A s the door closed behind Elizabeth, Darcy ran a hand over his face and slowly crossed to the window where Colonel Fitzwilliam stood.
The view beyond was unremarkable—just a haze of winter-dulled fields and hedgerows—but Darcy did not even stop to spare it a first glance.
Instead, he hissed in a low voice, “What the devil was that?”
The colonel’s arms were crossed as he leaned against the windowsill, eyes still watching the horizon. “Not quite the outcome I was aiming for,” he murmured.
“I warned you,” Darcy said, barely restraining himself. “Miss Elizabeth is no empty-headed debutante, eager to be flattered by a red coat and vague assurances. She sees through more than most.”
The colonel turned, brow raised. “That much is clear. She’s sharp as a tack—and fiercely protective. I can see why you admire her.”
Darcy glared at him. “Then you also see that you will not be able to learn anything or make any progress into your investigation unless you tell her the truth.”
The colonel pressed his lips together tightly. “My superiors would have me hung for treason. It was difficult enough for me to confide in you, and I have known you my entire life. You’ve known her for… what, a month?”
“That’s long enough for me to know she is one of the most honorable, trustworthy young ladies with whom I am acquainted.”
There was a pause before the colonel said more softly, “You care for her.”
Darcy did not deny it. “I do.”
“And what do you intend to do about it?”
“I do not know,” Darcy admitted, his voice nearly a whisper. “You saw her face. That distrust was not only for you.”
The colonel sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I do not know, Fitz. You know what is at stake. I cannot afford to take risks.”
“Yes, but you also cannot make any progress forward if you do not have the information you need, and she has it.”
“There are other ways. I am sure she’s confided in others, like friends.”
Darcy looked at his cousin with a hint of disdain. “And how long will that take, to establish those relationships and ask questions without raising suspicion? Weeks? Months? You said yourself yesterday that time is of the essence.”
The colonel sighed quietly, and Darcy pressed on. “Miss Elizabeth is well liked here. If she distrusts you, she will not hesitate to make it known to her friends. That will significantly hinder your progress as well.”
“If I tell her,” the colonel said slowly, “and it’s the wrong move, it could end everything.”
“And if you do not,” Darcy said, voice hardening, “you will lose any chance of finding out the truth—about Smithson, about Benjamin, all of it. And I—” He stopped, jaw tightening.
“You will lose her,” the colonel finished.
Darcy nodded once. “Please, Fitzwilliam, just tell her.”
A long pause followed, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. At last, the colonel exhaled slowly. “All right. When she comes back down, the three of us will go for a walk—where we cannot be overheard.”
Darcy gave a curt nod. “Do not make a mess of this. If you do, you will not only lose me her good opinion—” his voice dropped, dangerously low “—you will cost us the only chance we have of finding out the truth.”
A voice cut through the quiet behind them.
“What truth?”
Both men turned sharply. Elizabeth stood just inside the room, her eyes dark and unreadable.
∞∞∞
After her confrontation with Darcy, Elizabeth took Benjamin to the nursery, her hands shaking slightly as she ascended the stairs. The baby was already drifting off, his small face pressed against her shoulder, one hand fisted into the collar of her gown.
What is so special about you, Benjamin, that has so many strangers interested in you?
In the nursery, she passed him gently to the nurse, who accepted him with practiced hands and a quiet smile.
But Elizabeth did not smile back.
“I want him watched at all times,” she said, her voice low but firm. “No one—no maid, no footman, no relative—is to remove him from this room unless I give permission. Not even my parents or sisters.”
The nurse blinked, her brows rising, but the seriousness in Elizabeth’s expression left no room for argument. “Yes, miss,” she said, nodding. “With what has happened, I understand.”
Elizabeth hovered at the doorway for a moment longer, watching the woman settle Benjamin into the cradle. The child’s breathing was already even and slow. He looked so peaceful, untouched by the chaos and fear that clung to her like a second skin.
If only I could be that untroubled.
She turned away, closing the nursery door with care, and descended the stairs slowly. Doubt churned inside her. She had trusted Darcy instinctively—had trusted him from the moment he defended her from Mr. Smithson, from the way he had held her in the firelight, supported her when she had almost fainted with shock. And yet now…
Why is his cousin so very interested in Benjamin?
