Page 1 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter One

London, May 11, 1812

L ady Elizabeth Montclair did not set out to witness a murder.

In truth, she had set out to catch a glimpse of Mr. Henry Audley—the most devastatingly handsome young Member of Parliament in all of Westminster. That the evening would end in bloodshed and catastrophe was rather vexing, indeed.

At present, however, she was thinking only of how fetching her hair looked today—the one feature Henry Audley had ever noticed about her. She had every intention of making the most of it if she managed to see him today.

She was standing in the Ladies’ Gallery of the House of Lords, idly fanning herself and suppressing a giggle, while her dearest friend, Lady Charlotte Wrexham, attempted to convince her that politics were of actual interest.

“Of course they are, Lizzy,” Charlotte insisted, eyes bright with enthusiasm. “There is nothing so thrilling as a lively debate between gentlemen of good breeding and education!”

Elizabeth arched a brow, more amused than convinced. “Charlotte, I do not deny the importance of tariffs and tithes, but I have yet to hear a gentleman debate them with any real eloquence—let alone charm.”

Charlotte gasped. “Politics are not meant to be charming!”

“Then they ought to be conducted more competently,” Elizabeth said with a sigh, snapping her fan shut with a flick of her wrist.

Charlotte gave her a long-suffering look. “You are incorrigible.”

“I prefer discerning.”

Charlotte laughed. “Then why, pray, did you agree to accompany me here? This is hardly the opera or a musicale.”

Elizabeth smiled, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Because, dearest Charlotte, Mr. Henry Audley is expected to speak in the House of Commons this very evening.”

Charlotte blinked. “Henry Audley? That… earnest fellow from Hertfordshire who speaks of nothing but reform?”

Elizabeth exhaled, exasperated. “He is brilliant, Charlotte. Passionate. Intelligent enough to make the Lords appear slow-witted, and—if one studies him closely—rather handsome in a thoughtful, brooding sort of way.” She paused, tilting her head. “At least, when viewed from the proper angle.”

Charlotte snorted. “You are absurd. He really is rather plain, Lizzy.”

“Not at all. He is precisely the sort of man I should marry—someday, when I am ready to endure the tedious reality of matrimony.”

Charlotte gave her a knowing look. “Your father would never approve.”

Elizabeth grimaced at the thought. Her father would rather set himself on fire than allow his only daughter to marry a mere Mister, no matter how intelligent or idealistic he might be. The Montclair name belonged in the House of Lords, not the House of Commons.

But her father was not here, was he?

That meant she could steal a moment for herself.

She straightened her posture and flashed a dazzling smile. “Fortunately, my father is closeted with some meeting or other this evening, and my mother has no idea where Westminster even is on the London map. We are chaperoned only by your mother, and she is presently engaged in conversation with that rather deaf Lord Witherspoon, which means she shall remain entirely occupied for the next half-hour at least. Therefore, I shall take a little walk, find some place where I might catch a glimpse of Mr. Audley in the House of Commons, and return before I am missed.”

Charlotte frowned. “Lizzy, I do not think—”

Elizabeth cut her off with a cheerful wink. “Do not think, dearest. Simply pray that I do not lose my way in this infernal labyrinth of corridors. Or worse—that I am forced to listen to a dull speech about tax reform.”

Before her friend could protest, she turned on her heel and slipped away, her heart thrumming with excitement.

S he had no difficulty avoiding detection. The halls were dimly lit, the grand marble floors muffled by thick carpets, and no one took note of a young woman slipping away from the crowd.

As she descended a narrow staircase, she glanced over her shoulder to ensure no one followed. She had never ventured this far before—and it was exhilarating. The House of Lords was filled with dignitaries, noblemen, and political minds of great consequence, but she found herself far more intrigued by the secrets of its corridors, the whispers in the alcoves, and the glimpse of something just beyond her reach.

As she approached the arched entrance to the House of Commons, her breath caught in her throat.

There —through the open doors, beyond the gilded railing—was Mr. Henry Audley. Her pulse quickened.

He was standing in conversation with another gentleman, his posture easy yet authoritative, his dark hair tousled with just the right amount of studied carelessness.

Elizabeth tilted her head, considering. Was he truly as handsome as she had imagined? Or had she exaggerated his charms in her mind? He did have a rather serious expression—perhaps too serious. And his spectacles did nothing to enhance the sharpness of his jawline, for it was rather… soft. But he was so easy and confident, and spoke so well—

She was so occupied with these vital contemplations that she did not immediately notice the strange tension in the air.

It was a shift, subtle at first—like the calm before a storm. She became vaguely aware that the conversation in the lobby had grown quieter, as if the air itself had turned thick and expectant. A few gentlemen glanced toward the entrance, their gazes uneasy.

