E lizabeth danced two more sets—one with Mr. Bingley, who seemed positively transported as he spoke glowingly of Jane’s grace, wit, and remarkable gentleness, and another with Captain Carter, whose name she nearly forgot. He was kind enough, though his conversation centered mostly on the quality of the punch and the rumor that a peer of the realm was in attendance.
Her smiles came easily, but her mind was elsewhere.
She did her best to glance now and then toward her father, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Darcy without drawing attention, reassured by their watchful presence. Still, her thoughts remained tethered to the nursery upstairs, where the decoy lay waiting.
Her next partner was Wickham, who approached her as designed. Everyone turned to stare as he approached her, eager to see if she would identify him as the murderer.
He appeared before her with his usual charming grin, bowing with a flourish that earned him a flutter of glances from nearby young ladies. “Miss Bennet,” he said with a hint of strain in his eyes, “may I have the honor?”
She gave a dramatic pause, causing everyone nearby to hold their breath. Before she could respond, a footman approached, his voice carefully loud enough to carry.
“Pardon me, Miss Elizabeth. The nurse sends word that the baby has developed a fever. She begs you come at once.”
A hush seemed to ripple outward from the words. Conversations stilled. A few heads turned. Elizabeth’s heart pounded, but she did not allow it to show.
She turned quickly to Wickham with a soft, apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Lieutenant. Duty calls.”
“Of course,” he said, stepping back with a brief bow. “I hope the child recovers swiftly.”
Elizabeth inclined her head and turned, her steps measured and graceful as she crossed the floor and exited the ballroom to a chorus of gossip.
Good, everyone will soon know that I have left the room. Now all there is to do is go upstairs… and wait.
Her heart thudded in her chest, her mouth suddenly dry. Every rustle of silk, every echoing step in the marble corridor seemed too loud, too exposed.
She ascended the stairs with practiced calm, her hand steady on the banister. A few guests glanced curiously as she passed, but she met no one’s eyes. Only when she reached the third-floor landing did she allow her shoulders to tighten. The nursery door creaked open beneath her hand, and she went in.
The room was dim, lit only by the low glow of the fire and a single oil lamp on the small table near the crib. The air was warm, almost stifling, filled with the scent of lavender oil and milk.
The nurse stood when she saw Elizabeth and bobbed a curtsy. “He’s quieted some, miss, but he is flushed.”
Elizabeth nodded and approached the cradle, peering down at the carefully swaddled bundle. The false baby—stuffed with blankets and tucked carefully beneath one of Benjamin’s gowns—lay still. Elizabeth reached in and adjusted the blanket as though checking for fever.
“Would you fetch a cloth soaked in cool water?” she asked gently. “And have Samuel in the hallway go down to fetch a fresh basin. I will stay with him.”
“Of course, miss.”
The nurse gave her another curtsy and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly and took her seat beside the cradle.
She began to hum softly, smoothing the fabric as if calming a fretful child. Each breath came with effort now—not from fear, but from anticipation.
The trap was set.
And she was the bait.
∞∞∞
Darcy had never been so aware of the passing of time.
Each tick of his pocket watch in his coat pocket seemed to echo like a cannon blast in his ears, beating in time with his thumping heart. Though he stalked darkly along the edges of the room, watching the dancers, his mind was elsewhere—three floors up, in a quiet nursery, where Elizabeth waited alone.
His Elizabeth.
His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, every muscle in his frame straining to keep him rooted to the polished floor and not bolting up the stairs like a madman. The music, the laughter, the sparkle of chandeliers—all of it grated. It felt wrong to pretend all was well, to feign interest in flirtations and refreshments while she placed herself in danger.
He should never have let her do it.
What if something went awry? What if one of the guards hesitated? What if Le Corbeau was cleverer than they anticipated—faster, stronger, crueler? What if—
“Your expression would be terrifying, Mr. Darcy, were you not so very still.”
He startled at the voice behind him and turned to see Mr. Bennet approaching, a glass of punch in hand and a raised brow.
Darcy’s mask fell back into place with mechanical precision. “I was not aware I had an expression.”
“Oh, you do not. Not visibly,” Mr. Bennet said easily. “That’s what makes it so unsettling. I would not have guessed anything at all, but the colonel sent me to fetch you. He said you were likely staring holes into the ceiling and needed someone to drag you back to earth.”
Darcy’s lips tightened into something approximating a smile. “Your daughter is very dear to me.”