Elizabeth paused at the threshold of the drawing room, her hand resting on the doorframe. What had passed between the two men after she left? Had Darcy tried to defend her—or was he as entangled in this web of secrets as Colonel Fitzwilliam clearly was?
She stepped in, unnoticed, just in time to hear Darcy’s low, urgent voice: “Do not make a mess of this. If you do, you will not only lose me her good opinion—you will cost us the only chance we have of finding out the truth.”
“What truth?” she asked, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.
Both men whirled around. Their expressions—equal parts shock and guilt—told her enough.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward first, his manner suddenly all charming affability again. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “might we trouble you for a walk? The air is fine and brisk, and I find fresh air clears the head for serious discussions.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to the window. The weather was, at best, inhospitable—cold, gray, and blustery. She raised an eyebrow. “I believe I would prefer to remain indoors,” she said coolly. Her gaze shifted deliberately to Bingley and Jane, who were still seated near the hearth, engrossed in conversation.
Darcy and the colonel followed her line of sight—and looked appropriately chastened to realize they had forgotten they were not alone.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s smile slipped. “Miss Elizabeth, this is no small matter. I am prepared to tell you more than I have ever told anyone outside my orders. But it cannot be overheard.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “There is a murderer on the loose, Colonel. For all I know, you arrived at Netherfield just this morning to invent an alibi. It’s possible you arrived earlier but are only now making your presence known.” Her voice was even, but the tension behind it made Darcy flinch.
The colonel’s eyes darkened, but before he could speak, Darcy stepped forward. “A compromise, then,” he said carefully. “We shall walk, but within sight of the drawing room windows. A maid may sit with Bingley and Miss Bennet to observe us at all times.”
Elizabeth bit her lip, uncertain. Finally, she said, “I would also like a footman stationed outside within earshot should I call out.”
“Within shouting distance,” Colonel Fitzwilliam muttered, visibly irritated. “But not close enough to overhear our conversation.”
She folded her arms and glared at him. “Why should I?”
Darcy stepped forward and leaned to whisper, “Because Mr. Smithson was not who he pretended to be.”
Elizabeth gave him a sharp look but did not argue further. She rang the bell and gave the necessary instructions to the maid and footman, issuing them with a general’s clarity and tone. Then she turned and fetched her boots and overcoat from the hall.
As she bundled herself in a thick pelisse and wrapped a scarf around her throat, she could feel both men watching her—waiting, perhaps hoping for something gentler in her expression.
They received none.
The three stepped out into the wind together. Behind them, the window curtains fluttered slightly, and Elizabeth could see the maid watching, as ordered.
“Well?” Her tone was sharp, biting, and it caused Darcy to flinch.
The two men looked at one another, then Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed. “It is a long story, Miss Elizabeth. I am struggling to know just where to begin.”
“Perhaps at the beginning,” she responded pertly. “I will inform you of any questions I have along the way.”
The wind gusted again, sharp and damp, and Elizabeth drew her pelisse more tightly around her. The three of them walked along the edge of the gravel path, just barely in view of the drawing room window, the watching maid a small silhouette behind the glass.
Colonel Fitzwilliam walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed as though sorting through a number of possible beginnings. At last, he said quietly, “I work for the Home Office, Miss Elizabeth. My regiment was merely a cover. I am an agent of the Crown.”
Elizabeth stopped walking. “You are a spy?”
He offered a wry smile. “Yes. I suppose that’s the common word for it.”
She arched a skeptical brow. “This sounds like something from one of my younger sisters’ ridiculous romance novels.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed once, short and without mirth. “Well, this particular tale does have some romance in it, I admit—but its ending is far more tragic than any of your sisters’ novels, I suspect.”
Still unconvinced, Elizabeth folded her arms. “And I supposed you mean to tell me that Mr. Smithson was a spy as well?”
The colonel’s eyebrows rose high on his head. “Yes, he was. Very clever of you to make that deduction so quickly.”
“Did he work for you?”
He nodded, inhaling deeply. “But before we discuss Smithson, you need to understand some of the history. What do you know of the war with France?”
