Page 13 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Thirteen

May 21, 1812

T he breakfast table at Longbourn was a cacophony of sound.

It always was.

Elizabeth sat with her hands wrapped around her teacup, watching as the Bennet family moved around her in their usual morning chaos.

Kitty and Lydia argued over a bonnet, their voices rising and falling in an endless battle of frills and ribbons. Mary sat somewhat apart from the others, reading aloud from a book no one was listening to, undeterred by the lack of audience.

Mrs. Bennet sat at the head of the table, already deep in conversation—mostly with herself—about the latest gossip from Meryton. “—and I declare, Mr. Bingley is just the nicest young man! I only wish he would take more notice of our dear girls. But no, he is always all smiles and no action. I tell you, Mr. Bennet, he will let all his best years slip away before he realizes what a treasure is right before him!”

Mr. Bennet, safely ensconced behind his broadsheet, turned a page over with deliberate slowness. “How very tragic for him.”

Mrs. Bennet pursed her lips. “It is tragic, sir. If only he had the good sense God gave a goose, we might already be preparing a trousseau.”

Across the table, Jane cleared her throat and reached for the pot of honey, avoiding her mother’s pointed glance. “Mama, I believe you were speaking of Lady Lucas’s new gown?”

Mrs. Bennet brightened. “Oh! Yes, yes, I do not suppose you saw it, Lizzy—terribly unbecoming, poor woman. The color of boiled spinach.”

Elizabeth glanced up, amused. Whether Mr. Darcy liked it or not, it seemed she had become “Lizzy” to the Bennets. “I cannot think of anything more unfortunate.”

“Nor I!” Mrs. Bennet agreed, gesturing animatedly with her spoon. “What was she thinking? She ought to have consulted me. I always say, a lady must know what suits her.” She turned a critical eye on Kitty and Lydia, who were picking at their toast. “And that is why I say you two must have new bonnets. Yours are dreadful and you know it.”

Kitty and Lydia did not seem terribly put out by this observation. Lydia, in particular, beamed. “Then you shall take us shopping, Mama?”

“We shall see,” Mrs. Bennet said mysteriously, as if the fate of England depended upon it.

Mr. Bennet turned his broadsheet again, looking at his wife over the top of it. “Mrs. Bennet, I trust you are keeping a tally of all these necessary purchases? If I am to be ruined, I should at least like to know what tipped me over the edge.”

Mrs. Bennet scoffed. “Oh, you. I do not know why I bother speaking to you. You never take my concerns seriously.”

“My dear, I take them as seriously as they deserve.”

Mrs. Hill entered then, setting down another plate of warm biscuits. Jane murmured a polite thank you and reached for one, but Elizabeth noted the way her fingers whitened on the knife as her mother continued to lament Mr. Bingley’s inattention.

But whatever thoughts Elizabeth might have spared for Jane Bennet’s careful study of her breakfast were cut off by the sloshing of a pitcher of cream mere inches from her plate. Her eyes widened, but Lydia, who had caused the upset, carried on as if nothing at all were amiss.

And so did everyone else. They were the next thing to savages, it seemed. There were no dedicated footmen to bring in the morning meal. No maids standing quietly by to pour out tea and serve plates with cadence and finesse. Hill bustled in and out, bringing fresh dishes and taking away empty ones, but beyond that, the family helped themselves, passing plates and teapots, bickering over the last bit of jam.

Elizabeth had never seen anything like it.

She had thought herself prepared for country living. Had imagined, in those first chaotic days, that she was adjusting well enough. But she had never truly considered what it would mean to live like this.

With no schedule.

No formalities.

No one dedicated to her needs or waiting for her requests.

She was… untethered.

And she hated that it made her feel so inept. As if she could not do for herself—that somehow, these simple country girls were more capable, more confident, and better able to manage than she, the daughter of a marquess.

“Lizzy,” Jane said softly, drawing her attention.

Elizabeth blinked. “Sorry?”

Jane smiled gently, passing her the teapot. “Would you like more tea?”

Elizabeth hesitated. She had expected a maid to notice her empty cup. Had not thought to pour it for herself.

She forced a smile. “Yes, thank you.”

