Jane Austen’s timeless love stories take on a supernatural twist in Sense, Sensibility and Shifters, a captivating anthology of paranormal romance.
Showing posts with label Austenesque. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Austenesque. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 15, 2025
Tuesday, July 23, 2024
Jane Austen Lied to Me by Jeanette Watts 💕 Behind the Scenes, Book Tour and Jane Austen Coloring Book Giveaway 💕 (Romantic Comedy)
Seven times my life, instead of becoming a romance, turned into a made-for-TV drama.
Thursday, June 30, 2022
Jane Austen Lied to Me by Jeanette Watts 💕 Exclsuive Excerpt, Book Tour and $15 Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Romantic Comedy)
Seven times my life, instead of becoming a romance, turned into a made-for-TV drama.
Wednesday, June 8, 2022
Jane Austen Lied to Me by Jeanette Watts 💕 Cover Re-Reveal and $15 Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Romantic Comedy)
Seven times my life, instead of becoming a romance, turned into a made-for-TV drama.
Thursday, May 5, 2022
Friday, March 27, 2020
Thursday, March 12, 2020
Saturday, October 12, 2019
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Friday, June 21, 2019
Wednesday, May 1, 2019
Wednesday, March 6, 2019
Elizabeth in the New World by Maggie Mooha 💕 Book Blast & Gift Card Giveaway 💕 (Austenesque Historical Romance)
NO GREATER LOVE
Darcy’s sudden, passionate kiss sweeps Elizabeth into a bliss she has never known...but their love is short-lived. On a field of honor, Wickham, once again, engages in an irresponsible act, which leaves Darcy mortally wounded and Elizabeth broken. Refusing to leave Darcy’s side, the last vestiges of her reputation are shattered, and when Elizabeth sees Darcy in his coffin, she is ruined in more ways than one. Devastated and without hope, reluctantly she agrees to accompany friends to Grenada, a Caribbean island on the brink of revolution.
Things are not what they seem. Darcy hasn’t died, but Elizabeth is gone and he fears it is too late to recapture what he has lost. As he struggles to recuperate, he must put aside his pride and his heritage in order to find the only woman he will ever love. Never before has Darcy sacrificed so much for a passion he fought against so vehemently. And never before has Elizabeth’s strength of character been stronger - it is the only thing standing between her and an end that doesn’t include Darcy.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Second Impressions by Amy George ♥ Book Tour & GIVEAWAY ♥ (Austenesque Romance)
When she returns to England after years spent abroad, Elizabeth must face the man who shattered her heart, and she is shocked to find the proud man she once knew drastically altered. Does she have the courage to seek out the man with whom she fell in love—whatever the cost?
Fitzwilliam Darcy has spent his days regretting what might have been and his nights being tormented by the decisions he has made. His life in tatters, he can barely face the once-respectable man in his mirror or the baby girl in Pemberley’s nursery. Now that Elizabeth has returned, will he atone for his mistakes and win her heart for good?
This alternate path reimagining of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice is recommended for adult readers.
Balls were boring affairs, no matter who hosted them. The same kind of people—the rich looking to get richer—in the same types of places—enormous houses with an equally enormous crowd—gathered for God knew what reason. John Dalton had scanned the invitation, noted when and where to go, and ignored the rest. He attended the ball out of social obligation. He stayed for the sport.
“Mr. Dalton?”
He looked up from his conversation with Miss Poppy Gallagher, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy landowner. She had just told him she was spending the winter with her elder sister and was glad to finally be away from the house. John could see the lovely Miss Gallagher was hungry for a little diversion, and he was more than willing to provide it.
“Mrs. Bingley,” John said, standing to greet his fair hostess. “Thank you for the invitation. This is a lovely party.”
“I am glad you are happy, sir,” Jane replied offhandedly. “I, however, am not.”
John sucked in a breath, dreading what was to come. Jane Bingley would surely scold him for talking to an unchaperoned girl, knowing his intentions. It would not be the first time he had been asked to leave a festivity given by “polite” society.
“What could I do to change that, Mrs. Bingley?” he asked, though the question sounded more seductive than he had intended. While Jane Bingley would have made an impressive conquest among his peers, it was not only gauche to think so ill of her but an impossibility considering it was obvious she was completely devoted to her husband.
