Page 14 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Fourteen

May 22, 1812

D arcy had not been home.

Not to his flat, not to change his clothes, not even to rest.

The dim morning light filtered through the high windows of the Home Office as he sat at his desk, sleeves pushed to his elbows, fingers smudged with ink. A half-eaten biscuit sat forgotten near his elbow. His coat, discarded hours ago, hung over the back of his chair, and his waistcoat had long since been unbuttoned in silent surrender.

He had come straight here after Carlton House, bypassing sleep in favor of burying himself in ledgers, in reports, in anything that might lead to an answer.

And yet—

Nothing.

He dragged a hand through his hair, staring blearily at the open ledger before him. The pages blurred together. Numbers, names, transactions. A maze of financial records designed to conceal rather than reveal.

Whoever had orchestrated this had been careful. Too careful.

A chair scraped against the wooden floor nearby. “You look as if you were dragged backward through a hedge, Darcy.”

He did not look up. “Insightful, Hughes.”

William Hughes had been a colleague of his at the Home Office for several years. Sharp-minded, competent, and, unfortunately, too observant for Darcy’s liking.

Hughes leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Are we to assume you’ve been poring over these records all night?”

Darcy did not answer.

A silence. Then, the rustling of paper as Hughes picked up one of the ledgers Darcy had abandoned. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why you’ve suddenly taken an interest in… parliamentary stipends?”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. Of course, Hughes would notice. He had hoped to work in relative peace, but that was a vain wish in an office where curiosity was currency.

He chose his words carefully. “Just reviewing something for His Highness.”

Hughes raised a brow. “Ah, of course. The Prince Regent. Odd timing, would you not say?”

Darcy’s quill froze, but he did not look up. “What can possibly be ‘odd’ in the timing of any request from the Prince?”

“Not from him, no. I should think nothing His Highness requests ought to come as a surprise by now. But you—why, you look like a spectre, and with all these comings and goings, I almost forgot you had a month’s leave.”

Darcy’s jaw flinched. “And I shall resume my leave as soon as I have answered a question or two. The matter concerns no one else.”

“Of course. How silly of me to assume you might be wasting your time on something trivial.”

Darcy did not flinch. “I do not waste my time.”

“Mm. Except on things you cannot—or will not—explain.” Hughes tapped a finger against the ledger before setting it down with a sigh. “Look, I care nothing for what game you are playing. But if you are digging for something that does not officially exist, be careful. Some people do not like to have their ledgers scrutinized.”

Darcy’s fingers tightened around his quill. “Noted.”

Hughes gave him a long, considering look before shaking his head and pushing back from the desk. “For mercy’s sake, get some sleep, Darcy. You are starting to look like one of those miserable romantics who waste away from consumption.”

With that, he strolled off.

Darcy exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. He did not have time to waste away.

He turned back to the ledger, forcing himself to focus. The numbers told a story—one that someone had gone to great lengths to bury.

And yet—something was shifting. He could feel it.

It came in pieces. A conversation here. A notation there. Nothing definitive, but enough to set his nerves on edge.

Fitzwilliam had mentioned it so offhandedly yesterday that it had barely registered at the time: Lord Cunningham of Northumberland has funded political endeavors before.

Not an accusation. Not even a new revelation. But confirmation of something Darcy had long suspected.

The problem was, they had no proof of Cunningham’s involvement in Perceval’s death. Or even a motive, really. They were rivals, but Perceval had many rivals.

Money was moving. That much was certain. But wherever it was going, the trail vanished too cleanly.

Someone had taken great care to ensure there were no loose ends.

Darcy’s fingers tightened on his quill until it bent between them. He hated being two steps behind.

And yet, that was precisely where he was.

T he morning was mild, sunlight filtering through the thin clouds, painting the dusty road to Meryton in shades of gold. Elizabeth took a refreshing gulp of the crisp country air, adjusting the bonnet ribbons beneath her chin as she and Jane strolled into the bustling town.

She had been careful. Careful to suggest the errand casually, careful to ensure that it was Jane who accompanied her and not one of the younger girls, who were too excitable and too likely to pry.

Jane, predictably, had been happy to oblige.

It was only a letter.

A harmless letter.