S he spent the afternoon watching.

Not intentionally, but she could not help it.

The Bennet sisters moved through the house with an energy that fascinated her.

Lydia and Kitty flitted in and out of rooms like a pair of restless birds, their chatter filling the house with relentless energy. Mary withdrew to the sitting room with a book, positioning herself in the best chair with an air of quiet triumph. Jane sat by the window, needle in hand, the sunlight catching in her golden hair as she worked a careful stitch into a delicate handkerchief.

Elizabeth had never embroidered anything in her life.

The thought struck her suddenly, absurdly.

She had learned Latin and Greek, could recite entire passages of Ovid, and had studied under some of the best painters and musicians in England—but she had never once held a needle for anything other than a perfunctory lesson in childhood.

Her mother had not been there for most of her life to see it done, her governesses were never able to gainsay her, and her father! Father had always said it was unnecessary. That she had no need to mend or sew.

And he had been right. It was not as if she needed “arts and allurements” to attract a husband. Her dowry and title would see to that, when she finally found a gentleman worth putting up with for that long.

And she certainly would never appear in public attired in something she created or even embellished with her unfinished talents. The very idea! That was what her favorite modiste was for.

But sitting here, in this house, watching these girls move through their day, effortlessly weaving themselves into the rhythm of domestic life—Elizabeth felt like an intruder. Not unwelcome. But… an outsider, peering through a window.

She had never thought of herself that way before.

In her world, she had always known precisely where she belonged. The grand rooms, the structured schedules, the endless stream of lessons and tutors. Every moment of her day had been carefully arranged to shape her into something —a lady—countess, marchioness, or even perhaps a duchess—something that would be a credit to her father’s name.

But here, in a modest country house, where sisters bickered over ribbons and their mother fretted about bonnets and a father indulged them all with dry wit and mild exasperation… Elizabeth felt like a traveler who had lost her map.

And, for the first time, she wondered—had she ever known where she was going in the first place?

She swallowed, turning away.

She missed her father.

It was not as if they had spent every waking moment together. He had always been busy—meetings, affairs of state, the weight of his title deepening the lines in his face by the day. She had never minded. That was simply the way of things. And yet, sitting here in the Bennets’ parlor, where Mr. Bennet played chess with her and teased his daughters and Jane sat quietly sewing beside her…

It unsettled her.

Not because she wanted her father to be more like Mr. Bennet—he was a marquess, after all, not a country gentleman—but because, for the first time, she was beginning to wonder if she had ever truly known him.

And if she did not know him, then what exactly was she longing for?

The thought left an odd taste in her mouth.

He was safe, of course. She knew that. The Queen had seen to that much. And he had no reason to suspect anything was amiss.

But someone had tried to kill her.

She had not allowed herself to dwell on it too much—the fire, the ruined bedroom, the implications of it all. But… if they knew where she lived, if they had expected her to be there… how long before they realized she was not?

How long before they decided to pursue her father to get to her?

The idea was absurd. Her father was a marquess, one of the most powerful men in England. He had allies, influence, a reputation that could not be touched.

But ten days ago, she would have said the same about the Prime Minister.

A chill crept up her spine.

No. It was foolish.

No one had ever suggested he might be in danger. Darcy had cared only about keeping her safe. The Prince himself had hardly seemed to think the matter worth his concern.

Still.

She could not write to him. He had word from “her” already, did he not? She would only cause confusion, and Darcy… oh, that Darcy fellow’s head would spin like a dervish if he heard of it.

But perhaps…

Charlotte?

Yes.

Charlotte was expecting her to be away. It would not be strange for her to receive a letter. It would not raise suspicion. And it might just ease a bit of her homesickness.

T he numbers blurred.

Darcy blinked hard, rubbing his fingers against his temples. He could not afford fatigue. Not now.

A candle guttered beside him, wax pooling at its base. The night had stretched thin, creeping toward morning, but still, he pored over the ledgers. Something had to be here.

A connection. A misstep. A name.

Instead, all he saw were numbers—cleverly shifted, redirected, passed through so many hands that they left no discernible trail. But this was not impossible. He had uncovered fraud before, traced careful deceptions to their origin.