Jane raised an eyebrow at the tone of his remark but kept a smile at bay. “I have a cousin who lacks a partner for the next set.”
Narrowing his eyes, Dalton sighed. He had been maneuvered into corners like this one before. He was rich, he was handsome, and he was young. There had been many a mother who had tried to use their daughters as lures to tame the wild beast, but all had failed.
“Mrs. Bingley, are you suggesting I ask your cousin to dance?”
Jane smiled brilliantly. “Dear Mr. Dalton! I would be delighted if you would. Miss Poston is American and frightens many men because she conveys the appearance of not needing them.”
At that, Miss Gallagher stood and joined the conversation. “But Mr. Dalton has asked to dance the next set with me.”
“I am sure you can see that my cousin is in desperate need,” Jane said, the barest hint of a threat in her voice. “If you let him go now, I will return Mr. Dalton to you for the dance later.”
Miss Gallagher seemed doubtful but granted her consent.
Jane took John’s offered elbow and led him to the sitting room in which Emeline had been hiding.
All day long, Emeline had dreaded the ball, knowing men would be fascinated only by her looks and then be disappointed when they found out she could form an opinion about something other than gowns or flowers. Men hated clever women, and Emeline was not about to stand for another night of shocked looks and scurrying backsides. Instead, she chose to sit with a few of the matrons who were curious about her and talk of her travels.
“Emeline?”
She looked up at the sound of Jane’s voice. Puzzlement settled over her features as Jane motioned her out into the hallway and then quietly led her to the ballroom door.
“Jane, I told you I did not plan to dance this evening.”
“I know that, but there is someone who will not believe me. He has heard much about you from Charles and insists upon meeting you.”
“Jane—” Emeline’s voice carried a tired warning as John Dalton stepped into view.
“Miss Poston, it is a pleasure to—” John looked at the shapely strawberry blonde standing before him, realizing he had seen her before.
Emeline’s eyes grew wide. “Jack?”
Jane smiled and quietly slipped away.
“My lady?”
“Well, not quite,” Emeline replied saucily. “You never really offered a decent apology for running into me in the middle of the street.”
“Abominable behavior,” he said, shaking his head. “You must allow me to make amends for it.”
“And how would you propose to do that?”
“By asking you to dance.”
“And what if I do not dance?”
“Every young lady dances.”
“Preposterous presumption on your part.”
“How so? I have never met a young lady who does not dance; so therefore, all young ladies dance.”
Emeline bit her lip, nodding thoughtfully. “I suppose you have a point, however irrational it might be.”
“Miss Poston, would you care to dance? Despite my disadvantage.”
“What disadvantage is that?”
“I do not know your Christian name.”
“Whereas I know only yours.”
“John Bickford Dalton.”
“Emeline Poston.”
They greeted each other with a bow and a curtsey.
“Now?” asked John.
“Now.”
And they entered the ballroom.
“Mr. Dalton?”
He looked up from his conversation with Miss Poppy Gallagher, the beautiful daughter of a wealthy landowner. She had just told him she was spending the winter with her elder sister and was glad to finally be away from the house. John could see the lovely Miss Gallagher was hungry for a little diversion, and he was more than willing to provide it.
“Mrs. Bingley,” John said, standing to greet his fair hostess. “Thank you for the invitation. This is a lovely party.”
“I am glad you are happy, sir,” Jane replied offhandedly. “I, however, am not.”
John sucked in a breath, dreading what was to come. Jane Bingley would surely scold him for talking to an unchaperoned girl, knowing his intentions. It would not be the first time he had been asked to leave a festivity given by “polite” society.
“What could I do to change that, Mrs. Bingley?” he asked, though the question sounded more seductive than he had intended. While Jane Bingley would have made an impressive conquest among his peers, it was not only gauche to think so ill of her but an impossibility considering it was obvious she was completely devoted to her husband.
Jane raised an eyebrow at the tone of his remark but kept a smile at bay. “I have a cousin who lacks a partner for the next set.”
Narrowing his eyes, Dalton sighed. He had been maneuvered into corners like this one before. He was rich, he was handsome, and he was young. There had been many a mother who had tried to use their daughters as lures to tame the wild beast, but all had failed.
“Mrs. Bingley, are you suggesting I ask your cousin to dance?”
Jane smiled brilliantly. “Dear Mr. Dalton! I would be delighted if you would. Miss Poston is American and frightens many men because she conveys the appearance of not needing them.”
