Page 11 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Eleven

Longbourn, Monday, May 18, 1812

E lizabeth awoke to the unfamiliar sound of laughter drifting through the open window. Birds chirped somewhere beyond the hedgerows, but it was the riotous giggling that drew her attention first. It was a high, unchecked sort of laughter, the kind that belonged to girls who had never once been scolded for being too loud.

She sat up, rubbing her temples. Her head still ached faintly from all that blasted sunshine the day before—and, no doubt, from the sheer effort of playing the part of “Miss Elizabeth Bennet”—but at least she had not slept through half the day. At home—no, not home. Not for now, at least. At her father’s house , she would have laid abed for at least another hour, then taken breakfast on a tray, her maid attending, the day’s itinerary arranged in a quiet, orderly fashion.

Here, life had no such structure. The household had been awake for hours already, the servants in and out, the younger Bennets dashing through the hallways without a care in the world.

It was chaos. And Elizabeth had no choice but to step into it.

She dressed quickly and made her way downstairs, smoothing her skirts as she stepped outside into the morning sun. The laughter had not ceased.

At the far end of the garden, Kitty and Lydia were sprawled on the grass, arms linked as they gasped through fresh peals of mirth. Their bonnets lay discarded beside them, their skirts haphazardly arranged, their ankles completely visible to the world—and worse, they did not seem to care.

Elizabeth smiled thinly. “You are indecent, dear Lydia and Kitty.”

Lydia propped herself up on an elbow, utterly unbothered. “We are at home, Cousin.”

“That does not make you decent,” Elizabeth returned.

Kitty giggled. “She sounds like Mary!”

Elizabeth sighed, pushing a hand through her hair. It was far too early for this.

“Cousin Elizabeth, good morning.”

Elizabeth turned. Ah, at least there was still Jane.

Unlike her younger sisters, Jane sat with perfect composure on a garden bench, an embroidery hoop in her lap, her gown untouched by the grass and dust. Sunlight caught the gold in her hair, making her look almost otherworldly.

But Elizabeth had learned something in the last few days—Jane was no angel.

Not in the way people meant, at least.

She was kind, yes, and graceful, and quick to smile. But she was also achingly quiet. Unassuming to the point of being overlooked, and not as indifferent about being ignored as people believed. And, most interestingly, she seemed to spend a good deal of time watching a man who did not notice her at all.

“Miss Bennet,” Elizabeth greeted, taking a seat beside her.

Jane reached for the embroidery in her lap, her fingers working with quiet skill. “I hope you slept well.”

Elizabeth hesitated. She had slept terribly, actually.

Longbourn’s walls were too thin. The air smelled different. The pillows were too soft, and the silence of the countryside was nothing like the quiet of London—it was louder, in a way, full of rustling leaves and the occasional fox’s cry.

She gave a polite nod instead. “Well enough.”

Jane’s needle moved through the fabric. “And you are settling in?”

Elizabeth exhaled, watching as Lydia rolled onto her back in the grass, arms stretched above her head as if she had not a care in the world.

“I am…” She searched for the right word. Not ‘comfortable.’ Not ‘content.’

“…adjusting.”

Jane studied her for a moment before giving a small, knowing nod, as if she understood precisely what Elizabeth meant.

Elizabeth frowned. “And what of you?”

Jane blinked. “Me? Why do you ask?”

“Well, I only thought it would be impolite not to. After all, you asked how I was, so I now ask you the same. Are you well?”

Jane’s shoulders stiffened—just slightly—but her expression remained neutral. “Oh—yes, of course.”

Elizabeth followed her gaze—to the drive. No one was coming—no carriages or horses or even gardeners on foot. But Jane seemed to be looking for someone, nonetheless.

Jane looked back to her embroidery, then looked up at Elizabeth. “I have been meaning to ask… what have you heard from your family?”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “My family?”

“Yes, surely they have written by now to see that you are settled in and content here. Your mother must miss you terribly.”

Oh. Yes, the mother in… Shropshire? Was that it? She cleared her throat. “I am sorry to say, I have not received one letter since my arrival, so I do wonder how they are getting on without me.”

Jane’s brow furrowed slightly. “Well, Papa mentioned that your father is ever so devoted to his fishing.”

Fishing. Right. That had been her story. Elizabeth forced a smile. “Yes. Quite devoted.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother?” Elizabeth repeated, stalling.

Jane nodded, waiting patiently.

Elizabeth’s mind was a blank. Who was her mother supposed to be? She had not the faintest idea what sort of woman she was meant to describe.

“Ah,” she said finally, keeping her tone light, “she is much the same. You know how mothers are.”