But as they walked, Elizabeth could not shake the sensation that she was doing something reckless. Not dangerous, exactly—she had taken every precaution—but reckless in a way that pricked at her conscience and thrilled her in equal measure.

The plan was simple. She had slipped away, briefly, to pay a farmer who was driving toward London to post it at a different stop while Jane was distracted with some ribbons or lace. And now she was free of the letter and the gnawing feeling of homesickness that had driven her to write it in the first place.

Perhaps now, she would feel… settled.

As much as she could be.

“Miss Bennet! Miss Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth turned to see Mr. Bingley approaching, his usual warm expression lighting up at the sight of them. Jane, beside her, drew in a sharp breath.

Ah . There it was.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“Mr. Bingley,” she greeted, curtsying as he reached them. Jane followed suit, though her curtsy was stiffer, more hurried.

“What a happy coincidence,” Bingley said brightly. “I had been intending to call at Longbourn later today, but now you have saved me the trouble.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “How fortunate for you, sir.”

Bingley grinned at her before turning his full attention to Jane. “Miss Bennet, I hope you are well?”

Jane’s gloved fingers fumbled with the stitching along the edge of her reticule. “Very well, thank you, Mr. Bingley. And your sisters?”

“Oh, quite well,” he said, brightening at the question. “Caroline has been occupied with a great deal of correspondence—friends in London, you know. And Louisa keeps busy helping to manage the household.” He gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I believe they find country life a bit… uneventful.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Do they indeed? And you, sir? Have you found Hertfordshire equally dull?”

Bingley laughed. “Not in the least! I must confess, I have been quite entertained.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I am glad to hear it.”

Jane, on the other hand, only smiled, her fingers still nervously working with her reticule.

Bingley hesitated, as if expecting more, but when nothing came, he continued, “Surely you have heard by now of the Meryton Planting Festival next week. I do hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you there?”

Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes. He was looking directly at Jane when he said it, though Jane, as ever, kept her gaze lowered, nodding politely rather than giving him anything like encouragement. She only murmured something about it being a kindness for the Lucases to take on the chief duty of organizing the festivities again.

Bingley beamed. “Yes, quite! It shall be a fine day. I believe there will be games and dancing and more food than we can all eat. I have promised a few kegs of apple cider from Netherfield’s cellars.”

Jane’s cheeks pinked, but her response was simply, “I do love cider.”

Elizabeth resisted the urge to groan.

Mr. Bingley lingered a moment longer, but when Jane gave him nothing further, he eventually made his farewells and strolled off down the street.

Elizabeth turned sharply to Jane the moment he was out of earshot. “You are absolutely, maddeningly pathetic!”

Jane blinked at her, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

Elizabeth huffed. “Must I spell it out for you? You have a tendre for Mr. Bingley.”

Jane’s face went entirely pink. “Elizabeth—”

“You need not deny it. I am not blind.”

Jane shook her head, hands clasping together tightly. “It is nothing.”

“It is certainly not nothing.“ Elizabeth threw her hands up. “You are in love with him, and yet you stand before him like a statue! The poor man probably believes you find him dull and tiresome.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “No! I would never—”

“And yet, you barely spoke to him just now. He was practically begging for some sign of encouragement, and you gave him none.”

Jane looked down at her hands. “I do not know how.”

Elizabeth frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jane hesitated before saying, quietly, “I do not know how to… to act in such a way. Lydia and Kitty flirt. Even Mary, in her way, postures for attention. I do not. I do not know how to make my affections known.”

Elizabeth softened. She had been most often amused by Jane's restraint, but there was something achingly earnest in her expression now.

“I know…” Jane gulped on a particularly large gasp of air. “I know Mama wishes I would do more to attract his notice. I try —not to please her, but because I truly do fancy him. I cannot change who I am, Elizabeth. But I do not wish for him to think that I dislike him.”

Elizabeth considered this. “Perhaps you do not need to change who you are,” she said. “Perhaps you simply need to allow him to see who you are.”

Jane smiled faintly, but did not look convinced. They began walking again as Jane stared at the ground. After a moment, she turned the question back on Elizabeth. “Have you ever had such feelings?”

Elizabeth blinked, caught off guard.

She parted her lips to reply, but… nothing came.

Henry Audley.