At that, Miss Gallagher stood and joined the conversation. “But Mr. Dalton has asked to dance the next set with me.”
“I am sure you can see that my cousin is in desperate need,” Jane said, the barest hint of a threat in her voice. “If you let him go now, I will return Mr. Dalton to you for the dance later.”
Miss Gallagher seemed doubtful but granted her consent.
Jane took John’s offered elbow and led him to the sitting room in which Emeline had been hiding.
All day long, Emeline had dreaded the ball, knowing men would be fascinated only by her looks and then be disappointed when they found out she could form an opinion about something other than gowns or flowers. Men hated clever women, and Emeline was not about to stand for another night of shocked looks and scurrying backsides. Instead, she chose to sit with a few of the matrons who were curious about her and talk of her travels.
“Emeline?”
She looked up at the sound of Jane’s voice. Puzzlement settled over her features as Jane motioned her out into the hallway and then quietly led her to the ballroom door.
“Jane, I told you I did not plan to dance this evening.”
“I know that, but there is someone who will not believe me. He has heard much about you from Charles and insists upon meeting you.”
“Jane—” Emeline’s voice carried a tired warning as John Dalton stepped into view.
“Miss Poston, it is a pleasure to—” John looked at the shapely strawberry blonde standing before him, realizing he had seen her before.
Emeline’s eyes grew wide. “Jack?”
Jane smiled and quietly slipped away.
“My lady?”
“Well, not quite,” Emeline replied saucily. “You never really offered a decent apology for running into me in the middle of the street.”
“Abominable behavior,” he said, shaking his head. “You must allow me to make amends for it.”
“And how would you propose to do that?”
“By asking you to dance.”
“And what if I do not dance?”
“Every young lady dances.”
“Preposterous presumption on your part.”
“How so? I have never met a young lady who does not dance; so therefore, all young ladies dance.”
Emeline bit her lip, nodding thoughtfully. “I suppose you have a point, however irrational it might be.”
“Miss Poston, would you care to dance? Despite my disadvantage.”
“What disadvantage is that?”
“I do not know your Christian name.”
“Whereas I know only yours.”
“John Bickford Dalton.”
“Emeline Poston.”
They greeted each other with a bow and a curtsey.
“Now?” asked John.
“Now.”
And they entered the ballroom.
She has been writing since she was a child and was a frequent contributor to the Hyacinth Gardens, a popular but defunct JAFF site.
4 winners will receive a print copy of Second Impressions (contiguous United States residents only)
4 winners will receive an eCopy (International residents)
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
The Elizabeth Papers by Jenetta James ♥ Book Tour & GIVEAWAY ♥ (Austenesque Romance)
Charlie Haywood is a London-based private investigator who has made his own fortune—on his own terms. Charming, cynical, and promiscuous, he never expected to be attracted to Evie Pemberton, an emerging and independent-minded artist living with the aftermath of tragedy. But when he is hired to investigate her claims to a one hundred and fifty year old trust belonging to the eminent Darcy family, he is captivated.
Together they become entwined in a tale of love, loss, and mystery tracing back to the grand estate of Pemberley, home to Evie’s nineteenth century ancestors, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth Darcy.
How could Evie know that in 1817 Elizabeth Darcy began a secret journal? What started as an account of a blissful life came to reflect a growing unease. Was the Darcy marriage perfect or was there betrayal and deception at its heart?
Can Evie and Charlie unearth the truth in the letters of Fitzwilliam Darcy or within the walls of present-day Pemberley? What are the elusive Elizabeth papers and why did Elizabeth herself want them destroyed?
From Chapter 2
Maureen’s chair made a gentle motion on the thick pile of the carpet as she stood. “Miss Carter? Mr. Haywood will see you now. Would you like tea or coffee?”
The woman who had been plumped down on the sofa in the waiting room for no more than ten minutes seemed startled. Her half read copy of Country Life was slipped back onto the low table in front of her. She asked for a coffee, stood, and straightening her slightly too-tight skirt, followed Maureen into the room. When she saw Charlie Haywood for the first time, her eyes widened as she took him in. He was quite used to this reaction and did not demur from it. He looked at her for a beat too long but then relaxed and was as friendly and professional as he knew how to be. He didn’t want to make the woman uncomfortable. She was paying, after all. Added to which, her expression led him to think she didn’t need to be encouraged.
