E lizabeth took her seat in the music room, smoothing her skirts as Mr. Smithson removed a small notebook and pencil from his jacket. His movements were deliberate, methodical—everything about him struck her as coldly efficient, which seemed at odds with his type of employment.
I had expected someone more… rough; coarse, even.
Darcy sat across from her, his back rigid, his gaze locked onto the insurance agent with a barely concealed disdain radiating from his tense posture.
Smithson flipped to the middle of his book and poised his pencil above it. “Miss Elizabeth, I would like you to tell me—in as much detail as possible—about how you became aware of the fire for the first time. I understand it was the middle of the night?”
Elizabeth met his gaze steadily. “Yes, something woke me up during the night, and I could smell the faintest aroma of smoke, so I decided to investigate.”
“What caused you to awaken?”
“I have not the slightest idea.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Then you just… awoke and smelled smoke before anyone else in the household?”
She bristled at the disbelief in his voice. “Yes, really.”
“You are quite certain?”
“Of course.”
“Why do you believe that is?”
She resisted the urge to sigh. “Because I am particularly sensitive to scents. It is something of a family joke, in fact. My younger cousins and I play a game where I attempt to identify our dinner courses by smell alone before they reach the table. I can show you if you would like.”
To her surprise, Smithson did not ask her to prove it. He barely acknowledged the statement at all. Instead, he simply nodded and continued writing.
Elizabeth tilted her head. How very odd. Most people, upon learning of her peculiar ability, expressed either curiosity or disbelief—and almost uniformly requested her to display her talent. Yet this man was utterly uninterested.
“After you smelled the smoke, what did you do next?”
“I walked around the house to see if a candle had been left burning, or if a fireplace had been left to smoke. I discovered nothing, so I began to return to my room. Then I looked out the upstairs window and saw the flames in the distance.”
“And then?”
“Then I woke my uncle and showed him. He told me to wake the servants while he collected my aunt and our various belongings.”
Smithson made a small noise and scribbled something down. “And from there?”
“We attempted to cross the bridge, but the sheer number of people had made it impassable. It was a bottleneck, with people fighting to get through. We turned back and headed toward Hyde Park, believing it to be a safer option.”
And left them all to die .
The sentiment went unspoken, but the heaviness of the loss of life hung in the air. Smithson cleared his throat. “It seems like it was the sensible thing to do. Between the smoke, the flames, and the crowds, hundreds died.”
“I know—I… I read the news articles afterwards.”
Her voice broke slightly, remembering the chaos of that night—the screams, the suffocating heat, the press of bodies desperate to escape. Even now, she could recall the acrid scent of burning timber and the eerie glow of the flames consuming everything in their path.
And yet we survived. Instead of relief, Elizabeth felt nothing but guilt. Why were we so blessed? What made us so special?
Smithson, however, seemed utterly unaffected. He simply nodded, his pencil scratching across the paper. “Did you encounter anyone on your way to the park?”
Elizabeth took a steadying breath. “Many people. The streets were crowded with those attempting to flee.”
“But did you speak to anyone in particular?”
She frowned. “There was a young woman. She had a baby with her.”
Smithson’s pencil stopped moving. He slowly lifted his head, his gaze pinning her with an intensity that sent a flicker of unease down her spine.
“A woman with a baby,” he repeated. “Tell me everything about her.”
Elizabeth hesitated, glancing at Darcy. He had been silent throughout most of the interview, but now he sat upright, watching the agent closely.
Her cheeks warmed. “Her name was Meg. She was… she was a lady of the night.”
Smithson showed no reaction, but she could feel his attention sharpen.
“Describe her.”
“She was young. Perhaps no older than I. I did not quite realize what her profession was until later… she was simply standing in the middle of the street, a dazed expression on her face, a baby crying in his arms. She was in shock.”
“And her baby? Describe her baby.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “He was very small, perhaps only a few months old. Dark hair, pale skin. He was dressed in a simple gown, nothing particularly fine, but clean. But he was not her baby… that is, she said she was watching him for her neighbor, who had run away.”