“I suspected as much.” Mr. Bennet nodded sagely. “I, too, am contemplating storming the stairs and locking her in a pantry until this is all over. But I am assured there are plenty of guards stationed in and around the nursery. All seasoned men, retired or injured in service. My study is currently housing more in case someone makes an attempt there.”
“But none of them are in the same room as her. Even those stationed in the nursery are hidden back in the small nurse’s bedchamber behind a closed door.”
“I know,” Mr. Bennet said kindly. “I have the same concerns, but she was already in danger before this. At least we control the circumstances for now, as opposed to being surprised.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Thank you. That does ease my mind—somewhat.”
“She will be fine, Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Bennet’s tone turned unexpectedly gentle. “That girl may have been born in a bonnet of lace, but she came out swinging.”
A small breath of laughter escaped Darcy before he could stop it.
But peace did not last long.
“Mr. Darcy!” came a sugary voice from his left. “There you are. I have been searching everywhere for you.”
Darcy turned with reluctant politeness as Miss Bingley glided toward them, her orange gown shimmering far too aggressively in the candlelight. She stopped before him with an artful tilt of her head, opening her fan and fluttering it below her chin.
Her smile was bright, eyes alight with calculation, as she said, “I do hope the ball has met your standards. I did my best to ensure that I was giving the people of Meryton an example of what they would see amongst our circles, although I was forced to compromise in several areas.”
“It is a fine evening,” Darcy replied evenly, “and your efforts are evident.”
“I am delighted to hear you say so,” she said, tilting her head. “There are so few gentlemen who appreciate refinement properly. Most are taken in by a pretty face or a lively manner. I daresay true taste is much harder to find.”
Mr. Bennet made a quiet noise of amusement beside them.
Miss Bingley leaned in a little, her tone lighter. “And now the supper dance approaches. Surely, as a gentleman of discernment, you will choose your partner with care. The hostess, for example, is a most suitable choice.”
Darcy turned slightly, his brow lifting. “Do you suggest yourself, Miss Bingley?”
Her laugh was light and practiced. “Well, I would never presume. But I do happen to find myself without a partner, and you are here alone.”
His eyes darted towards Mr. Bennet at his side, who did his best to hide a smirk at the woman’s intentional slight.
She continued, voice soft and coaxing. “It would be such a shame for the hostess to go unpartnered at such an important moment. Do you not agree?”
He offered a polite smile. “I am sure you will find no shortage of gentlemen eager to correct the oversight.”
The fan snapped closed with a quiet crack. “Oh, but I had hoped for a partner of particular refinement.” Her smile strained. “One who appreciates true accomplishment in a lady.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, still not taking the bait.
Miss Bingley pressed on, her tone sweetening further. “You have often said you value women of accomplishment. I wonder—what do you consider a true accomplishment, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy glanced briefly at Mr. Bennet, then back to Miss Bingley. “A woman of true accomplishment must possess rare qualities.”
Miss Bingley beamed. “Indeed! A thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages—”
“Not merely those,” Darcy interrupted gently. “I have known many women who possessed such accomplishments, but very few who possessed what I consider the true measure of refinement.”
She blinked. “And what is that?”
Darcy’s voice was cool but steady. “Compassion. Intelligence. Sincerity. Strength of character. The ability to laugh at oneself. Generosity of spirit. A willingness to act bravely and wisely, even when no one is watching.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth parted in offense, her cheeks coloring rapidly.
“And,” he continued, his gaze steady, “the courage to protect the vulnerable at any cost. That, Miss Bingley, is what I find most admirable.”
Mr. Bennet let out a low hum of approval beside him. “Well said,” he murmured.
Miss Bingley stood stiffly, her composure barely intact. “Besides,” he added, “I am afraid I am already engaged.”
“To another? ” Her eyes narrowed, incredulous. “Mr. Darcy, I must say I am surprised. You would dance with that… hoyden and her sister, but not with me?”
Darcy’s voice was calm, low, and cutting. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a lady of intelligence, compassion, and extraordinary courage. She is the best judge of character I have ever known. She is fiercely loyal, speaks with sincerity, and possesses both wit and wisdom in equal measure. If these are not the marks of a true lady, then I should be ashamed to know one.”
Miss Bingley’s mouth opened and closed like a fish in a drying stream. Her jaw worked soundlessly, color high in her cheeks.
Before she could compose a retort, a sound split through the ballroom.
A scream.
Faint, distant, unmistakably female.
“Elizabeth!” Darcy cried.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth forced herself to look down at the false infant, cooing gently as though soothing a feverish child. Her hand stroked the top of the bundle, her eyes fixed on the shadowy corners of the room, ears straining for the slightest sound.