“Come in, Miss Carter. Please, take a seat. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, almost surprised.
“Pleasant journey, I hope? You have come from Shropshire, I think?”
“Yes, yes, I have.”
“Well, do come in and sit down. Maureen will fetch you a drink, and we can have a chat about your case. I believe that you spoke to my colleague, Simon, when you rang before?”
She nodded. Charlie thought briefly of Simon, his would-be prodigy. Simon, who was currently on the tail of the trophy wife of a Lebanese businessman, whose taste for men who were not her husband had made her the talk of Chelsea and had brought yet another remunerative brief to the door of Haywood Enquiry Agents. He knew Simon to be following her that afternoon and hoped that he wasn’t being too obvious about it. Suddenly remembering that he needed to concentrate, he fixed his gaze on the lady in front of him and put all ideas of Simon aside.
“I understand that you are considering mounting a legal challenge to a trust of which you are a beneficiary and that there is a historical element involved. You have come to the right place, Miss Carter. I would not say this to all of my clients, but I have a special interest in enquiries that involve a bit of history. I hope we can help. I am fairly sure that if we can’t help you then nobody can.”
“You did come very highly recommended, Mr. Haywood.” She smiled, and for a moment, he felt sick. She was, he would estimate, in her late twenties, and she was by no means unattractive. Still, there was something about her that made him want to turn away.
“Well, that is always gratifying. I hope we will not disappoint. Ah, here is Maureen. Thanks, Maureen.”
There was a brief interlude in which sugar lumps were dropped in hot coffee and silver teaspoons tinkled around china.
“Maybe it would be best, Miss Carter, if you just told me your story in your own words. Then I can tell you what I think, and we can go from there?”
“No problem. I can do that. Let’s start from the beginning. It’s like this. My family on Mummy’s side is terribly grand, Mr. Haywood. Our branch of the family is one of the less well-off ones unfortunately, but there are landed estates and aristocrats if you look back—the whole damned shooting match. Don’t really see much of them all now of course, but families are like that, aren’t they? I am sure that I am related to all sorts of impressive people. Anyway, when I was eighteen, I started receiving money from something called the Darcy Trust. Mummy does too and my cousin on her side, Jennifer. It turns out that all of the women in Mummy’s family get money from it. Mummy has been getting it ever since she was eighteen. It is a pretty penny too, I can tell you. Over the years…well…it has paid for quite a lot.”
She blinked, and he knew that she had wanted to say more but thought better of it. Running her manicured hand along the groove at the edge of his desk, she continued.
“Anyway, until very recently, I didn’t know all that much about it. I just got the money, and I was bloody glad of it. Then Mummy said that her Aunt Mary was on her last legs with cancer, and she really wanted to see her before she died. Now, I hadn’t seen Aunt Mary since I was a child, but a trip to Scotland didn’t sound too shabby, and Mummy really wanted some company, so along I went. I suppose that it was a bit grim at times, but it wasn’t too bad. Aunt Mary’s place was lovely—really gorgeous—and my bedroom had a super view. Anyway, it was pretty obvious that she was very ill, and we spent a few days with her talking about the old days and family history and all of that, you know?”
He nodded, but of course, he didn’t know. Miss Carter crossed her legs and leaned towards him, sipping awkwardly from her cup.
“She was really into it—family history, I mean. She seemed to know all sorts—more than me, and I know a bit. Told us all about the war and other times as well, much further back. She was amazing, really, when you think of her age and her health. It was one morning just after breakfast. Mummy was having a potter around the garden, and I had just made myself a coffee. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I sat with Aunt Mary and asked her if she’d like some help with her crossword. She looked me squarely in the face and said, ‘Victoria Darcy wasn’t his daughter you know. Nobody was allowed to say, but it was the truth.’ I was completely foxed, but she looked as if she was saying something important. So, I put down my coffee, took her frail old hand, and said, ‘Come again, Aunt Mary?’ It was then that she told me about the Darcy Trust. It turns out that it was started by some long-dead relation of ours, Fitzwilliam Darcy. He had five daughters and set up a trust to benefit his female descendants. Only that’s just the thing. One of the daughters, this Victoria, wasn’t his daughter at all. Born on the wrong side of the bed sheets, and somehow his wife passed it off. Did the dirty and got away with it. Apparently, according to Aunt Mary, there has always been talk about it in the family, but nobody ever actually did anything about it, but people knew.”
