A moment later, a shrewd smile spreads across her painted face. She takes my chin in her hand, turning my head side to side. Her laugh is a brilliant cackle.

“Snog rash. You little minx.” She releases me, then pats my cheek. “Good for you.”

At home, I sit in bed. Distantly, I’m aware of having brought my Meryton file with me, but when I look at the drawings, they hardly register. Almost nothing about my evening does.

Darcy’s letter sits in the middle of the open folder. The envelope bears the distinct upside-down logo of the Standard Hotel, and the paper inside is coordinating stationery. I hesitate, looking at the folded pages. A chance for better circumstances.

Unfolding the paper, I find four solid pages, written in a neat, though cramped, hand, and a pair of business cards. One is for his uncle, Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq., partner at Darcy, Darcy, and de Bourgh. On the back is a note: Should you require further testimony on the subject of George Wickham, feel free to contact Fitz. Interesting.

Card two is for Marley at Pemberley, with the accompanying explanation that she’s a family friend who can discuss what happened in the weeks following the passing of Darcy Senior. I eye the letter. What have I gotten myself into?