Then she smelled it. The same foreign, musky scent that she had smelled a few nights prior at Longbourn.
He’s here!
Her body reacted before her mind caught up. She spun around to face the intruder, ducking low as she did so.
The glint of metal flashed as a dagger embedded itself into the wall where her head had been. Pain flared in her arm, and she gasped, clutching her sleeve where the blade had grazed her.
A figure wearing a red coat stepped forward out of the shadows, his face mostly concealed beneath the brim of a militia hat. He looked familiar.
What was his name again? Captain… Carter!
She had been briefly introduced to him at her aunt Philips’s card party. He was Le Corbeau?
But he seems so… normal.
There was no more time for thinking, processing.
He lunged at her.
Elizabeth flung herself aside, banging her hip on a rocking chair as she attempted to get away. Carter’s momentum carried him into the cradle, overturning it with a violent crash. The fake baby rolled limply across the floor in his direction.
Carter snatched the bundle up, yanking back the blanket with a victorious grin that froze as soon as he saw it was empty.
“No,” he gasped. “No!”
Elizabeth scrambled backward towards the door that led to the nurse’s adjoining bedroom where the guards were supposed to be hidden, blood running warm down her arm. Carter rounded on her, his green eyes wild and filled with rage.
Where are they? Do not they know he’s here?
Sucking in a deep breath, she screamed with all her might.
Doors exploded open—both the one behind her and the one that led to the hallway. Half a dozen men burst into the room, their movements quick and precise. Carter turned to run towards the window, and Elizabeth’s heart clenched.
Not again!
“Do not let him get away!” she called. “It is him! He tried to kill me—he tried to kill the baby!”
He almost reached the window, but the nearest guard tackled him mid-stride. The others descended in a blur of motion, ropes already in hand. Two guards wrestled Carter to his knees, binding his arms tightly. He thrashed once, but the rope held. Blood trickled from a split on his temple where he had hit the floor.
She sighed in relief.
Darcy barreled through the doorway. “Elizabeth!”
She hardly saw him before she was in his arms, her fingers gripping the lapels of his coat, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He smelled like fresh air and warmth and safety, and she sank into the comfort of his embrace.
Mr. Bennet arrived seconds later, his cravat askew, a look of fury in his eyes. He took in the scene with a long, sweeping glance, then looked at Darcy with raised brows. “Well,” he said dryly, “I see I have been replaced. Ah, the passage of time.”
Elizabeth let out a choked laugh against Darcy’s chest. He gave a breathless chuckle in return and tightened his hold on her.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stalked toward the bound figure. “Report.”
Before they could speak, she turned her head and said indignantly, “I was nearly killed. He threw a knife at me, and if I had smelled him just a half-second later, I would have been dead.”
Darcy looked down sharply and sucked in a breath. “You are bleeding.”
“I am fine,” she said faintly, though her arm throbbed with pain.
Mr. Bennet rounded on the colonel. “She is not fine! I thought you said she would be protected!”
“I take full responsibility,” Fitzwilliam said, jaw tight. He turned and glared at one of the men, whom Elizabeth presumed to be the leader. “What happened?”
The guard straightened, his hand twitching up as if fighting back a salute. “We needed to be sure, sir. With witnesses. With evidence. We were watching from the adjoining room through a crack in the door, but he threw the knife so silently, we did not notice it until she had screamed. As soon as we heard her, we entered.”
Understanding dawned as Elizabeth let out a slow, deep breath. “I see. If he had not reached for the cradle or attempted to attack me, it could have easily been explained away in court.”
“That does not mean I will not wring his neck myself,” Darcy growled.
Mr. Bennet stepped back, his eyes on the wound. “I will fetch Mr. Jones.”
“Also, Sir William and Colonel Forster,” Fitzwilliam added. “They will need to see this for himself.”
Mr. Bennet nodded and left the room. Darcy began ushering Elizabeth in the same direction. “Come, let us remove to the library, where you can be properly tended. And out of the reach of… him .” His lip curled in disgust.
Allowing herself to be led away, Elizabeth chanced one last look back at the man who had caused so much terror in the past weeks.
She wished she had not: the burning fire of hatred in his green eyes would, she knew, haunt her nightmares for many months to come.
∞∞∞
Several hours later, Elizabeth found herself lying in her own bed, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, her arm cradled against her side and pulsing with a dull, persistent ache. Mr. Jones had declared it a clean wound, but the stitches tugged and throbbed with every heartbeat.
