Page 1 of The Earl’s Second Chance

CHAPTER ONE

The Black-Edged Letter

Three days after Mr. Bingley’s party quitted Netherfield Park, a letter edged in black was placed beside Mr. Bennet’s coffee.

Longbourn had been dull since the departure. Jane bore her disappointment with such sweetness that only Elizabeth understood its depth. Mrs. Bennet had alternated between declaring Mr. Bingley faithless and insisting that he must return before Christmas. Lydia and Kitty had found consolation in officers, ribbons, and speculation. Mary had found it in a sermon upon resignation, which she read aloud until her father escaped to his library.

The seal upon the letter was unfamiliar but imposing. Mr. Bennet broke it, expecting another distant relation’s death and perhaps a request for a small subscription toward a monument.

By the time he reached the second paragraph, the cup in his hand had grown cold.

The Right Honourable Algernon Thomas Bennet, seventh Earl of Herfershire, was dead. His only son had predeceased him; his grandson had died without issue; and the solicitors of Pritchard, Hale, and Wexler required the immediate attendance of Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, the late earl’s second cousin and successor under a special family settlement confirmed by the Crown.

The letter was courteous, precise, and impossible.

Mr. Bennet read it three times. Then he turned to the enclosed abstract. He was named heir to the title, the London house in Grosvenor Square, Herfershire Hall and its lands, several smaller properties, investments producing nearly forty thousand pounds per annum, and a seat in the House of Lords. The title carried a special remainder: failing a son born to Thomas Bennet, it would descend to the eldest legitimate son born of any of his daughters, precedence among those grandsons being determined by the seniority of their mothers.

Mr. Collins was nowhere mentioned.

For perhaps the first time in twenty years, Mr. Bennet did not find absurdity comforting.

He locked the papers in his desk and sent for Hill.

“Have my trunk packed for London. I shall leave within the hour.”

Hill stared. “Is there illness, sir?”

“A death.”

Mrs. Bennet met him in the hall before he could reach the carriage. “London? Without a word? Mr. Bennet, you delight in tormenting me. Is it about Bingley? You must find him. You must insist—”

“It is not about Mr. Bingley.”

Something in his face silenced her.

He looked at his wife—really looked. Fanny’s beauty had softened with five confinements and years of worry. He had long treated her fears as a private comedy, though he knew those fears had a rational root: his death would dispossess her and their daughters. He had despised the noise of her anxiety while doing almost nothing to remove its cause.

“I must settle a family matter,” he said more gently. “I shall write when I know what may be said with certainty.”

“But when will you return?”

“Within a week, I hope.”

Elizabeth came down the stairs, already tying the ribbons of her bonnet. “Papa, may I walk with you to the lane?”

He almost refused out of habit. Instead, he offered his arm.

Outside, the morning was sharp and silver. Elizabeth waited until they had passed the windows before saying, “You look as though the world has shifted beneath you.”

“A melodramatic observation.”

“Perhaps. But not an inaccurate one.”

He smiled faintly. It was the sort of answer he had always rewarded in her and discouraged in Mary, ignored in Kitty, mocked in Lydia, and failed to invite from Jane. How carelessly he had divided his affection.

“Take care of your mother,” he said. “And of your sisters.”

Elizabeth studied him. “I always do.”