Bridget Wickham had only ever known life on the Pemberley estate or riding with her father to the big house in London, the stucco-fronted terrace with its pale whiteness she had tried to achieve much later icing paper-thin biscuits in the sweaty kitchen, and the glossy black door with its brass lion-headed knocker, the metallic eyes looking out onto the hustle and bustle of the London street. She remembered the black and white marble floor, and the gilt-edged portraits of the Darcys that had come before, even the oil-painted face of the wigged and powdered George in his armour who peered down at her with a haughty questioning face as if he couldn't quite believe that she dared to look at him. He had always scared her a little, but Bridget knew from her father that the Wickhams had been in service to the Darcys for longer than any of them could remember, that it had been Henry Wickham who had been on the battlefield with Piers D'Arcy, back when knights were brave and bold and the future of England itself was at peril.

After her father's death, she returned to the house on Grosvenor Street, but this time she was not welcomed through the heavy wooden door, instead, Bridget was shunted and shifted into the kitchens, glanced with a heavy hand by Mrs Boyle, and directed to where she would be working. Occasionally she would glimpse the silk dresses owned by Miss Darcy being altered by one of the dark-haired girls, who would chatter in foreign tones to each other; sometimes she would help repair the heavy overcoats of the master, which would smell of tobacco and the City, or edge his handkerchiefs and cravats with tiny, rhythmic stitches threaded with pale blue cotton. It was a duty of service to her own family to continue to serve the Darcys in this way, something that she could never abandon, something she never thought she would want to.

The paper was smooth, roughly edged on one side. The seal pressed into dark red wax, which oozed over the edges like a wound. It felt heavy before, but heavier now she had snapped the wax, knowing that there was no going back.

"Everything alright, Bridget?"

Adam Artaud always looked different when he wasn't in the kitchen. He had a surly looking countenance, and a rasp to his voice that she liked; his expressions were always animated, and she took great pleasure from watching him craft sculptures from sugar and create magnificent showpieces for the Darcy dining table. It was the passion that made him so attractive to her, even though she knew that Adam Artaud with his green eyes and his fake French accent would never even look in her direction. At least, not seriously.

"Aye," she said, tucking the letter in between the folds of her dress.

Adam walked past the servants' table and into the stores, there was a small clatter, and he returned with two small tumblers and a hunk of bread.

"Now," he said conspiratorially as he sat across from her, "we are not telling Mrs Reynolds about this."

He handed her the tumbler and she took a quick mouthful. It was syrupy, thick… she grimaced.

"Is this Mr Staughton's port?"

"Of course," he smiled, his eyes twinkling mischievously in the dim candlelight of the kitchen. "Now, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong."

He took a bite of his bread, studying her as he swallowed it, "there is no need to lie to me, Bridge, you know all my secrets."

"I think everyone knows that you're not French."

"Well maybe, but you figured it out first," he took a mouthful of the port.

Bridget watched him carefully, picking at her own piece of bread. She wondered what Aunt Frances would say about her sitting here after bedtime, dressed in her nightgown, and in the company of a man.

"Adam?"

"Aye."

"What know you of town?"

"In what respect?"

"Of society… of things that…go on."

"You mean like with gossip, and scandal…" he looked amused, "and things like that?"

"Yes, exactly that."

Adam stopped for a moment, gulped down his bread, washing it down with more port. He wasn't sure where this was leading.

"Well, I know of some things… My sister, Isabella… she's a ladies maid for the Devonshires, she tells me what she knows."

Adam already knew about Bridget's eldest brother, knew that he was no longer welcome at Pemberley, knew that he was a charmer, a rapscallion, a gentleman only in the broadest sense of the term. He watched as Bridget pulled out the letter and placed it on the table, she looked angry, she looked terrified. It was a dangerous combination.

"What's that?"

"It's a letter from my brother to Miss Godwin."

Adam looked confused, his eyebrows knitting together as he handled the letter, squinting at the hand.

"And what does it say?"

"It confirms to me that my brother is still very much the worse kind of man."

"How do you mean?"

Bridget unfolded the letter carefully, the words written by George barely legible in the light. Adam reached over and lit another candle, placing it on the table next to her.

"My dearest Jemima, I hope this letter finds you in good health. For great reasons known only to us both, I must urge you to press forward with your arrangements vis D_. P_y will be preparing for a new mistress by the time my words reach you, but rest assured that all is well with _ at St James'. I have it on good authority that P_ is most eager for you to legitimise your union at the earliest opportunity for the sake of appearances, and will, once the wedding bells are rung, honour the venerable cuckold with a title for services rendered- "

"I don't understand…"

Adam looked confused, taking the letter from her hands and skimming quickly through the pages.

"Can you see it? Can you see what they are planning to do?"

"Should it make more sense to me?"

Bridget snatched for the letter, getting up from the table and turning her back on Adam, who was now even more confused than before.

"It probably should make more sense to you, aye!"