Smithson’s pencil moved rapidly over the page. “Who was his mother, then? How did the women get him?”
She frowned. Why is he so interested? What does this have to do with my uncle’s house burning?
“I took the baby from her and told her to come with us. She followed us to the park, and then a man came. I think…” Her cheeks grew hot. “I think he was her… protector.”
“But the baby? Who was the mother?”
“If you would let me finish.” Her words were clipped and angry. “Meg told the man—she called him Sam—that she was trying to find Deena to give her the baby back, but Sam said that Deena was dead.”
“Deena? You are certain?” Smithson was now scribbling furiously in his notebook. “What happened to her?”
“I do not understand,” Elizabeth said in annoyance. “I was under the impression that you would be asking me questions about the fire and how we knew to leave early. What do these women and the baby have to do with anything? How is it relevant?”
Smithson glowered at her down his long nose. “I will be the one to judge whether or not information is pertinent to our investigation, Miss Elizabeth—not you. Now, what became of the baby?”
Elizabeth hesitated. Smithson’s expression sharpened and he repeated, “What became of the child, Miss Elizabeth?”
Her lips parted. “My aunt and uncle offered to care for the baby—”
“I think that is enough.”
Darcy’s voice cut through the room, low and firm.
Elizabeth turned to him in surprise. He was watching Smithson with narrowed eyes, his body taut with tension.
Smithson’s own expression hardened. “Everything is important. I need to know exactly—”
“Other than Miss Elizabeth’s initial discovery of a fire, anything else that occurred is, quite frankly, none of your business,” Darcy said coolly.
The agent’s lips thinned. “That is not for you to decide, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s eyes darkened. “On the contrary. I am well acquainted with most of the major insurance companies and their underwriters, having contemplated investing in reinsurance. I am also the nephew of the Earl of Matlock, who has considerable influence in such matters.” He leaned forward slightly. “Perhaps you might inform me, sir, under which company’s authority you are conducting this investigation?”
Smithson stiffened. “That is not your concern.”
“It is precisely my concern.”
Darcy’s voice was low, even—but it rang with a kind of authority that seemed to echo off the walls. Elizabeth had never heard him speak quite like that before, with such quiet, formidable control. There was no bluster, no raised tone. And yet the very air in the room seemed to still in deference to it.
A charged silence followed. Smithson’s fingers whitened around his notebook, his jaw tight. But he did not challenge the assertion. After a long, simmering moment, he snapped the book shut and stood abruptly.
“I believe I have everything I need,” he said stiffly.
Without a backward glance, he turned and strode from the room, his boots clicking sharply against the floorboards.
Elizabeth let out the breath she had not realized she was holding, her spine softening against the back of her chair. Her heart, which had been thudding uncomfortably, now raced for an entirely different reason.
She turned to Darcy. He had not moved. He stood tall, shoulders set, eyes fixed on the empty doorway with such intensity that she wondered if he was willing the man to return so he could strike him down with words alone.
Her voice came out quieter than she expected. “What was that all about?”
He exhaled slowly, his jaw still taut. “That,” he said grimly, “is precisely what I intend to find out.”
Elizabeth stared at him, the warmth still rushing through her limbs. She was not sure what unsettled her more—the momentary confrontation or the deep, unfamiliar flutter in her chest that followed in its wake. There was something deeply arresting about the way he had spoken, the way he had shielded her without so much as touching her. Something in her stirred, low and electric.
She glanced away, fingers tightening on her skirts. Best not to dwell on it. And yet… her skin tingled where his presence lingered close beside her.
Once back in the drawing room, Darcy’s thoughts were still occupied with the unsettling interrogation that had just occurred. Smithson’s sharp questioning, his fixation on the baby, and his immediate withdrawal when pressed about his employer left an uneasy feeling lodged in Darcy’s chest.