Elizabeth barely had time to frown before—

A crack—an explosion of some kind.

The world split apart. The noise thundered through the chamber, reverberating off marble and stone.

Elizabeth jerked backward, the sound piercing through her bones. For a moment, she could not comprehend it. Had that been a shot? A misfire? A door slamming? She snatched her gaze around the room. Everyone was looking about them, but there appeared to be no singular point of crisis.

Then—a second report.

Closer. Muffled… an echo? No, for something tore through the air past her ear.

The world exploded into movement. A man staggered. Gasps. Screams. Running footsteps. The crash of a chair overturning.

Elizabeth clutched at the cold stone of the column behind her, her breath strangled in her throat. Someone had been shot.

She saw it—saw the man crumple, his hands clutching at his chest—but her mind had not yet made sense of it.

And then she saw him.

A man—one of the officials—staggered, his hands clutching his chest, his expression frozen in disbelief. Blood bloomed across his waistcoat, staining the fine fabric like ink spilled upon parchment. He swayed, confusion writ into every line of his face before his knees gave way.

Someone screamed. A woman? A man? The sound blurred into the thick haze of voices.

Men surged forward. Others backed away in horror. A pistol had been fired. Two pistols? No—one. Only one. She was sure of it… she thought.

Elizabeth could not move. She could only watch as the man—a man she recognized now as the Prime Minister himself—collapsed upon the marble floor.

Spencer Perceval was dead.

Somewhere, a man was shouting. “Bellingham! It was Bellingham!”

Elizabeth gasped and strained—a crush of men all descending upon a man with a pistol in his hand. Someone had seized him—the man named Bellingham.

He was fighting, struggling— “I am not mad! It was justice!” he cried as men wrestled him to the floor.

The walls tilted. The floor was slick with something dark. The scent of gunpowder stung the air.

Elizabeth’s breath came short, sharp. Her ribs ached. Her eyes darted wildly through the chaos, searching for something solid to anchor to when—

There.

A figure, just beyond the crush of bodies. Not running. Not fighting. Not panicking.

Tucking a small pistol inside his coat, a glint of gold on his finger the only thing catching the light.

Moving backward. Calm. Unhurried.

Her mind stuttered, and she could not tear her eyes away. Who?

That was when his gaze flicked up. Met hers.

Her lungs seized.

He was looking at her. Not at the dying man. Not at the guards descending upon the one they called Bellingham.

At her .

Something dark flickered in his expression. Recognition. Calculation. A decision made.

A step backward. Another. Then he was gone, swallowed into the confusion, into the throng of bodies rushing toward the wrong man.

Elizabeth’s fingers dug into the stone. The prime minister was dead. Shot, his life’s blood even now spilling all over the pavers.

And she—Lady Elizabeth Montclair—had just witnessed the assassination of the most powerful man in England… but from a vantage that no one else had.

And worse… someone knew she had seen it.

Hertfordshire, May 11 1812

F itzwilliam Darcy had spent the last six months balancing duty and discretion, maneuvering through the quiet battles fought in drawing rooms rather than on fields. The work demanded precision, patience, and a stomach for deception—a thing he abhorred above all others.

He had earned this respite.

Netherfield Park was, by any estimation, a ridiculous house. It was too modern, too ostentatious, and entirely too pleased with itself—as if it had been built not for comfort, but for the express purpose of announcing to the world that a very rich man lived there.

But it was also a mere three miles from Meryton, only twelve from London, yet a world away from the filth of Westminster intrigue. A place where he was known, but not watched. A place where he could, for a time, be simply Mr. Darcy of Nowhere.

Which was why, when Bingley’s most recent, obscenely cheerful letter had arrived, brimming with tales of garden parties, trout fishing, and the unparalleled delight of “the freshest air in England,” Darcy had written back with a single sentence:

“I am coming.”

And so, here he was—riding up the long, tree-lined drive of Netherfield for the second time in his life, the house already familiar, the bright green fields and golden May sunlight welcoming him like a warm embrace.

For the first time in six months, he let the poisonous air out of his lungs.

Yes. This would do.

“D arcy!”

The moment his horse reached the front steps, the door flung open and Bingley all but bounded down the drive, grinning like a man without a single care in the world. Darcy barely had time to dismount before his hand was seized and shaken with great enthusiasm.

“I knew you would return! You did not say how long you are staying, of course, but you never do, so I took the liberty of assuming indefinitely.”

“Then you have set yourself up for disappointment.”

“Nonsense. You have nowhere better to be. London is horrid this time of year, and you must be utterly exhausted from whatever it is you do when you disappear for months at a time.”

