Upstairs, the door to Darcy’s office is open, and he gestures for me to step in ahead of him. I’m immediately drawn to the framed black and white photograph of Pemberley’s exterior dominating the opposite wall. The venue’s name is spelled out in lights on a wide marquee, a feature that sadly no longer exists, but the distinct sunburst above the front doors is visible, and the tile on the front step is the same. The brick building’s been maintained so well that aside from the missing signage, the photo could have been taken yesterday.

“Opening night,” Darcy says from behind me. “Or close to it. Pemberley was originally a vaudeville club, but it never brought in the crowds like the Palace or places on Broadway.”

“Really?” I say, still examining the photo. “You should put all that on the website. The photo, too. It’s fantastic.”

“That’s—that’s a very good call.”

Footsteps sound against the hardwood floor, then soften to a whisper over carpeting. I turn to find him at a desk. He picks up a pen from the broad surface, then jots something down on a yellow legal pad; he knows a good idea when he hears it.

I look over the room. The space is tidy but lived-in, with a number of curios to plunder for secrets about their owner. The far wall is bisected by a deep-blue curtain—it must be the window I saw from downstairs—and below it is a table bearing a series of framed photos. Jackpot.

First is a photo of Darcy in a cap and gown beside a stern-looking, mustachioed older man I assume is his dad. Next is a shot of an elementary-age Darcy in a school uniform, standing, based on the sunburst above him, outside of Pemberley. His gap-toothed smile is brilliant. It makes my chest go a little gooey: he loved this place even then.

“Ah!” I pick up the next picture, featuring a familiar, perpetually grinning blond in what appears to be a small boat. Charles’s navy tank has “Cal” across it in yellow letters, and I realize I’ve solved the mystery of Thor’s calluses and physique: Jane’s beau is a rower. This must be his college team. I look at the rower behind him—

Darcy. The photo’s captured him midstroke, arm muscles bunched as he pulls the oars toward himself. Charles is in the same position, but the focus in Darcy’s face is far more effective.

I’m about to ask if he still rows when another item on the table catches my eye. I wheel on Darcy, still by the desk.

“William Darcy!” I force a stern expression as I point to the catering tray, where two miniature beef Wellingtons languish alongside a few mini quiches and a trio of bacon-wrapped dates. “Are these from my party?”