Again, I have no defense. “Jane adored Charles.” My jaw is almost too tight to get the words out.

“That’s another thing. Jane was just so . . .” He shakes his head. “Affectionate. It didn’t seem possible that he could have felt so strongly so quickly.”

Ming’s warning pulses through my brain in time with my racing heartbeat. I insisted Jane’s enthusiasm wouldn’t be a problem, but Ming was right. It’s gutting.

“So? I could say the same for Charles. Are you telling me he got to be head over heels for Jane, but Jane couldn’t show the same?”

Darcy opens his mouth, but he doesn’t reply.

“You didn’t even consider that, did you?” I ask, incredulous.

Darcy seems shaken, too. His eyes are distant, brows high. “I was protecting him.” His voice is hollow.

The excuse conjures Wickham’s warning about Darcy’s loyalty. My shallow, conceited ass interpreted it as a compliment, Wickham’s being jealous. Did he suspect this? Was he trying to warn me?

“Protect him from what, Darcy? How can you possibly link this to the club? Hadn’t you already shortlisted it for him?”

“Yes. But I—”

“Hadn’t bothered confirming what the business inside actually was?” I toss my hands up. “Pretty major oversight for someone who’s so goddamn protective.”

Darcy’s eyes are still unfocused, but they dart side to side, as though he’s cataloging every missed step in his shitty excuse for rationalization.

“Honestly, even in whatever worst-case scenario you’ve imagined, how would Charles’s being with Jane have impacted anything?”

“I would not abide my friend being used, no matter the outcome.” Darcy curls his hands into fists, then relaxes them again. His voice is quieter when he adds, “Charles’s money was only a secondary concern. My true fear was for his heart.”

Neither of us says anything for a moment after that. Not that it matters. We’re talking around the real problem, the ugly assumptions behind Darcy’s fears for Charles’s well-being. Those assumptions wouldn’t just be about Jane, after all. They’d be about me, too. It almost hurts to ask, “Why would you suspect Jane of something like that? Because he’s broke? Because he wants to sing? Because he’s pursuing some dream? This is New York. Everybody here has a dream.”

“What’s yours, Bennet?”

I lean away from the table. “What?”

Darcy’s face is hard again. Not his standard, starchy stiffness, but purposefully steeled. Shielded. “You mentioned experience in design. With so few programs in Colorado, it wasn’t hard to determine where you went. And the school doesn’t update its website much.”

I feel the color drain from my face. The school’s overwrought article about my internship win was searchable when I last checked, but that was years ago.