Unfortunately, that additional pressure was aggravating his lungs.
Mrs. Gardiner looked up at their entrance, her sharp gaze sweeping over them. “Well?” she asked, setting down her teacup. “How did it go? And where is Mr. Smithson?”
Elizabeth took her seat beside her aunt with a sigh. “He left rather abruptly after Mr. Darcy pressed him for the contact information of the company he represents.”
Mrs. Gardiner’s brows lifted, and she turned to Darcy. “Oh?”
Darcy merely inclined his head, knowing that any attempt to speak it would provoke a coughing fit.
You are weak, his father’s voice echoed in his head. A disgrace to the Darcy line.
Elizabeth must have sensed his predicament, taking it upon herself to explain further. “He refused to discuss his employer, which—given his line of questioning—seems quite suspicious.”
Mrs. Gardiner blinked in confusion. “What do you mean, his line of questioning?”
“Well, based on what you said, I had expected him to be interested in how we knew to flee so early. I was prepared to defend myself and provide evidence of how I could have smelled the smoke sooner than many others.”
“But he was not?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, he barely asked me any questions about that. Instead, he became fixated on Meg and Benjamin. He demanded to know everything—what he looked like, where his mother was, and where he is now.”
“That is unsettling.” Mrs. Gardiner’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Well, at least he is not staying at Stoke Estate.”
“Why would he stay with you?”
Darcy, Elizabeth, and Mrs. Gardiner turned startled eyes towards the questioner. Miss Bingley had apparently been listening closely to the discussion.
No doubt attempting to glean scandalous gossip of some sort , Darcy thought cynically.
He stifled a chuckle when he saw Elizabeth’s eyebrows fly high up on her head. To his surprise, it was Mrs. Bennet who responded to the question.
“Perhaps you are not yet acquainted with the customs of estate owners, as your brother is merely leasing an estate,” she said, “but it is quite common landed members of the gentry to offer lodging to travelers, particularly when business is involved.”
Miss Bingley bristled at the insinuation, and Darcy struggled to contain his mirth at the vulgar Mrs. Bennet lecturing the more socially refined young lady about propriety.
“Precisely,” Mrs. Gardiner said, nodding her head. “I remember my father being prevailed upon many times for housing while I was growing up on his estate. However, Mr. Smithson—” she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “—did not strike me as the sort of man I wished to extend such hospitality to.”
Miss Bingley opened her mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it and pressed her lips together.
Mrs. Gardiner turned back to Elizabeth, her expression softening. “I do not wish to dwell on unpleasant topics. We will be hosting a small card party tomorrow evening, and I should be delighted if you would all attend.”
Elizabeth’s face lit up at the invitation but then hesitated. “I would love to, Aunt, but Jane—”
“Oh, Miss Bennet shall be quite well looked after,” Miss Bingley cut in smoothly, clearly eager for any excuse to avoid an evening in Meryton. “I shall be happy to remain with her.”
Darcy nearly gaped as Miss Bingley fluttered her eyelashes at him. The idea of spending an evening alone at Netherfield nearly made him gag. “I shall accompany you, Miss Elizabeth, to your aunt’s card party if you would like.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped toward him, her eyes wide. “You shall?”
He inclined his head. “Yes. I find myself with a vested interest in speaking further with your aunt and uncle.” He turned to Mrs. Gardiner. “I should like to learn more about your connection to my mother.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave him a long, searching look, then nodded. “I should be happy to tell you what I know.”
Miss Bingley looked aghast at this development, but there was nothing she could do about the situation now, having already committed to remaining home. To change her mind at this point would make her look much too forward.
Bingley, who had been listening with increasing interest, suddenly looked thoughtful. “If Miss Bennet should need anything, it might be best if I stay behind as well.” He turned to Miss Bingley. “That way, you would not be alone in keeping her company.”
Mrs. Gardiner rose to her feet, preparing to take her leave. “Then it is settled. We shall expect Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy tomorrow, along with the Hursts, if they should like to attend.”
