyone.” Baldwin started to bow out of the room.

Darcy put a hand on the man’s arm to stay him.“I realize it is important for people to explain the unexplainable. People have a need to be in charge of their lives. I am sure that Blythburgh and Bungay suffered greatly, but the appearance of a stray black dog had nothing to do with lightning striking a church tower.What is happening in this house has no connection to a dog or to ghostly apparitions. No malevolent shadow person is haunting this house. I guarantee it.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”

“I need your agreement on this, Mr. Baldwin.”

“Mrs. Reynolds and I will speak to the staff, sir.”

The butler was nearly out the door before Darcy remembered his letter. He called to the man’s retreating form, “Mr. Baldwin!”

His man reappeared immediately. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you place my letter from yesterday evening on the salver to be posted?”

“I have not seen the letter, sir.”

Darcy came around the desk. “I was writing it when you came in yesterday evening.”

“I remember your being behind the desk, sir, but you left everything after we spoke.You gave me no letter to post.”

Darcy looked around in dismay. “I did not finish the letter,” he muttered. “It was on the desk—a letter to Mr. Laurie. Are you sure you did not see it?”

“No, sir.”

“It is no longer there.” He gestured toward the papers piled neatly in three stacks along the edge of the desk.

Baldwin did not know how to respond. “Was it of a personal nature, sir?”

Darcy thought of his request for information on George Wickham and on Lieutenant Harwood. He could have no one else know about either matter. “It is of a nature I would prefer not to share with everyone.” He looked about confused. “Maybe I misplaced it; I will look again.”

“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”

“That will be all, Mr. Baldwin.”


Lydia Bennet Wickham dressed for the day. This Pemberley trip had been a mistake. She had hoped Elizabeth might introduce her to people of fine society. But with the snowstorm the likelihood of meeting anyone other than those sequestered with her was nearly nonexistent, at least for the next week. True, there was Lord Stafford, but he had an affinity for his cousin Miss Donnel, no matter his many protests to the contrary.

That left only Mr. Worth’s company as a possibility. Of course, Lydia never considered the company of other women to be “fine society”; she needed a man’s attention to feel important. Nigel Worth was pleasant company, and he did pay her compliments, but he was too old for her. However, he held a respectable position in the community. That would be a better situation than what she currently endured.

Lydia did not know where to turn; misery rode on her shoulder. She had made a terrible mistake the day she left Brighton with George Wickham. She had thought to best her sisters to the altar, and had foolishly believed his pretty words. Only afterward had she realized that he had ill-used her—only when Mr. Darcy came to find them did that become crystal clear.

Even then, her pride had kept her from betraying Wickham. And despite a small voice in her head, which said she should follow Mr. Darcy’s advice, she had stubbornly clung to the hope that George Wickham might learn to love her as much as she fancied herself to love him.

Yet, instead of their growing closer after their nuptials, they had begun a campaign to destroy each other. Mr.Wickham openly flirted with every attractive woman he met, and when she complained, he told Lydia if she objected that she could return to Longbourn’s warmth. In retaliation, she had set about attracting his fellow officers’ attentions. Of course, the difference came in the follow-through : She flirted and flattered, but remained true to her marriage vows where Mr.Wickham openly flaunted his conquests—from the lowliest barmaid to his former commanding officer’s wife.

A sigh escaped her as she took a closer look in the mirror’s reflection. She was still young enough to find another if her husband took her threat seriously. Lydia did not wish to declare to the world that she had failed as a wife, but she knew deep in her soul that she could not spend the rest of her life pretending that Mr.Wickham’s indiscretions did not hurt. A separation would bring scandal, but she could face down the gossips if necessary. “I will survive this,” she whispered to the image staring back at her.

However, a breeze—a gush of cold air—in the room seemed to ask mockingly, Can you?

Lydia jumped to her feet to see what had caused the chilly wind. But try as she might, she could find nothing unusual in her quarters, although she searched behind furniture and inside items.

She did, however, find a box of mementos hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe.When she took out the wooden box, the contents surprised her. The items were a diverse mix of some of her sister’s memories and some that obviously belonged to Mr. Darcy. What amazed her was how soon Elizabeth’s things and Darcy’s things had become their things. Sadly, Lydia doubted that she and George Wickham would ever be so joined. Elizabeth knew a perfect love despite Mr. Darcy’s stiffness—his overwhelming pride. Lydia began to lift items from the box. She had seen Elizabeth’s keepsakes many times: a smooth rock painted blue with white clouds, a gift from their eldest sister, Jane, on Elizabeth’s fifth birthday; a monogrammed handkerchief from Grandmother Bennet; a book of prayers inscribed “To My Lizzy,” from their father; and a pair of white lace gloves Elizabeth had worn to her first adult party.

Mr. Darcy’s spoke of his life: a drawing in crayon signed by Georgiana Darcy; a diamond stick pin with a bent tip, likely belonging to his father or another close relative; a newspaper notice of his mother’s passing; and, surprisingly, a miniature—a portrait of her own husband—of Mr. Wickham as a young man. Impulsively, Lydia retrieved it from the bottom of the box. Dusting it off against her dress, she stared at a man she did not know—a boy, really—with innocence and hope clearly evident in his eyes. She had never met this young gentleman, who had the whole world before him. The Wickham she knew was really two men. One was completely charming to everyone he met. His appearance was greatly in his favor ; he had all the best part of beauty—a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address—a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness but at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming. The other George Wickham was a frightening force—one that hid the hostility he felt—masked his voice’s harshness—ruled with fear. He was a careful schemer, handsome and charming.