Jane smiled. “Indeed.”

Elizabeth made a mental note to speak with Mr. Bennet before the day was out. She would need a great deal more information if she were to continue this charade. Jane Bennet might be quiet and polite, but she was surely not stupid.

Elizabeth studied her face in silhouette, pondering about this girl who was so different from herself. Quiet… no, that was not right. Reserved —that was a better word. A riot of feeling was tossing on the stormy seas of Jane Bennet’s blue eyes, but it was kept in vicious check—for what reason, she could not say.

Then, unexpectedly, Jane’s grip on her embroidery tightened. Elizabeth frowned. “Are you well?” Jane’s shoulders tensed, just slightly, but her expression remained neutral. “Oh—yes, of course.” Elizabeth followed her gaze—again, to the drive.

Where a certain gentleman was stepping down from his carriage.

Mr. Bingley.

And suddenly, Elizabeth understood.

It was in the way Jane did not move, did not call out to him, did not let even a flicker of anticipation cross her face. It was too careful. Too measured.

Too much like a girl who had long since given up hoping.

Elizabeth turned back to Jane, watching her for a moment longer. Then, ever so casually, said, “Your Mr. Bingley seems to have arrived.”

Jane’s fingers jerked on the embroidery hoop. A single drop of blood welled up where the needle pricked her skin.

Now, this was interesting.

Jane’s mouth parted slightly, then snapped shut. A moment later, she forced a light laugh, dabbing at her fingertip with a lace handkerchief. “It is a funny thing that you should call him my Mr. Bingley,“ she said, too carefully, too deliberately. “We have no particular acquaintance. I believe Papa knows him better than any of the rest of us.”

Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed, but she smoothed her expression. “I misspoke,” she amended swiftly. “I meant—your neighbor.”

Jane’s lips pressed together, and though she nodded, something in her posture remained stiff. “Yes,” she murmured. “Our neighbor.”

Elizabeth turned her gaze back to the drive, humming thoughtfully.

How very, very interesting, indeed.

T he plan was simple.

Or at least, it should have been.

Darcy had orchestrated this visit with a perfect scheme in mind—convinced Bingley that a call upon the Bennets was due, persuaded him that a walk would be the most amiable of country neighborly gestures, and ensured that Elizabeth would be among those in attendance. It had all been done with the utmost subtlety, of course.

And yet, as they stood in the bright summer sunlight, watching the Bennet sisters retrieve their bonnets and gloves, Darcy had the distinct sense that he had once again miscalculated something.

He could feel it the moment Elizabeth adjusted her hat, a slow, deliberate motion as she glanced down the path. There was nothing remarkable in her posture, nothing obvious in her tone. And yet, something in the air shifted.

“Oh, look at the path ahead,” she remarked lightly, barely glancing toward it. “With all the rain last week, I daresay there will be mud in places.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. What the devil was she about?

It was nothing—just an idle remark. And yet, there was something—

“Oh! I shall go ahead and see if it is dreadful,” Lydia declared at once, snatching Kitty’s arm before anyone could intervene.

“What—? Lydia, wait—” Kitty stumbled after her, protesting faintly but making no real effort to resist. Their voices trailed off, skirts rustling as they hurried ahead.

Darcy sighed, looking after the dismissed sisters. She made that look too easy. Dash it all, how had he never thought of such a devilish clever means of getting rid of them?

“I suppose,” Elizabeth went on, “should the path prove troublesome, it is a fine thing that we have steady escorts.”

Darcy turned his head sharply. Apparently, she had not yet done.

Bingley straightened slightly, as if only just realizing the merit of the suggestion. “Quite right! Ladies ought to have proper support on uneven ground.”

Elizabeth dusted off her skirts with deliberate ease. “Indeed. A gentleman’s arm would be most welcome, particularly if the path is treacherous.”

Jane Bennet, who had been silent until now, went still, with great round eyes.

Darcy noted the shift—small, but unmistakable. A breath held, a glance flickered, a moment’s delay.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, adjusted her glove, deliberately avoiding any chance that Bingley’s gaze might blunder into hers. Oh, she was good.

Bingley hesitated for only a second before turning to Jane with an easy smile. “But of course! Miss Bennet, if you would allow me the honor?”

A pause.

Jane Bennet’s lips parted, as though a protest was forming—but she swallowed it.

“I… suppose I would not object to the company.”

Bingley brightened. “Splendid!”

Darcy kept his expression neutral, but his patience wore thin. Elizabeth merely smoothed her sleeve, not looking at him, not looking at anyone in particular.