Mrs. Hurst looked peevish, but Mr. Hurst spoke up. “We would be delighted, thank you.” He fixed his wife with a severe look, and she eventually nodded her acquiescence.
Mrs. Gardiner rose to her feet, preparing to take her leave. “Then it is settled. We shall expect you all tomorrow evening.”
Darcy stood as well, watching as Mrs. Bennet fluttered over Jane one last time before finally departing with Mrs. Gardiner.
As soon as they were gone, Miss Bingley turned to Darcy with an incredulous laugh. “You surprise me, sir. A card party in Meryton? That is hardly your usual preference.”
Darcy met her gaze evenly. “A man cannot always be predictable, Miss Bingley.”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, but he had already turned away, his mind returning to the disconcerting interview with Mr. Smithson. Something about the man sat ill with him, and Darcy had no intention of letting the matter rest.
∞∞∞
The remainder of the day passed smoothly. Mr. Jones called the following morning to check on Jane’s ankle, which he declared to be healing satisfactorily. “I daresay only a few more days before it is well enough for you to return to Longbourn,” he pronounced before wrapping the swollen limb with fresh bandages.
“Mr. Bingley has been kind enough to provide ice,” Jane said with a faint blush, “and I have been keeping it elevated on pillows.”
“Excellent. Continue to do so, and you will be as good as new in no time.”
Elizabeth had been feeling guilty about planning to attend her aunt’s card party that evening, but Mr. Jones’s visit eased her mind considerably.
When the time arrived, she piled into Bingley’s carriage with the Hursts and Darcy, with the men on one bench and the women across them on the opposite. Darcy’s long legs brushed up against hers as the carriage lumbered through the Hertfordshire roads.
She did her best to focus on the conversation between the Hursts, but each time Darcy’s knee rubbed against hers, she completely lost focus. She stole a glance at him, but his expression was as impassive as ever, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the window. Yet, the rigid set of his jaw and the way his gloved hands rested stiffly on his thighs suggested that he was not as unaffected as he appeared.
The Hursts, oblivious to any undercurrents between their companions, spoke of their plans to return to London before Christmas. “Netherfield is pleasant enough,” Mrs. Hurst was saying, “but there is no society here. At least in town, one can always expect some form of amusement.”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. She suspected Mrs. Hurst’s definition of “amusement” involved very little beyond card tables and idle gossip, but she refrained from commenting.
“I suppose you will travel to Pemberley this winter, Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Hurst asked lazily.
Darcy hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I have not yet decided.”
Elizabeth noted his reluctance with interest. Was he debating a return to London, despite its current dangers? Or was there something else keeping him here in Hertfordshire longer than he had originally intended?
The carriage soon pulled into the drive of Stoke Estate, the warm glow of candlelight spilling from the windows. As a footman opened the door, Elizabeth stepped down eagerly, glad to escape the close quarters.
The party quickly entered the house, eager to be out of the frigid November air. After greetings had been exchanged, Elizabeth found herself at a card table with Mrs. Gardiner, Kitty, and Darcy. This is certainly an interesting group , she thought with amusement. Poor Kitty looks absolutely terrified to be sitting down next to such a somber man!
Mrs. Gardiner shuffled the deck and smiled at Darcy as she dealt the cards. “I appreciate you joining us this evening, Mr. Darcy. It gives Elizabeth and opportunity to get out and socialize as opposed to staying at Jane’s side.”
“It is no trouble at all to tend to my sister,” Elizabeth protested.
“Miss Elizabeth has done an admirable job with her sister’s care,” Darcy said. “Miss Bennet is fortunate indeed to have such a caring sibling.”
Elizabeth blinked, startled. She glanced at him sharply, but his face was composed, his tone perfectly neutral—as if he had not just offered her the most sincere compliment she had ever received from him.
Mrs. Gardiner, clearly amused, gave her niece a sidelong smile as she passed out the final card. “You’ve not changed much, Lizzy. Always pretending to bristle at praise while secretly storing it away.”