Darcy handed the reins of his horse to the waiting groom. “You make it sound far more intriguing than it is.”

“Yes, well, that is because you refuse to tell me anything, so I am forced to assume espionage or highway robbery—and between the two, espionage seems slightly more in keeping with your usual sensibilities.”

Darcy snorted. “I will let you wonder a little longer.”

“Wonderful. I shall entertain myself with theories. You are, of course, just in time—we are invited to dine at Longbourn tomorrow.”

Darcy sighed deeply. “Bingley.”

“Oh, do not look at me like that. You like Mr. Bennet, and you tolerate the rest of them well enough.”

“You mean I tolerate them better than you tolerate your own sisters.”

Bingley looked pained. “That is not untrue.”

Darcy smirked. “Speaking of—where is Miss Bingley?”

“Oh, in the drawing room, trying to convince Louisa that country air is poisoning her complexion.”

“How dreadful for her.”

“Quite. Shall we go inside?”

The drawing room at Netherfield was precisely as Darcy had left it six months ago—tasteful, well-furnished, and entirely too orange.

Louisa Hurst was lounging indolently upon a settee, while her husband was already half-asleep in an armchair, snoring gently.

Caroline Bingley sat stiff-backed at the writing desk, penning what was no doubt an acidic commentary on country society to an equally disinterested acquaintance in town. The moment Darcy entered, her eyes flicked up, her expression briefly startled—before settling into cool politeness.

“Ah,” she said. “You are here.”

“As you see,” Darcy replied.

She set down her pen. “For long?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said, and she visibly relaxed.

Bingley coughed into his fist, his amusement poorly disguised. Caroline’s disdain for him had become something of a morbid joke between the two of them. Upon their first introduction three years earlier, she had glanced at his tall figure, his stately posture, and taken him for what he ought to be—a man in possession of a large fortune and a comfortable estate with no other cares but the search for a bride.

But when she learned he was no more than a public servant, whose duties were so obscure that they lacked even a definition, and whatever claims he had once possessed to wealth and title were nothing more than a vague memory, why… she cared as little for him as he did for her. Which suited him well enough.

Darcy settled into a chair opposite Bingley, stretched out his legs, and let the warmth of the fire sink into his bones. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself the luxury of ease.

Perhaps he would even enjoy it.

May 12, 1812

F itzwilliam Darcy spent the next day deliberately avoiding the world.

The sun had been bright, the fields damp with the lingering breath of morning rain, and Charles Bingley had been in his usual good spirits as they walked the countryside, shot at pheasants, and exchanged only the most necessary words. It was, in every respect, the perfect way to disappear for a time.

They had returned to Netherfield late in the afternoon, just long enough to change before setting out for dinner at Longbourn—an invitation apparently extended weeks ago, before Darcy had even arrived. They could hardly alter their plans now.

And so, he found himself here once more, in the modest, lively dining room of the Bennet household, surrounded by familiar absurdities. Darcy had thought the Bennet females ridiculous last autumn, and nothing in the intervening months had softened his opinion.

Mrs. Bennet was as noisy and indiscreet as ever, clearly eager to see her daughters married to as much wealth as they could manage. And if wealth could not be caught, a redcoat would do. He, therefore, was safe from her on both counts, and she made no secret of that fact.

Misses Lydia and Catherine Bennet leaned toward one another, heads bent close, their hands fluttering to disguise—rather unsuccessfully—their whispering. Darcy had observed this habit last autumn as well; neither of them possessed any real talent for discretion. It was never difficult to determine what—or more often, who —had captured their interest. At present, their giggles and darting glances toward Bingley suggested they were still speculating on his marriage prospects, though Lydia, as the younger, seemed far more intent upon the entertainment of it.

Miss Mary Bennet sat slightly apart from her sisters, her posture rigidly upright, her fingers curled around the stem of her wineglass as though she had given great thought to the precise way a lady ought to hold it. She was discussing virtue and restraint, though not in the way one might expect from a sermonizing moralist. There was no firebrand energy in her speech—no dramatic declarations of ruin. Instead, she approached the topic as one might a philosophical problem, her tone grave but studious, as if she were considering the matter from a purely academic standpoint.

Darcy had met women who preached morality with the fervor of the righteous, but Miss Mary Bennet seemed to be working through her convictions in the midst of expressing them, arranging her arguments with care, though with little consideration as to whether anyone was listening.

Indeed, no one appeared to be.

The eldest, Miss Jane Bennet, was somewhat less of an oddity and somewhat more of a curiosity. She sat composed and quiet, offering the occasional polite remark but never volunteering conversation of her own accord. She was much as Darcy remembered—pleasant, mild, and largely indistinct.

