Tears press against the backs of my eyes, and my mouth feels thick with the impending breakdown. Darcy places a hand on my cheek. I lean into it, covering his hand with mine, but I can’t speak.

Darcy says it for me. “Wickham.” The two syllables drip with venom, reminding me of their shared past.

“Did you know he was involved?” I ask.

“Not until the night at Meryton, when we danced.” He takes the phone from my hand and tosses it onto the couch. “That’s when I linked him to the owner. He’s an uncle through marriage, so I wasn’t sure about the connection until I checked. It’s why I left so suddenly.”

His mom’s new brother-in-law. This was his “family thing.”

“Why didn’t you mention it?”

He thumbs my cheek. “I didn’t think I needed to. Even when I confirmed the relation, it all but guaranteed the deal was Charles’s. Wickham’s completely unreliable. There was no way he could convince anyone to pass something of worth on to him. Not without—”

“My design.” The words claw through me. I close my eyes, resting my bare back to the glass. “How could I have been so stupid?”

“Bennet—”

“He knew what happened in LA, Darcy.” I push off the window. “I told him everything, and he fucking used it against me. Against all of us!”

I make it the handful of steps to the un-couch and collapse, folding over my knees. My whole body aches. I didn’t realize how much I was banking on my foothold at Meryton as my way back into the field. This was my chance. And it’s gone.

As the idea settles, my thoughts continue to bounce, lighting on one grim prospect before drifting to another. Where will the changing of hands leave the regular performers? Will anyone from the old guard be invited to stay on? Would anyone even want to? This was Jane’s most stable gig, but with his connection to Charles, will he be cast out? What about Ming? Tonic?

Will I ever see Meryton again? The thought sucks the breath from me.

“Bennet?” Darcy’s voice is tight with concern. He sits beside me, draping a plush black robe over my shoulders.

I shake my head, pulling the robe around me. It’s a whole other level of gut punch. If I weren’t already in a ball, the idea that I’ll never see Meryton again would have me curling over my pitching stomach. But I can’t go back in there, not with Wickham at the helm, seeing my work being realized under his name. I know we have a month, but there’s no way he won’t be around before then, gloating . . .