Elizabeth gave a huff of laughter. “And you, Aunt, are far too knowing. Let us focus on the cards instead of sketching my character, shall we?”
As the game commenced, Mrs. Gardiner made a casual remark about her childhood, prompting Darcy to inquire further.
“My father owned an estate in Derbyshire,” she explained as she placed a card on the table. “It was not nearly so grand as Pemberley, but it was home. Unfortunately, he passed when I was twelve, and the estate was entailed away to my uncle—his much younger brother. You perhaps know him, Mr. Darcy—the master of Longbourn.”
Darcy looked up sharply. “You mean Mr. Baldwin? He is your uncle ?”
Mrs. Gardiner nodded. “Indeed. He was quite newly married at the time, with no children. My mother and I were, of course, forced to leave. I was sent to a finishing school in London, and it was there that I met my husband.”
“I do know Baldwin, though not well,” Darcy admitted. “He has always kept much to himself.”
Mrs. Gardiner let out a soft, wry laugh. “Yes, that sounds like him. A reserved man, but not unkind. He simply had little interest in family matters that did not concern his direct household.”
Elizabeth, sensing Darcy was uncertain how to respond to such an open display of private information, was eager to change the focus of conversation. “I believe, Aunt, that you mentioned knowing Mr. Darcy’s late mother?”
“Yes, I met her a few times.”
Darcy leaned forward eagerly as Mrs. Gardiner continued. “She was a lovely woman—so gracious and kind. A delicate lady, to be sure, but she cared deeply for those around her. She used what strength she had to see to the well-being of her tenants and the poor. I recall one winter when an entire family nearly perished from exposure—she personally ensured they were housed and cared for.”
Darcy, uncharacteristically quiet, merely nodded. Elizabeth watched him carefully. There was something in his expression—something softer, more vulnerable.
Before she could say anything more, a sudden commotion from the hallway disrupted the moment. The murmur of conversation stilled as a footman entered, his face pale. He moved swiftly to Mr. Gardiner’s side and whispered something in his ear.
Mr. Gardiner’s face paled instantly. Rising to his feet, he crossed quickly to his wife and murmured something too low for Elizabeth to hear.
Mrs. Gardiner gasped and immediately stood as well. “The nursery?”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt into her throat. “The children—what happened?”
Mr. Gardiner’s jaw tightened. “An intruder was caught trying to force his way into the nursery.”
Elizabeth was already halfway out of her seat before he finished. “I am coming.”
“And I,” said Darcy, rising as well.
They followed the Gardiners swiftly into the hall, where two burly footmen were holding a struggling man between them. Elizabeth recognized him at once.
“Mr. Smithson!” she gasped.
The man’s face was twisted in fury, his coat torn at the shoulder. He did not speak—only thrashed and kicked against his captors.
“What were you doing near the nursery?” Mr. Gardiner demanded.
Smithson glared. “None of your business.”
“It most certainly is my business!” Gardiner snapped. “That’s my family’s private quarters! You were not invited to this house—nor were you permitted upstairs!”
Mrs. Gardiner looked like she might faint.
Darcy stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous. “Why were you here?”
Still Smithson said nothing.
“I am sending for the constable,” Mr. Gardiner said. “You will answer for this attempt to harm my children.”
“Sir William is the magistrate, and he is here tonight,” Elizabeth reminded her uncle. “We should have him join us as well.”
At that, Smithson gave a violent jerk and broke free. One of the footmen slipped on the polished floor, and in the next instant, Smithson was bolting for the door. Guests in the corridor cried out in alarm, but he was gone before anyone could react.
“Get after him!” Mr. Gardiner bellowed, but it was already too late.
Everyone stood frozen in stunned silence. Mrs. Gardiner clutched her husband’s arm, white-faced. Kitty peeked nervously from the doorway.
Mr. Gardiner clenched his fists. “That man will pay for this.”