“I know that hostilities resumed in 1803 after the Peace of Amiens collapsed,” Elizabeth said, with a hint of pride in her voice. “Napoleon crowned himself Emperor in 1804. There were naval battles—Trafalgar was in 1805, I believe—and of course, the fighting in Spain these past years, particularly since 1808.”
The colonel cast a glance at Darcy, who nodded slightly in approval. “Impressive.”
“I have read the Gazette , and the Times ,” Elizabeth said sharply. “I may be a woman, Colonel, but I am not an ignorant one.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam held up his hands in surrender. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. In fact, I am rather impressed. Most young ladies I meet only know which colors the regiments wear, not why the regiments march.”
Elizabeth tilted her chin. “I prefer substance to uniforms.”
Darcy, beside her, did not speak, but she saw it—the tiniest quirk at the corner of his mouth, gone as soon as it came. Whatever warmth might’ve followed was instantly doused by the tension still hanging between them.
Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded her steadily. “Then here is the substance. While the official war rages abroad—in Spain, in Portugal, in the Baltic and beyond—there is another war being fought within our own borders. One of information. Of secrets. And occasionally… of betrayal.”
“And this is somehow connected to the fire in London.” Her voice was calm, but inside, her thoughts twisted. I knew it. I knew something was not right .
He hesitated, then nodded once. “Yes. Very much so. You see, we need to go back to before 1803—before Napoleon crowned himself Emperor, before Trafalgar. Back to the revolution itself.”
Elizabeth said nothing, but inwardly, her skepticism only deepened. Is this truly what they had led me outside to say? Still, she gestured lightly for him to continue.
“At the end of the last century, when the French Revolution swept across France, the people did not just depose their king. They destroyed an entire class. Nobles, aristocrats—whole families were slaughtered. Even children. The very idea of royal blood was seen as a threat. If you were born into a noble house, that was enough to condemn you.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said quietly. “The Reign of Terror.”
She could not help the flicker of pride in her voice. It was not often she got to display the contents of her mind in mixed company. She expected surprise, perhaps condescension, but Darcy only nodded in quiet approval, and the colonel’s eyebrows rose in apparent surprise.
“Exactly,” the colonel said. “Some managed to escape, of course. Many came to England. But not all. Some went into hiding in France itself. One such family was related to the Bourbon line—distant cousins of the king. They vanished during the purges, and it was assumed the entire line had been extinguished.”
“But it was not?” she prompted, her heart beginning to thud uneasily.
His mouth twisted slightly. “No. Earlier this year, word reached certain French revolutionaries that one child survived. A boy—the son of a nobleman whose bloodline tied him—however distantly—to the old crown.”
“And they went after him, I assume,” Elizabeth said.
“You assume correctly. By this point, the lad was now a man. He had married, and his wife had recently given birth to their own son. A band of militants formed together and tracked the family down.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Among their number was a young woman name Denisse. Her parents were farmers who had participated in the initial revolution, and she was raised with the same fire in her blood.” The wind ruffled the colonel’s coat, and for a moment, he looked truly troubled. “As her compatriots ravaged the home and slaughtered the inhabitants, she made her way to the nursery, following the sounds of crying.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She pressed a hand to her chest, a chill sweeping through her that had nothing to do with the weather. “And?” she urged when the colonel remained silent. What are you getting at, Colonel? What happened?
“For a brief moment, Denisse was exactly what the revolution had made her: an assassin poised to wipe away a bloodline. But then…” His voice softened. “…then the baby opened his eyes and looked at her, and she was a girl once again. Her heart opened, and she saw him for what he was—a baby only a few days old. Innocent. Helpless.”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her eyes stinging. For the first time, she truly pictured it—some poor girl, barely more than a child herself, standing in a smoke-filled nursery with the blood of a noble house on her hands and a baby in her arms.
She brushed the tears that had begun to stream down her cheeks. Darcy reached into his pocket and removed a handkerchief, which he offered to her. “Here.”
Accepting it wordlessly, she turned her gaze back to the colonel, her eyes pleading with him to continue.
“She took him. Ran with him. She knew her companions would have killed him had they known. So, she pretended to carry out the act, but instead… she fled. Headed west, toward Spain.”