This time, however, it felt as if the ground was shifting beneath him faster than he could gain his footing. Darcy exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had not eaten since—when? Yesterday morning? The thought made his stomach turn.

He was tired. Too tired.

That, at least, explained why his mind kept betraying him, why distractions crept in where they had no business being.

Georgiana. He should have sent word to her by now. She was still safely ensconced at Matlock House under his aunt’s watchful eye, but for how much longer? How much longer could he leave her in the hands of others—dependent, unsettled, waiting for a home that no longer existed? His sister should have had a future filled with security, with certainty, with a home of her own at Pemberley. But Pemberley—

He rubbed his jaw.

Pemberley.

His mouth twisted. He had not stepped foot on its land in ten years, had not laid eyes on its sweeping hills or walked its halls since the Crown had deemed his father’s line unfit to inherit. But it was his. It ought to be still his. If the Prince would only—

Darcy’s teeth clenched. If.

He was a fool to think Prince George could be made to exert himself on his behalf. This was not the first time he had been offered a “consideration” only to be brushed off. To find the rug pulled out, the finish line moved. The Prince liked to say one thing and mean another.

This time, however, Darcy was rather certain of the expectation… of what Prince George really wanted of him. It was more than what he said, that much was sure. And it would absolutely cost more than he was willing to pay.

And that led him to—

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Now, why the devil had she come to mind when he thought of impossible obstacles?

Elizabeth Montclair.

Blast her.

Darcy scowled, pressing his fingers to his temple. Of all the irritations of the past week, none had proven more insidious than Lady Elizabeth Montclair, smugly ensconced in Hertfordshire under the ridiculous name of “Miss Bennet”—as if that flimsy alias could somehow temper her relentless obstinacy.

She was a distraction, a dangerous distraction. Not because she was incapable—no, that would have been far easier to manage—but because she got under his skin. From the moment he first met her, his reactions to her…

He closed his eyes, willing the vision of her upturned face out of his mind. The real problem was that she was reckless. A woman with no understanding of caution, who would almost certainly be discovered not by ill luck but by her own doing. If something was going to betray her, it would not be some slip of fate, but her. Her own imprudence. Her temper. Her inability to sit quietly and let matters run their course.

And yet—even as he told himself so, his thoughts betrayed him.

Sharp brown eyes, holding no fear, only defiance. The haughty tilt of her chin, the way she dared him to match wits with her at every turn. The curve of her mouth when she found something amusing—usually him.

Darcy exhaled hard and pushed back from the desk, shoving his chair away with too much force. He had no time for this. The ledgers… there must be some—

A sharp knock at the door cut through his frustration.

Darcy tensed. At this hour?

The knock came again, insistent.

He stood, rolling his shoulders before striding across the room. When he opened the door, a man in dark livery stood before him, looking neither tired nor apologetic for the lateness of the hour.

Darcy’s jaw tightened. Carlton House.

The messenger did not bow, did not hesitate. He merely extended a letter—thick, sealed with the Prince’s insignia.

Darcy took it, breaking the wax with his thumb. Darcy— Your report is overdue. I trust you will not keep me waiting further. Come at once. —G.P.R.

Darcy exhaled sharply, jaw clenching.

So. The Prince Regent had either been indulging himself all evening and only just now remembered Darcy’s existence, or he had deliberately chosen this hour, when fewer people might note the summons.

Neither possibility pleased him.

He looked up. The messenger was already stepping back into the shadows.

Darcy shut the door. There was nothing for it. He reached for his coat, shaking off his fatigue. He would have to be careful—cautious—but there was no delaying this.

Carlton House awaited.

T he candle wavered, throwing restless shadows across the small writing desk. Elizabeth sat, her chin propped on one hand, the other gripping a quill she had yet to put to use. Outside, the house was quiet. Peaceful. The only sounds were the occasional creak of the old timbers settling for the night and the distant hush of wind through the trees.

She ought to be asleep.

She wanted to be asleep.

Instead, her thoughts chased themselves in endless circles, refusing to still.

With a sigh, she dipped her quill in ink and began. Charlotte, I hope this letter finds you well. You must forgive my silence. I have been terribly—

She paused.

Terribly what?