She smiled often, though never with any particular animation. Her expressions were carefully modulated, never too pleased, never too affected, as if trained to rest in agreeable neutrality. It was difficult to tell whether she was truly engaged in the conversation around her or merely enduring it with practiced patience.

Darcy was not entirely certain which.

Had she always been so silent? He had noticed, last autumn, that she was not given to strong opinions or lively debates. Even now, she seemed content to sit back and let others speak, her presence felt only in the occasional murmured agreement or the soft laughter she offered at appropriate moments. Was it shyness or reserve? He did not know, and frankly, he did not care. It was of no consequence to him, except in how it pertained to Bingley.

And therein lay the question.

Months ago, he had thought he saw some interest in her for his friend—not in anything overt, certainly, but in the faint, unreadable shifts in her expression when Bingley was near. A slightly longer glance. A slight warmth in her tone. Perhaps nothing at all.

But if there had been anything, it was long buried now.

Miss Bennet looked at Bingley much as she looked at everyone else—polite, vaguely interested, but hardly as if she were pining away for him. If she had ever been inclined to him, it had been a fleeting thing, easily dismissed.

Bingley, for his part, was as oblivious as ever.

At present, he was engaged in an animated discussion with Misses Lydia and Catherine, while Miss Bennet sat serene and undisturbed, making no effort to draw his attention.

Darcy took another sip of wine. Either Bingley had never held her interest, or he had lost it. Either way, it was not his concern.

Mrs. Bennet, at least, had lost none of her enthusiasm.

“Mr. Bingley,” she said, waving her hand in a vaguely grand manner, “you must be so very glad to have your good friend Mr. Darcy returned to Hertfordshire! Although, I daresay, you must hardly require more company, what with all the invitations you must receive.”

Bingley smiled politely, but there was no mistaking the way Mrs. Bennet’s gaze flickered—not toward him, but past him, to her daughters.

Darcy knew that look. He had seen it last autumn, when she had still imagined his friend might be inclined toward her eldest daughter.

Bingley, entirely unaware of the direction of her thoughts, merely said, “It is always a pleasure to see Darcy again, ma’am.”

Mrs. Bennet tutted. “Well, I suppose that is fortunate for him, indeed.”

Darcy caught the barest hint of a glance in his direction, but she did not address him directly. Of course she would not. He had nothing to offer her daughters—no grand fortune, no landed estate. And no red uniform.

That suited him perfectly.

He reached for his wine.

“I am certain,” Mr. Bennet said idly, “that Mr. Darcy must be relieved to have a brief escape from London. I can only imagine how exhausting it must be—what with all the terribly important matters he attends to.”

Darcy gave him a flat look, but Mr. Bennet only smirked, taking a leisurely sip of his own wine.

Oh, yes. At least one person at this table knew how to amuse himself.

They had just finished the second course when the commotion began. Footsteps in the hall. The murmur of voices. A moment later, Hill, the housekeeper, stepped into the dining room, looking slightly harried.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said to Mr. Bennet, “but there is a rider at the door with an urgent express. He says it is of some importance.”

Mrs. Bennet set her fork down with a gasp. “Oh, heavens! I knew it! It must be from your cousin, the parson—that patroness of his has surely died! I just knew this would happen,” Mrs. Bennet continued, fluttering her hands. “And no doubt he means to take possession of Longbourn at once—oh, Mr. Bennet, he will throw us all into the hedgerows!”

“I suspect my cousin and heir has yet to learn how to claim an inheritance from the living, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, pushing back from the table. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

It took only a few minutes before Mr. Bennet returned, looking altogether too serious for news of his relative. In his hand, he held a sealed letter.

Darcy straightened.

Mr. Bennet paused by his chair, then extended it. “It is for you, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy took it, frowning. “For me?”

“The messenger went to Netherfield first,” Mr. Bennet said. “Upon being told you were here, he came directly.” He lifted a brow. “He is waiting outside for a reply.”

Silence settled over the table.

Darcy set down his napkin, rose, and inclined his head. “If you will excuse me.”

He stepped into the hall, breaking the seal as he walked.

The message was brief, unsigned, and direct: You are expected tomorrow at White’s at two o’clock.

Nothing more.

But that was enough. Darcy’s pulse quickened.

White’s was not merely a gentlemen’s club—it was where the most powerful men in England met in private. The very place where ministers, military officers, and men of influence conducted business the public would never hear of.

Whoever had sent this message had authority.

Something had happened. He had missed something.

Darcy folded the letter, tucked it into his coat, and strode toward the waiting messenger.