Darcy added quietly, “Colonel Fitzwilliam was stationed on the Spanish-French border. On orders from a general at Cadiz.”
“I found Denisse nearly dead,” the colonel said. “Starving, terrified, carrying a crying bundle she had wrapped in rags and hidden beneath her coat. She thought I would shoot her, but when she learned I was English… she told me the truth. Told me who he was.”
Elizabeth’s mind reeled. “And you believed her?”
“She had proof,” he said simply. “Letters. A locket. Things I recognized from briefings I had received. I took her in. Helped her reach London and set her up in a discreet flat, away from the eyes of the public.”
“She was Meg’s neighbor,” Elizabeth whispered. “Deena was an alias for Denisse, then.”
He nodded. “When news of the fire’s location reached me, I made my way through the burned streets of Cheapside until I found where I had hidden her. The building was burned to the ground, and I found her body a few streets away, but no sign of the infant.”
“Because Meg had rescued him.”
“Precisely, but it took quite some time to figure it out. As you can imagine, gathering information is difficult in the best of circumstances. When you add in the chaos of the fire, it took months to even discover that Meg was the one who had taken him, and even longer to discover that she had given him to a young woman from Hertfordshire.”
Elizabeth turned accusing eyes to Darcy. “And that is when you chose to come with your friend to reside at Netherfield? Did you remember me from Hyde Park, see me with Benjamin, and make the connection? Is your friendship with me nothing more than a facade to reach him yourself?”
∞∞∞
Darcy stared at her, speechless.
She thinks…?
His mind struggled to make sense of it. That he had orchestrated this—come to Hertfordshire, befriended Bingley, inserted himself into her life—all with the intent of retrieving a royal infant?
The very notion was absurd. And yet… as her eyes narrowed in suspicion, he felt a sharp stab of something dangerously close to pain.
Does she truly believe me so calculating?
But the moment passed. Logic, ever his companion, surged forward to temper the sting. Of course she did. From her perspective, every detail lined up in dreadful precision: his sudden appearance, his interest in her family, his strange connection to the man who had terrified her. It all added up to incriminate him.
Only it was not true.
“I had no idea,” he said at last, his voice firm with conviction. “I swear to you, Miss Elizabeth—I knew nothing of any of this until this very morning. My presence here… it was entirely coincidental.”
She gave a skeptical scoff, crossing her arms again. “How convenient.”
“It is the truth,” he said desperately. “Disguise—deception in any form—is abhorrent to me.”
That, at least, made her blink.
Behind him, his cousin let out a laugh, loud and unguarded. “It is true,” he said with a grin. “Darcy could not lie to save his life. When we were children, if he so much as broke a wood paneling in the stables, he would march straight into the house and confess—without anyone asking! Took the punishment like a martyr. I remember once—he cut down the willow switch himself before my father ever got there.”
Darcy groaned softly. “Fitzwilliam—”
“No, let me finish. The point is: subtlety has never been my cousin’s strength. If he had known about the situation, you would have seen his deception the moment you met him.”
Elizabeth’s expression faltered. Her brow furrowed as she looked at Darcy, uncertainty replacing suspicion. He held her gaze.
“You did see through Smithson, after all,” the colonel added, “and he was a trained professional.”
“Colonel Fitzwilliam only told me everything this morning,” Darcy said, his tone softer now. “And when he did, I told him you needed to know as well.”
Her eyes flicked to the colonel in confirmation, then back to Darcy. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly.
But it was all that he needed to know that she once again trusted him, and that filled him with hope.
“I let my cousin speak first only because he was the one entrusted with the matter. And—” he cast a glance at the colonel “—because he did not believe me when I said you would see straight through him.”
“Clearly,” the colonel muttered. “I fell flat on my face.”
Darcy’s lips twitched, but his gaze did not leave Elizabeth’s. “To be fair, it is not entirely my cousin’s fault. This does involve national security, and my cousin has sworn a vow to his country. There were legitimate concerns about how much to reveal. But once I understood the situation, I knew you would only be an asset with the full truth, and I insisted you be told.”
Both men watched breathlessly as Elizabeth pondered the issue. It was all Darcy could to not to sigh in relief when she nodded and said, “Very well, then, gentlemen. What happens now?”