No, his aunt’s welcome had little to do with the maintenance or profitability of Rosings and more, much more, to do with her expectations of him in regard to her daughter, Anne. He very sincerely pitied his cousin Anne and wished her well in health and situation, but he did not so pity her that he was in any way willing to provide her a means of escape through an offer of marriage. Aunt Catherine might smile and hint until Doomsday, but —

“Darcy, what is that bit that you keep stroking at?”

“What!” Darcy brought his wandering mind back within the confines of the coach.

Fitzwilliam had laid aside the newspaper and now motioned toward his hand. “In your waistcoat pocket. And do not tell me it is nothing! I have noticed you fingering it lo, these several months, and it is driving me to distraction.”

“This?” Darcy could feel the heat of the flush upon his face as he drew out the embroidery threads, now ragged and fragile from his repeated fondling. Blast Richard! How was he to explain them?

“You’ve taken up sewing?” Fitzwilliam teased upon seeing the coil. Darcy pulled a face at him and tucked them back into his waistcoat. “Come, come, Darcy! It is a lady’s token, surely; and you must now tell me the particulars.” He rubbed his hands together vigorously. “For Father Inquisitor will not rest until all is confessed. Shall I call for the thumbscrews?”

“Rogue!”

“Father Inquisitor Rogue to you.” Fitzwilliam laughed but would not be dissuaded. Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he said, “From the beginning now.”

Darcy leveled a look at his cousin calculated to freeze the blood in his veins. Inured to the familiar tactic, Richard quickly arranged his features, seeing his look and then raising it by the addition of a crooked eyebrow. “From the beginning,” Richard intoned again and in a terrible voice reminiscent of his redoubtable father. “Quickly now, or I shall begin to think it is something serious!”