“Once may be chance. Twice may be ill luck. But thrice? Thrice, lad, is malice.”

1811. Calcutta. Fitzwilliam Darcy of His Majesty’s War and Colonial Office is stewing in the humid heat, when word comes that his father is dead. He must return to England immediately to take up his inheritance.

Pemberley.

The great house in Derbyshire that has never been his home. Instead, it’s home to the stepmother and half-siblings, Hugh and Georgiana, whom he barely knows.

Pemberley is his now, but an atmosphere of resentment and anger threads through every room. He isn’t welcome. His stepmother is cool towards him, Hugh hates ‘the usurper’… and when a series of incidents threaten Darcy’s life, the only people he can trust are John Reid, his right-hand man throughout his career; Charles Bingley, his aide in India; George Wickham, his cousin and Pemberley’s steward; and Elizabeth Bennet, his stepmother’s penniless niece.

Who is trying to kill him? Will the visit of the Bingley family frighten off the enemy, or just provide more opportunities to get rid of the new master of Pemberley? Most of all, can Darcy and Elizabeth come to an understanding that will, finally, make Pemberley feel like home?

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Elizabeth chuckled, and let the discussion of her health lapse. Far more important matters needed resolution. “Aunt, is it a convenient day for my returning to Pemberley, with Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy expected this evening? Should I retire? I am not family to him.”

“You are family to us. No, Lizzy. I want you with me.” Aunt Darcy pressed her hand again and released her hold.

“I know whom I would sooner have,” grumbled Hugh from his chair at the fireside. “It is past six. I pray Fitzwilliam does not intend to impose Town hours upon Pemberley, Mamma. That would be insupportable.”

Aunt Darcy had returned to her needlework, and did not take her gaze from her deft fingers, though she turned slightly to slant the linen in its frame towards the windows to catch more light. “I am sure he would not wish to inconvenience the family in such trivial ways. Depend upon it, there is some delay upon the road.”

Elizabeth glanced at the windows where the raindrops dashed themselves against the glass. “Ill weather for it.”

“Should I send grooms down the Buxton road?” George, too, looked towards the world beyond the house. “The rain has been heavy for days, and the last I heard, the streams are running high and fast. The road at Smalldale may have been washed out.”

“It would not be the first time.” Hugh twisted in his chair to stare out the windowpanes. “Perhaps—”

A hubbub of voices in the Great Hall brought Hugh to a sudden silence. The footman outside partly opened the drawing-room door, enough for them to hear clearly a calm, deep voice saying to the butler, “But of course, you are Reynolds, are you not? Is your wife still housekeeper? Excellent. Can you see to Mr Reid’s comfort, please? He is to be quartered near the senior staff.”

An indistinguishable murmur from Reynolds.

“Excellent. Thank you, Reynolds. Where is the family?”

Aunt Darcy slipped her needle into the linen and laid the embroidery frame on a side table with unhurried care. Georgiana gave out a squeak, then flushed at the glance her mother gave her, and straightened up in her chair. Hugh, though, settled lower into his and hunched his shoulders, staring into the fire rather than betray any interest in the doings beyond the drawing room. The rest rose to their feet and turned towards the door.

The footman opened it wide. The stiff-faced young man of the gallery portrait stood on the threshold, well dressed, with a black band around his upper arm to signify mourning. He was taller and broader than his portrait suggested, youthful seriousness having given way to the stern mien of a man who had seen and done much. His face bore a resemblance both to Hugh’s and his late father’s in shape and features, particularly in the depth of their dark blue eyes, but in his case was very much browned by hot suns. Unmistakably a Darcy, albeit one damp about the edges.

Hugh rose slowly. George hesitated, looking between Aunt Darcy and Hugh for a sign that either or both would greet their errant son and brother. Both were silent and grave. But the man in the doorway strode into the room with all the confidence of ownership.

“George Wickham! Good Lord, it has been an age.”

He held out his hand, and, hesitating no longer, George came forward and took it.

“Welcome home at last,” George said.

His gaze shifting to his stepmother and her family, Fitzwilliam Darcy curved his mouth into the thinnest of smiles, and bowed.