Not busy. That was a lie. She had done nothing of consequence in days.

Not unwell. That, too, was false. She was perfectly well. Restless, impatient, and irritated beyond measure, but well.

She frowned, tapping the quill against her chin. Careful. She had to be careful. If this letter ever found its way into the wrong hands, it needed to be ordinary. Expected. —terribly occupied with travel. The Queen’s ladies have been most gracious, and I find myself enjoying their company immensely.

That was good.

Vague, but believable. Almost.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, her quill hovering over the page. She smirked wryly, imagining the Queen’s ladies. Surely the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire would be among them, with her sharp, regal bearing and maddeningly impeccable manners. Perhaps Lady Anne Hartington, whose voice alone was enough to send Elizabeth into a stupor. And Lady Sybil Havisham—good Lord, Lady Sybil. That woman had been born to preside over a tea table, offering precisely the correct pleasantries in precisely the correct order, until all involved felt their very souls stiffen into fine china.

The image was nearly enough to make her laugh—nearly. If she were going to make this believable to Charlotte, she should mention… something. A milque-toast correspondence would surely make Charlotte, of all people, take notice. And so, she must take care to sound like herself, and to be sure the letter arrived by some expected means.

She could not send it from Meryton, of course. That would be foolish. But perhaps from London—if she could find some way to get it there. Darcy might be traveling back and forth. Could she tuck it among his letters? Oh, no. He would notice. He noticed everything.

She sighed, tapping a finger against the paper.

Perhaps she should wait.

Then again, was not her very intent to ease suspicion? Charlotte would be concerned if Elizabeth did not write. And she could do that convincingly, of that she was certain. What else should she write of to make the ruse sound authentic? Who else was she supposed to be with?

Lady Henrietta Westwood, who never spoke unless it was to criticize the cut of a gown.

Miss Eleanor Standish, whose greatest ambition in life was to marry well and be silent.

And of course, Lady Edith Montrose, whose conversation rarely extended beyond dogs and weather.

That was where she was meant to be.

And yet, she was here. At Longbourn. Playing chess with Mr. Bennet, watching Mrs. Bennet fret over the price of mutton at the market; where the biggest mysteries of her day were to wager with herself over which of the younger Bennet sisters would disgrace herself the fastest, and to ponder whether Jane Bennet truly pined for Mr. Bingley or if she just wanted someone to talk to.

Trying—failing—to feel like she fit among these people who were warm and welcoming and utterly unlike the world she had always known.

She let out a slow breath, setting the quill down for a moment. The firelight cast strange shadows across the desk, long and thin, flickering with the faintest draft that seeped through the old windowpanes.

She chewed her lip, trying to force her sluggish mind to focus on the one thing it required to slip into slumber. There would certainly be some satisfaction in this, and then she could sleep. Assure Charlotte she was well—even if the specifics were not true, the sentiment would be appreciated. And after that, the nagging blur that had jumbled her thoughts for so many days might clarify.

But what if this letter, this simple thing meant to bring her a shred of comfort, would only serve to reveal her?

She stared at the page.

No, she could be cleverer than that.

There were ways to disguise letters. She could think of a dozen schemes at once. Perhaps she could send it through a different town—Stevenage, perhaps—pay a coachman to carry it and post it from a place she ought to be, rather than where she was. A simple enough diversion.

Yes. That could work.

But…

There was still that feeling.

That creeping, insidious sensation that had followed her through Meryton yesterday. Through the market. Through the churchyard. The whisper of being watched.

Was it all in her mind? Probably.

Or… was she being foolish to ignore it?

She hated this uncertainty. This ridiculous, unnerving helplessness.

And worst of all, she could hear Darcy’s voice in her head, forced into unnatural evenness and ringing with infuriating prudence— “You cannot afford to be reckless.”

Elizabeth scowled.

Of course , he would say something like that. He was careful to a fault, striding about as if the weight of England’s safety rested solely on his shoulders. She could almost see the way he would react if he knew she was considering this. The sharp narrowing of his eyes. The subtle flickering of those rather spectacular jaw muscles. The exasperated way he would exhale and rub his forehead before lecturing her about caution.