“Do you know when this was, Miss Carter?”
“Sure. Victoria Darcy was born in 1821.”
“1821?”
“Yes. I did a bit of research. I hope you’re impressed, Mr. Haywood?” He resisted the temptation to laugh but smiled at her instead. “Charlie, please.”
“Charlie.” She seemed to pass the word around in her mouth. “Anyway, the upshot is that this Victoria and all of her daughters and granddaughters and so on are not real Darcys. If they are getting money from the trust, then they bloody well shouldn’t be. That’s what I’m here about.”
So she was a greedy one. There were the greedy ones, the resentful ones, the mad ones, the campaigning ones, and the ones who had too much money and not enough to do. She was definitely a greedy one.
“So, this Fitzwilliam Darcy—he was married?”
“Yes, he was married.”
“Do you know anything else about him or his wife?”
“No, that is why I have come to you.”
She looked suddenly aggressive, and Charlie reflected that she didn’t have much of a “middle gear” when it came to being aggravated.
“And do you know whether or not Victoria Darcy has any living female descendants? People who are alive and receiving money from the trust?”
“Yes. Well, Aunt Mary actually told me that. She said that the only people left in Victoria’s line were the “Pemberton girls.” I didn’t know that I had any relations called Pemberton, but there you are. Anyway, these people, whoever they are, are getting money that they shouldn’t be getting.”
“Have you seen a lawyer about this, Miss Carter?”
“Cressida, please.”
She leaned further towards him and fiddled with her watch. He noticed that she was too thin and wondered how hard she worked at it.
“Have you seen a lawyer about this, Cressida?”
“Yes, I have. I went straight to our family solicitor in Shropshire. He has been great actually. He dug out the trust document, and we looked at it together. He advised me that if Victoria Darcy were not really the daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy then she and her descendants definitely should not be getting any money. He said that we would be able to challenge it and get them excluded. More buns for the rest of us. Only problem he said was that we need to prove it, and that is why I’ve come to you.”
Charlie took a deep breath and put the lid back on his fountain pen without writing anything down. He considered noting “Victoria Darcy, born 1821” on his pad but couldn’t see the point. He had been sent on some wild goose chases in his time. More often than not, he had to listen to a crazy story or two from his clients. He had been through people’s bins and hidden behind moss-cloaked garden walls. He had hacked into people’s voice mails and followed their cars to their lovers’ houses down country lanes and sodium-lit streets. He had dredged through the contents of stolen laptops, dragging his tired eyes over file upon file of holiday snaps and letters and nonsense. He had read through thousands of pages of bank statements, telephone transcripts, and court documents. He was good—really good. If a secret was there, Charlie Haywood would find it. But he had never been asked to bust somebody for adultery nearly two hundred years after it had occurred.
“Right. Thanks. That is an amazing story, Cressida. You probably don’t need me to tell you that it is rather unusual.
I am going to need to go away and do a bit of background research because, well, I’m sure you realise that what you are asking me to look at is a long way in the past. Paternity disputes are a different thing these days, of course. We have DNA testing and so on. And when people are still alive, somebody always knows, somebody will always talk. Do you know what I mean?”
She nodded, but he was not at all sure she was following him.
“But when it comes to this Victoria Darcy—well you are talking about a woman who was born nearly two hundred years ago. I am going to need to do some serious rooting around just to work out the basics of who she was and who her family were. I am going to want to see that trust document and learn all about this Fitzwilliam Darcy and his family. Once I have done that, we can think about how we might go about uncovering the truth of Victoria’s paternity. I’m afraid there aren’t any guarantees here. This is a tricky one. The plain hard truth is that it might be impossible to prove that Victoria wasn’t his daughter. You might spend a lot of money and get nowhere. Do you understand that, Cressida?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And you will take the risk?”
“Yeah, I’ll take the risk.” She tilted her head and smiled. “I reckon it’s going to pay off.”