And yet, she had done exactly what she meant to do. Without a single misstep.

Mary, who had been hanging reluctantly back, but still making a great show of donning her gloves, cleared her throat and glanced between Elizabeth and Jane. “Oh, well, if you two are together, perhaps I may as well remain at home. I never fancy being an odd number, and I did not finish my reading this morning.”

Darcy did not miss the way she clutched her book closer, nor the slight relief in her posture as she took a backward step toward the house.

Mrs. Bennet, who had been standing just inside the threshold, took one look at Mary’s stance and sighed. “Well, if you must, you must,” she said, though she sounded more exasperated than disappointed. “But do not sit cooped up all day, Mary. It is not healthy for a young lady.”

Mary nodded, already turning away, clearly pleased with the outcome.

“So,” Elizabeth said brightly as they began their walk, “how do you find the country air, Mr. Darcy? Quite different from London, I expect.”

Darcy shot her a sidelong glance. “Indeed. Though I am not unfamiliar with country life.”

“Ah, yes.” She clasped her hands behind her back, tilting her head slightly. “You did say you had family near Matlock, did you not?”

He hesitated. “I did.”

A little too much interest gleamed in her expression. “And are they all so… discreet as yourself?”

He did not dignify that with a response.

Elizabeth only hummed, falling into step beside him.

Bingley and Jane Bennet were ahead, though not far enough for Darcy’s comfort. He watched as Bingley leaned slightly toward her, speaking animatedly about something that made her smile.

He turned sharply back to Elizabeth. “You enjoy making sport of your ‘cousin,’ I see.”

Elizabeth blinked, all feigned innocence. “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

He gave her a look. “You orchestrated that pairing.”

She sighed, her expression one of exaggerated resignation. “You are entirely too suspicious, Mr. Darcy.”

Darcy lifted a brow.

Elizabeth pursed her lips. Then, with a small smirk, she said, “But I am also not denying it.”

Darcy sighed heavily. “Of course not.”

She clasped her hands, looking ever so pleased with herself. “It is only right that a gentleman should properly escort a lady, is it not? I cannot imagine what you are so put out about.”

Darcy did not dignify that with a response, either. Elizabeth Montclair was a menace.

He glanced at her. She was walking easily, idly trailing her fingers along the tall grasses lining the path. Her cheeks were flushed from the sun, and a slight breeze lifted a few wayward tendrils of dark hair from beneath her bonnet.

She was—comfortable.

A pity he had to wreck that.

Darcy cleared his throat. “I have a question for you, Miss Elizabeth.”

She glanced at him, arching a brow. “Oh? Is this an interrogation?”

“Hardly.” Darcy adjusted his stride, angling slightly toward her. “You have told me before what you saw that night, but I am beginning to suspect I did not ask you all that I should have.”

Elizabeth flicked him a glance, wary. “I cannot imagine what else there is to say.”

“You might begin by telling me why you were there in the first place.”

Her expression did not change. “Oh, you know. The thrill of high-stakes politics. The electric energy of the crowd. I simply could not resist.”

Darcy gave her a flat look.

Elizabeth sighed. “Would you believe I was merely sightseeing?”

“No.”

“Well, there we are, then.” She clasped her hands behind her back, picking her way neatly over a root. “And besides, you seem quite determined to be unimpressed by my explanations, so what is the use?”

Darcy eyed her. “Because, Miss Elizabeth, the Home Office does not make it a habit of dealing in absurdities.”

She lifted a brow. “A pity, then, for you.”

Darcy exhaled sharply, abandoning that line of questioning for now. He would pry it out of her sooner or later.

Instead, he shifted course. “You recall the moment the Prime Minister fell?”

Elizabeth’s hand stilled against the tall grass. “Yes.”

“Were you watching before the shot was fired?”

A beat.

Then, slowly, she nodded. “I was looking at the crowd in general, not at the Prime Minister specifically, but he was near the center of my view.”

His pulse quickened. He had assumed, of course, that she had been a witness after the fact, that the chaos of the event had rendered everything else a muddled haze. But if she had seen the moment before—

“What was his position?” he asked. “Did he turn? Did he see his killer?”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “I—” She hesitated.

He did not rush her.

Her brows furrowed. “He… turned slightly. Not toward Bellingham. Toward something else. Someone else. And then—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “It happened so fast.”

Darcy’s thoughts spun. This was new. Important. The trajectory mattered—if Perceval had turned toward something else—

Elizabeth was watching him now, her gaze sharp. “Why are you asking me this now?”

“Because, Miss Bennet, I was too busy keeping you alive before.”