Sleep took a long time to arrive for Georgiana, and she awoke the next morning later than usual, late for breakfast and too late to make herself suitably presentable for the outing to Buxton that her brother had planned. She had already dismissed Betsy with an imperious wave of the arm, which she would remember to apologise for later, and requested a plate from Mrs Reynolds with which to break her fast. The room was chilly, not catching the sun until later when she would already have been dressed and expected downstairs, but it still felt luxurious to lie here under the heavy cotton sheets for a quiet moment, with no need to entertain anyone by herself, or any thoughts but her own.

"Excuse me, Miss Darcy."

Georgiana blinked, standing at the end of the bed was the girl from the night before.

"Bridget?"

"Yes, Miss," she curtseyed awkwardly. "I need to speak to you urgently."

"You should wait for Mrs Reynolds to bring you up. This isn't what-"

"This couldn't wait for that," she flung the letter, now crumpled from being in her pocket and reread for half of the night, onto the bed, "you need to read this."

Georgiana reached for the letter, unfolding it slowly, smoothing it onto the sheets. Bridget watched as she read the letter, her expression contorting into anger.

"Where is this from?! Where did you get it?!"

"Last night, it was delivered by the last post."

"Liar! Georgiana flashed, "you bring this to me to discredit my brother's beloved, written no doubt by your brother… your lying, deceitful, wretch of a brother! Get out!" Georgiana was furious, her face flushed pink with rage, "GET OUT!"

Bridget flinched, reached for the letter, "I don't think so, Miss Wickham! Please leave."

She stepped softly out of the room, her heart beating in her like one of the drums played by the regiment. How could she have been so foolish? Of course, Miss Darcy would not believe her, but if not Georgiana, then who?

Georgiana could feel the rage and the anger pulsating through her, just the sight of Wickham's writing on the page made her feel sick. She read the words again, wanting to see the extent of the deception that the Wickham girl was placing before her… but didn't Lady Armitage say that Miss Godwin couldn't be trusted? Weren't the Hurst girls reticent about her affections towards Fitz…? Georgiana studied the letter again, the copperplate hand so rigid and stiff, so like that of Fitz himself. There was an implication here, a very serious one. She rang the bell for Betsy, before anything else she would be visiting Stanlake, and she would be going straight away.

It took forty minutes to reach Stanlake, one of three country homes of Lord and Lady Armitage, and the least impressive. Felton Armitage, the Earl of Struthers, came from a long line of nobles who could trace their lineage back to William the Conqueror, and the small estate had been awarded to them by that venerable King after success in a decisive battle. Most recently, however, the Armitages had found that their outgoings severely surpassed the incomes from their lands and business interests, and so the former grandeur of Stanlake was somewhat faded compared to their London townhouse, which was where the majority of their entertainments took place. The house had been built at the same time as Pemberley, but whereas the Darcys had continually refurbished and renovated their home, Stanlake was still very much a Tudor manor house, with black and white woodwork and deep mullion windows, glinting with stained glass, covered by ivy that grew wild and romantic over the structure. Georgiana had never felt more certain of herself when she had boarded the carriage, but now as it clattered up the driveway, the house in the distance, the more she was unsure. The letter was in her bag, heavy like a stone and she wasn't even certain of what she was asking, but she had remembered Lady Armitage's warning, and now, here was real solid proof of some misdeed. She hadn't realised when she stepped into the carriage which one it was. It had been repainted, the inside reupholstered, but she knew this was where she had been that night… and now here she was again alone. The miles seemed to turn into hours, and she gulped at the fresh air, but her resolve was stronger than George Wickham's hold over her. Damn that man, and damn his sister too.

Charlotte Armitage had not expected a call from Georgiana Darcy, particularly arriving without invitation and without a companion. It was almost unheard of. She waved away the butler, and prepared to meet the girl in the drawing room, a heavily panelled room with a Jacobean ceiling, apparently once visited by Mary Stewart on her way to the executioner's block. She didn't pay attention to the myths and legends passed down into family legend via the servants' hall, if half of what was laid down in Armitage Lore was true then Stanlake was surely the centre of English history for the last four centuries.

"Miss Darcy of Pemberley, Madam," said the Butler, quite unaccustomed to young ladies arriving unaccompanied.

Georgiana curtseyed awkwardly, she looked tense, a furrow in her brow and her usual expression taut. Charlotte knew that something was wrong.

"Georgiana," she said kindly, "come and take a seat. Milton, please send up some refreshments." She edged over to the side of the settee, "Lord Armitage had some tea imported from India, such a treat to have it in one's own house."

The younger lady shifted on the seat, clutching at her reticule. Inside it, the letter, as heavy as a cannonball.

"I apologise for calling on you so unexpectedly, Lady Armitage."

"No need for apologies, are you quite alright? I must say that I haven't had a chance to speak to Lord Armitage about the ball we planned, but I dare say Ernest will start the preparations once he returns from London."

"Ernest has gone to London?"

"Aye, he tells me there is some urgent business there, but I rather believe that finds the society in Derbyshire rather dull."

"And Henry?" Georgiana said tentatively, "is he away in town too?"