The woman who had been plumped down on the sofa in the waiting room for no more than ten minutes seemed startled. Her half read copy of Country Life was slipped back onto the low table in front of her. She asked for a coffee, stood, and straightening her slightly too-tight skirt, followed Maureen into the room. When she saw Charlie Haywood for the first time, her eyes widened as she took him in. He was quite used to this reaction and did not demur from it. He looked at her for a beat too long but then relaxed and was as friendly and professional as he knew how to be. He didn’t want to make the woman uncomfortable. She was paying, after all. Added to which, her expression led him to think she didn’t need to be encouraged.
“Come in, Miss Carter. Please, take a seat. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, almost surprised.
“Pleasant journey, I hope? You have come from Shropshire, I think?”
“Yes, yes, I have.”
“Well, do come in and sit down. Maureen will fetch you a drink, and we can have a chat about your case. I believe that you spoke to my colleague, Simon, when you rang before?”
She nodded. Charlie thought briefly of Simon, his would-be prodigy. Simon, who was currently on the tail of the trophy wife of a Lebanese businessman, whose taste for men who were not her husband had made her the talk of Chelsea and had brought yet another remunerative brief to the door of Haywood Enquiry Agents. He knew Simon to be following her that afternoon and hoped that he wasn’t being too obvious about it. Suddenly remembering that he needed to concentrate, he fixed his gaze on the lady in front of him and put all ideas of Simon aside.
“I understand that you are considering mounting a legal challenge to a trust of which you are a beneficiary and that there is a historical element involved. You have come to the right place, Miss Carter. I would not say this to all of my clients, but I have a special interest in enquiries that involve a bit of history. I hope we can help. I am fairly sure that if we can’t help you then nobody can.”
“You did come very highly recommended, Mr. Haywood.” She smiled, and for a moment, he felt sick. She was, he would estimate, in her late twenties, and she was by no means unattractive. Still, there was something about her that made him want to turn away.
“Well, that is always gratifying. I hope we will not disappoint. Ah, here is Maureen. Thanks, Maureen.”
There was a brief interlude in which sugar lumps were dropped in hot coffee and silver teaspoons tinkled around china.
“Maybe it would be best, Miss Carter, if you just told me your story in your own words. Then I can tell you what I think, and we can go from there?”
“No problem. I can do that. Let’s start from the beginning. It’s like this. My family on Mummy’s side is terribly grand, Mr. Haywood. Our branch of the family is one of the less well-off ones unfortunately, but there are landed estates and aristocrats if you look back—the whole damned shooting match. Don’t really see much of them all now of course, but families are like that, aren’t they? I am sure that I am related to all sorts of impressive people. Anyway, when I was eighteen, I started receiving money from something called the Darcy Trust. Mummy does too and my cousin on her side, Jennifer. It turns out that all of the women in Mummy’s family get money from it. Mummy has been getting it ever since she was eighteen. It is a pretty penny too, I can tell you. Over the years…well…it has paid for quite a lot.”
She blinked, and he knew that she had wanted to say more but thought better of it. Running her manicured hand along the groove at the edge of his desk, she continued.
“Anyway, until very recently, I didn’t know all that much about it. I just got the money, and I was bloody glad of it. Then Mummy said that her Aunt Mary was on her last legs with cancer, and she really wanted to see her before she died. Now, I hadn’t seen Aunt Mary since I was a child, but a trip to Scotland didn’t sound too shabby, and Mummy really wanted some company, so along I went. I suppose that it was a bit grim at times, but it wasn’t too bad. Aunt Mary’s place was lovely—really gorgeous—and my bedroom had a super view. Anyway, it was pretty obvious that she was very ill, and we spent a few days with her talking about the old days and family history and all of that, you know?”
He nodded, but of course, he didn’t know. Miss Carter crossed her legs and leaned towards him, sipping awkwardly from her cup.
“She was really into it—family history, I mean. She seemed to know all sorts—more than me, and I know a bit. Told us all about the war and other times as well, much further back. She was amazing, really, when you think of her age and her health. It was one morning just after breakfast. Mummy was having a potter around the garden, and I had just made myself a coffee. I didn’t have anything else to do, so I sat with Aunt Mary and asked her if she’d like some help with her crossword. She looked me squarely in the face and said, ‘Victoria Darcy wasn’t his daughter you know. Nobody was allowed to say, but it was the truth.’ I was completely foxed, but she looked as if she was saying something important. So, I put down my coffee, took her frail old hand, and said, ‘Come again, Aunt Mary?’ It was then that she told me about the Darcy Trust. It turns out that it was started by some long-dead relation of ours, Fitzwilliam Darcy. He had five daughters and set up a trust to benefit his female descendants. Only that’s just the thing. One of the daughters, this Victoria, wasn’t his daughter at all. Born on the wrong side of the bed sheets, and somehow his wife passed it off. Did the dirty and got away with it. Apparently, according to Aunt Mary, there has always been talk about it in the family, but nobody ever actually did anything about it, but people knew.”