That was apparently not enough to satisfy her. He felt her gaze warming his cheek and sighed. “And because I am running out of time.”

He turned his focus ahead to where Bingley and Miss Bennet were walking, but something still nagged at him. He considered dropping the matter, but no—this was his chance.

He glanced at her again. “And tell me another thing—why were you so interested in what was being said of Mr. Henry Audley at the garden party?”

Elizabeth stumbled.

It was only slight, only for a fraction of a second, but he caught it.

She recovered quickly, glancing at a fluttering tree bough overhead with feigned nonchalance. “I do not recall giving Mr. Audley’s name any particular notice.”

Darcy folded his hands behind his back. “Indeed?”

“Indeed. Who is he?”

“Nobody, apparently.” He watched her, waiting.

She did not meet his gaze. Rather, she stared straight ahead, but her jaw muscles were taut as a bowstring.

Darcy allowed a thoughtful grunt. “Then it must have been my imagination when I saw you loitering at the edges of the conversation.”

Elizabeth shot him a sideways glare. “It must have been.”

“Curious, though,” he mused, as if speaking to himself. “That my imagination should coincide so neatly with your unwavering attention whenever his name arose in conversation.”

Elizabeth made a noise of indignation. “Unwavering attention! That is ridiculous.”

“Of course.”

She huffed. “Very well. If you must know—I find Mr. Audley agreeable.”

Darcy arched a brow. “Agreeable?”

Elizabeth waved a hand. “You know. In a sort of… respectable, idealistic, utterly noble sort of way.”

“And what exactly are his superior qualifications?”

She sniffed. “He is a gentleman.”

“So am I.”

She made a scoffing sound. “He is a gentleman with money.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Now, see here—”

“Oh, do not look at me like that, sir,” she interrupted breezily. “You asked for an honest answer.”

He clenched his jaw. “I suppose I did.”

Elizabeth clasped her hands in front of her, looking ever so pleased with herself. “And now you have it.”

Darcy resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You are insufferable.”

“Yes, I know,” she said sweetly. “But I am also a key witness in a murder investigation. Which, I believe, is more than some people can say.”

Darcy inhaled deeply, forcing himself to return his focus to the path ahead. This woman would drive him to madness.

But at least, now, he had an answer.

E lizabeth lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The house was silent around her, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant sound of a clock ticking in the hallway.

She turned onto her side. Then her other side. Then onto her back again.

Sleep would not come.

Her mind wandered where she did not want it to go—London, her father, Charlotte. The Queen’s cool gaze. The Prince’s indolent smirk. And most of all—the shot. The acrid burn of the air in that terrible moment. The chaos. The truth she had tried to tell. The details taunting her, just at the edge of memory.

She exhaled sharply and sat up.

Her fingers fumbled for the small writing desk near her bed. A moment later, her hands found what they sought—her sketchbook, the charcoals Mr. Bennet had procured for her at Jane’s request. She flipped it open, the paper smooth beneath her fingertips.

For a while, she let her hand move freely, copying down the things that anchored her to the present—to this life she was living for a little while. Anything to help her think of something cheerful and pleasant rather than that moment.

Jane, bent over her embroidery, brow furrowed in concentration, needle poised midair.

Mr. Bennet at his desk, pen hovering as though caught between thoughts.

A vague outline of Longbourn’s garden, the gentle slope leading toward the fields.

The sketches were rough but familiar. Easy.

Her mind drifted, her strokes fluid, effortless. The repetition of it was calming, the gentle scratching against the page soothing.

Until, without thinking, her hand started sketching something else.

A face.

Her hand stilled when she realized what it was.

The lines were sharper than before, the shape of them forming too quickly, as if her memory had taken over her fingertips.

The jaw, angular and unshaven.

A shadowed cheekbone, gaunt in the dim light.

The thick brows, the narrow lips.

She had seen him.

Elizabeth’s breath caught.

She had not let herself recall this—not in full. She had spoken of him in vague terms, had told herself she had only glimpsed him for an instant. But her fingers knew better. The memory had been waiting. Lurking.

She had been steps away from him. Had felt his presence in that alcove, had seen his head turn toward her, the recognition flicker in his eyes.

Her stomach twisted.

He had seen her.

And now, here he was again, staring up at her from the page, his outline unmistakable, the sharp intensity of that gaze, piercing straight through her like a needle through silk.

Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears.

What if Darcy could use this?

She stared at the sketch, a prickle of unease running down her spine. But she did not allow herself to hesitate. Carefully, deliberately, she tore the page free and smoothed out the edges.

She folded it once, then again, tucking it beneath her pillow.

Tomorrow, she would give it to him.