Charlotte hid a smile, she had noticed the way Georgiana had looked at her second son the week before, had listened to Henry casually mention the Darcy girl in conversation whenever he could. A match between them would be advantageous for both families, of course, but she didn't think that Georgiana Darcy had travelled the distance from Pemberley on the rough road for that reason.

"He isn't, he's on the estate dealing with a tenant dispute," she gestured to Milton, who had returned with a tea tray, "but if you care to join us for nuncheon, he will be back for then."

"Unfortunately, I have a prior engagement-"

"Ah yes, you have visitors at the house, of course."

Georgiana nodded as Milton passed her a cup of the hot liquid in a delicate cup, decorated with tiny seashells around the rim, glanced with gilt. The tea was bitter, stewed for too long by an inexpert hand, and it made her wince though she tried to hide it.

"Lady Charlotte, I need to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"You said that Fitzwilliam could not marry Jemima Godwin."

"I did."

"What was the reason?" Georgiana saw her momentarily hesitate, "I need you to be very honest with mre. This is important."

Charlotte sipped her tea, before placing the cup into the saucer with a delicate clink, she glanced up, "there is nothing really to be told."

Georgiana removed the letter, spread it out on the table, "this is the hand of George Wickham. Why is he writing to Miss Godwin at Pemberley? What is the reason?"

Charlotte reached for the thin sheets, reading the contents quickly, "why you are as perplexed as I am as to why the son of your father's steward is writing to a guest of your brother."

"His sister works in the kitchen, she says she received the letter by rider late last night."

"And you don't believe her? The fact that you are here signals to me that you are perhaps unsure as to her motives."

Georgiana knew this to be true, there was nothing about Bridget Wickham, excepting her family name, that made her think she was dishonest.

"The Wickhams have always been loyal servants of the Darcys," Charlotte said, "your mother was very close to Eleanor Wickham, she was with her when she passed."

"Eleanor?"

"George's mother… and Bridget's too."

"She was there when I was born?"

"She was… and when your mother died. Eleanor acted as your wet nurse, there is but three months between you and Bridget."

"Oh," Georgiana said softly, "I was not aware of that."

"And why would you be aware of that? It is not something you would be informed about."

"I suppose not," she began to think about Bridget and the expression on her face this morning when she scolded her and sent her away. This was brought to her in great confidence, and she had broken those tiny promises of friendship at the first challenge.

"Indeed."

"But what about Miss Godwin? You warned me about her and, after meeting her, I am not as enamoured with her as I ought to be."

"You have good reason to be reserved in your affection. Miss Godwin comes from a well-born, noble family who reside in Yorkshire, not far from the birthplace of your mother."

"Really?"

"Yes, the seat of the Godwin family is Selwyn Court, not ten miles from Waddingham. Her father was a Baronet, had the ear of the King, and the vices of the Duchess of Devonshire."

"Her father was a gambler?"

"Aye, he died penniless. The family retained the house, of course, but with nothing to maintain it, they were forced to retrench. Poor Lady Godwin rented out the house, and the daughters were dispersed to relatives until they were able to make their own matches, the son inherited the baronetcy, of course, but no money with it. No home, and now no mother. Lady Godwin died a few years ago."

"So, Miss Godwin has to marry well then? There is no shame in that."

"Of course not, we are fools if we do not strive for a marriage that is advantageous in all ways, but Miss Godwin had her sights set higher than a good marriage. There is something very ambitious about her."

Georgiana did not need Lady Armitage to advise her on this aspect of Jemima Godwin's personality.

"I have glimpsed this myself, and I must admit that it is not something I find appealing."

"Now, you misunderstand me, Georgiana. There is nothing wrong with ambition in a woman, in fact, we must always keep one step ahead of our menfolk, but Miss Godwin's ambition stretches further than I have seen."

"What is your meaning?"

Charlotte inhaled deeply, "Jemima Godwin is a special companion of the Prince Regent – they get along marvellously, and she is known to frequent St James's with alarming regularity for a lady of no fortune and mediocre birth."

"But she loves Fitzwilliam, doesn't she?"

Georgiana didn't care if Jemima Godwin was a friend of the Prince, didn't care if she was unpleasant, because if she loved Fitzwilliam, and he loved her, then everything would be alright.

Charlotte shook her head, "she needs to marry someone, and whilst she might have some regard for your brother, the marriage is purely to provide a respectable cover."

"A respectable cover?!"

"Yes."

She was thinking it over in her head because she knew that Fitz could not bear to marry someone who did not love him, who did not respect the sanctity of marriage. This could never…he would never…

"I need to speak to my brother, I need to make him aware of her deceit."

"Georgiana, you cannot present this information to Darcy like this. He would never believe you."

"Maybe not me, but he would believe her."

"And you think you can convince her to reveal her true intentions?"

"I have to try."

She reached for the letter and left as quickly as she had arrived, a whirlwind in muslin. Charlotte Armitage finished her tea, as she watched the carriage disappear down the drive. Georgiana Darcy was definitely her mother's daughter.