But even he had to see the necessity of it. Surely, there was no harm in writing to Charlotte.

Surely, one letter could do no damage.

D arcy was shown in without ceremony.

The Prince Regent lounged in an opulent chair near the fireplace, his usual snifter of brandy dangling between two fingers. His cravat was slightly loosened, and his waistcoat strained against a stomach that had known too many rich meals. A platter of untouched fruit sat on the table beside him, yet another indulgence he would let go to waste.

“Ah, Mr. Darcy,” he drawled, not looking up immediately. “How kind of you to heed my summons with such urgency.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Your Highness.”

The Prince swirled his brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “I trust you have come bearing results?”

Darcy hesitated. The delay was brief, but it was enough.

The Prince’s gaze flicked upward, sharp as a blade. “Do not tell me,” he said, exhaling in exaggerated disappointment. “You have spent days scurrying about like an industrious little clerk, rifling through ledgers and listening at keyholes, and yet you have nothing to show for it.”

Darcy’s hands tightened behind his back.

“There are… irregularities in certain financial transactions,” he said carefully. “But they are buried beneath layers of false names and convoluted routes. If I had more time—”

“Time?” The Prince cut in, setting down his brandy with a deliberate clink. “Darcy, dear boy, I believe I was quite clear about your timeline.”

Darcy’s pulse ticked at his temple, but he kept his expression neutral. “Your Highness was explicit, yes. I have still six days, if Your Highness recalls.”

“But you have already had eight, and I ought to know something of you by now.”

Darcy drew a slow breath. “If I move too quickly, I may flush out our quarry before I have him cornered. I need him unaware that I am closing in.”

The Prince made a low sound in his throat, neither agreement nor dissent. He leaned back, tapping a lazy finger against his knee.

“And while you have been floundering about,” he mused, “I hear whispers in Parliament—nagging little suggestions that we might need a public inquiry. And if that happens, well—how fascinating it would be to see what else turns up. Such investigations have a way of unearthing all sorts of… complications.”

He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Why, even your dear Pemberley might make for an interesting study, if anyone ever chose to look into it.”

A slow, deliberate threat.

Darcy’s stomach twisted, but he remained still. Pemberley—his Pemberley—had been caught in legal limbo since his father’s disgrace. A technicality, the Prince had once said with an airy wave of his hand. An unfortunate situation that might one day be resolved.

But only if it suited the Crown.

Darcy clenched his jaw. As he expected, the Prince was going to keep dangling this, keep needling him with false hope. But if there was even the slightest chance that he might reclaim it—

The Prince watched him, smug and knowing. “I imagine you understand my predicament,” he continued. “I am a patient man—so patient—but eventually, I shall require a resolution.”

Darcy forced his hands to unclench. “I will have something soon.”

The Prince smirked. “Yes, you will.”

A pause.

Then the Prince leaned forward slightly, the light from the fire catching his round face. “And the lady?” he asked, voice deceptively idle. “Lady Elizabeth Montclair. Where have you stashed her?”

Darcy’s pulse beat once, twice. He had anticipated this as well. He met the Prince’s gaze without flinching.

“Your Highness was quite firm. The lady was to be kept safe. She is safe.”

The Prince studied him for a long moment. Then—he chuckled.

“Oh, you are good, Darcy.” He sat back again, shaking his head in amusement. “Very well. Keep your secrets. I trust she remains… undamaged?”

Darcy stiffened.

The Prince laughed outright. “Of course, of course,” he said, waving a hand. “A gentleman of unimpeachable integrity. A pity. A lesser man would have made better use of the situation.”

Darcy’s grip tightened behind his back.

The Prince took another slow sip of his brandy, still smiling. “I will allow you a few more days,” he said, all magnanimity. “But if you fail me, Darcy, I may grow impatient. And when I grow impatient…” His smile did not reach his eyes. “Well. Let us hope you do not test my good nature.”

Darcy bowed, forcing the tension in his shoulders to remain unseen.

“Your Highness.”

He turned and strode from the room without haste, without showing his hand.

It was only when he reached the cool night air outside Carlton House that he let out a slow breath, hoping his pounding heart did not echo through the very halls he had just left.

He needed to move faster.