“Do you know when this was, Miss Carter?”
“Sure. Victoria Darcy was born in 1821.”
“1821?”
“Yes. I did a bit of research. I hope you’re impressed, Mr. Haywood?” He resisted the temptation to laugh but smiled at her instead. “Charlie, please.”
“Charlie.” She seemed to pass the word around in her mouth. “Anyway, the upshot is that this Victoria and all of her daughters and granddaughters and so on are not real Darcys. If they are getting money from the trust, then they bloody well shouldn’t be. That’s what I’m here about.”
So she was a greedy one. There were the greedy ones, the resentful ones, the mad ones, the campaigning ones, and the ones who had too much money and not enough to do. She was definitely a greedy one.
“So, this Fitzwilliam Darcy—he was married?”
“Yes, he was married.”
“Do you know anything else about him or his wife?”
“No, that is why I have come to you.”
She looked suddenly aggressive, and Charlie reflected that she didn’t have much of a “middle gear” when it came to being aggravated.
“And do you know whether or not Victoria Darcy has any living female descendants? People who are alive and receiving money from the trust?”
“Yes. Well, Aunt Mary actually told me that. She said that the only people left in Victoria’s line were the “Pemberton girls.” I didn’t know that I had any relations called Pemberton, but there you are. Anyway, these people, whoever they are, are getting money that they shouldn’t be getting.”
“Have you seen a lawyer about this, Miss Carter?”
“Cressida, please.”
She leaned further towards him and fiddled with her watch. He noticed that she was too thin and wondered how hard she worked at it.
“Have you seen a lawyer about this, Cressida?”
“Yes, I have. I went straight to our family solicitor in Shropshire. He has been great actually. He dug out the trust document, and we looked at it together. He advised me that if Victoria Darcy were not really the daughter of Fitzwilliam Darcy then she and her descendants definitely should not be getting any money. He said that we would be able to challenge it and get them excluded. More buns for the rest of us. Only problem he said was that we need to prove it, and that is why I’ve come to you.”
Charlie took a deep breath and put the lid back on his fountain pen without writing anything down. He considered noting “Victoria Darcy, born 1821” on his pad but couldn’t see the point. He had been sent on some wild goose chases in his time. More often than not, he had to listen to a crazy story or two from his clients. He had been through people’s bins and hidden behind moss-cloaked garden walls. He had hacked into people’s voice mails and followed their cars to their lovers’ houses down country lanes and sodium-lit streets. He had dredged through the contents of stolen laptops, dragging his tired eyes over file upon file of holiday snaps and letters and nonsense. He had read through thousands of pages of bank statements, telephone transcripts, and court documents. He was good—really good. If a secret was there, Charlie Haywood would find it. But he had never been asked to bust somebody for adultery nearly two hundred years after it had occurred.
“Right. Thanks. That is an amazing story, Cressida. You probably don’t need me to tell you that it is rather unusual.
I am going to need to go away and do a bit of background research because, well, I’m sure you realise that what you are asking me to look at is a long way in the past. Paternity disputes are a different thing these days, of course. We have DNA testing and so on. And when people are still alive, somebody always knows, somebody will always talk. Do you know what I mean?”
She nodded, but he was not at all sure she was following him.
“But when it comes to this Victoria Darcy—well you are talking about a woman who was born nearly two hundred years ago. I am going to need to do some serious rooting around just to work out the basics of who she was and who her family were. I am going to want to see that trust document and learn all about this Fitzwilliam Darcy and his family. Once I have done that, we can think about how we might go about uncovering the truth of Victoria’s paternity. I’m afraid there aren’t any guarantees here. This is a tricky one. The plain hard truth is that it might be impossible to prove that Victoria wasn’t his daughter. You might spend a lot of money and get nowhere. Do you understand that, Cressida?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“And you will take the risk?”
“Yeah, I’ll take the risk.” She tilted her head and smiled. “I reckon it’s going to pay off.”
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