The willow bark tea she had sipped not long ago was beginning to soften the sharp edges of the pain, though not quickly enough for her liking. Laudanum had been offered—of course it had—but she had refused. It made her feel itchy and strange, as though her limbs belonged to someone else, and she could not bear the thought of being anything less than herself tonight.
As she attempted to fall into slumber, the events of the evening played out in slow, flickering scenes behind her tired eyes.
Mr. Jones had found her in the library, white-faced and tight-lipped, and tended to her arm with quiet efficiency. She had tried not to flinch under the needle. He had praised her bravery, though she thought it less bravery and more stubbornness at this point.
Her stomach had growled mid-procedure, drawing a rueful smile from Darcy, who stood behind her chair like a sentinel. He sent a servant to the kitchens, and soon she had been coaxed into nibbling on a plate of cold meats and fresh bread—what was left after the supper dance, she supposed.
Sir William Lucas and Colonel Forster had arrived shortly after, summoned by her father to take down her statement. They had both looked exceedingly grave as she recounted every moment of the attack, from the scent in the air to the gleam of the dagger to the way the cradle had tipped.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, standing in the corner like a watchful hawk, had nodded at every point and confirmed that Captain Carter had been securely bound and transported to a holding location under the watch of soldiers he trusted. He would be transferred to London in the morning.
Mr. Bennet had returned not long after the others left. He sat beside her, looking more tired than she had ever seen him, though there was a proud light in his eyes. He informed her, with a twinkle in his eye, that while she had been recovering, she had missed the announcement of Jane’s engagement and its accompanying chaos.
“Mr. Bingley proposed in the hallway after supper was concluded,” he said with a smirk. “Could not wait, the poor fool. He found me directly afterward and nearly stammered himself into a stupor asking for my blessing. Of course, I granted it, and I encouraged him to make the announcement straight away. And, well, if your mother was… distracted from any inquiries as to why you were absent, that was simply icing on the cake, so to speak.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “And Miss Bingley?”
“Ah yes,” he said with great satisfaction, “her expression was something between a cat in a rain barrel and a woman who has just been told she must live in Cheapside for the rest of her life.”
The moment made her laugh, though it had hurt her arm. After that, he called for the carriage and insisted she return home at once, saying he would send it back for the rest of the family later.
Darcy had led her gently down the corridor to the Netherfield foyer, one arm braced around her shoulders, his other hand careful beneath her elbow. It had not escaped anyone’s notice—least of all Miss Bingley’s, and the woman’s face was nearly purple with apoplexy. Elizabeth had been too weary to savor the woman’s outrage at the sight, but the memory brought a spark of amusement now.
She had arrived home exhausted, eager for a comfortable nightgown and warm sheets. She was not too tired, though, to give Benjamin a kiss before the nurse took him from her mother’s changing room up to the nursery. “It is over,” she had whispered as her lips pressed against his brow.
It is finally over. And yet…
As she stared at the ceiling above her bed, Elizabeth’s smile faded. Her body sank down into her mattress under the warmth of the covers, the pain dulled enough to allow reflection, and the fear she had pushed down during the chaos came rushing in at last.
I very nearly died tonight.
She had seen the gleam of a blade inches from her face. She had flung herself across a room, she had bled, she had screamed.
At the time, she had not allowed herself to think. She had simply reacted. But now, in the stillness of her room, the truth settled over her like a cold breath: she had faced a murderer.
And not a monster with horns or hideous scars. A man. A soldier. A familiar figure from a dozen community events—Captain Carter, who had bowed politely, who had worn a neat red coat and offered small, stiff smiles. His face was ordinary. Unremarkable. Almost kind.
And yet behind that face had lurked the devil.
Her brows drew together as a sliver of unease twisted in her gut.
Something does not feel right.
As her eyes drifted shut, the memory returned. His eyes—green and sharp with fury as he lunged at her, full of venom and desperation.
But then—
Her eyes flew open.
His eyes.
The man who attacked her at Longbourn…
He had blue eyes. Icy blue.
She sat up sharply, the pain in her arm forgotten for a moment as her heart slammed against her ribs.
Her mind raced. Had she been mistaken? Could she have imagined it? But no—she had looked into those eyes as he tried to force open the nursery door. Pale, cold, blue.
Carter’s eyes had been green. Distinctly green.
She was not wrong.
Then who attacked me at Longbourn? And who did I face tonight?
The blanket twisted in her lap as she stared into the dark. The room was quiet again, but her thoughts were anything but.
Something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.