That was the name that ought to come first. The name she had once told herself would be the answer to that question.

Henry Audley. Steady, composed, articulate. He had a way of speaking that made people listen—his words passionate, his arguments rational, never given to mundane compromises or unfeeling decision. He was principled, intelligent, admired. And unlike so many men of politics, he had never seemed condescending when he spoke, never dismissed an opposing view with mere arrogance.

She had respected that about him. Liked that about him.

And yet…

Her thoughts strayed—unbidden, unwelcome—to another man entirely.

A scowl. A pair of disapproving blue eyes. A voice laced with exasperation. And most outrageously of all, the only person she could entirely trust.

Darcy.

She nearly tripped over a loose stone in the path.

She straightened quickly, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the thought.

“Well?” Jane prompted.

Elizabeth cleared her throat, forcing herself to look composed. “Once,” she admitted. “Briefly.”

Jane’s brows lifted. “And what did you do about it?”

Elizabeth let out a breath, staring ahead at the road before them.

What had she done? Got caught witnessing a murder, that was what she had done. Been in the wrong place at the wrong time, that was the great outcome of her romantic conquest.

“Well,” she said finally, glancing sidelong at Jane with a wry smile, “it was a dreadful failure, I can tell you that much.”

Jane’s lips twitched. “Oh?”

“The gentleman in question did not fall at my feet in an insensible stupor of admiration. Can you imagine? The audacity.”

Jane laughed. “How tragic for you.”

“Quite. I am sure I shall never recover.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the wind rustling softly through the trees.

Then, more thoughtfully, Jane asked, “Would you have wished him to?”

Elizabeth blinked at her. “Hmm?”

“Would you have wished for him to… return your affections?”

Elizabeth’s throat worked. A week ago, she would have had an answer. A week ago, everything seemed so simple for her.

Now… she did not know.

T he air was thick with the remnants of London’s daily filth—coal smoke and damp, the scent of overripe refuse lingering even in the wealthier parts of town. Darcy stepped out from the Home Office, rolling his shoulders, exhaustion clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He had spent the better part of the day poring over ledgers, speaking in carefully neutral tones to men who knew more than they admitted, men who gave him just enough information to be infuriating but never enough to be useful.

His patience had worn thin.

He did not go home. Instead, he walked.

Long, deliberate strides carried him through the streets, past darkened shop windows and flickering gas lamps, his thoughts pacing just as relentlessly.

Someone powerful wanted this buried.

Someone was probably watching him by now.

And despite all his talents, his considerable connections and abilities, he was missing something.

The thought gnawed at him as he crossed into Mayfair, weaving through the last of the evening’s carriages and the occasional late-night reveler. Somewhere in the city, the truth was lying in plain sight, obscured only by the careful placement of numbers in ledgers and names hidden behind layers of financial obfuscation.

His estate. His name. His family’s honor.

He should have been thinking of that.

Instead—

“Well, well,” came a lazy drawl from just ahead. “Now here is a sight I never thought to see again.”

Darcy stilled.

He did not need to look up to know who it was.

George Wickham was leaning against the rail outside White’s, the remnants of an expensive Havana dangling from his fingers, his coat slightly askew in a manner that might have been fashionable if it had not been so careless. His hair was a touch too long, his smirk a touch too smug, and every inch of him radiated the kind of easy, indolent confidence that made Darcy’s teeth clench.

“Lord Darcy,” Wickham greeted, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Or is it simply ‘Mister Darcy,’ these days? What is your proper title now? Or has the crown finally seen fit to return you to your former glory?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. He should have walked away. Wickham was not worth the effort, and Darcy had long since sworn to himself that he would not waste breath on a man who had profited so handsomely from his family’s ruin.

And yet—

The smirk. The drawl. The sheer gall of the man standing there, dressed in the finest of his stolen wealth, leaning against the railing as though he owned the world.

Darcy’s fingers curled into fists. “How fortunate,” he said coldly, “that you have taken such an interest in my affairs.”

Wickham’s smirk deepened. “Oh, but I always have, Darcy. It is something of a habit, you see—taking an interest in things that used to be yours. Or rather, things that ought to have been mine from the start. Strange, is it not, how the world sees fit to balance itself?”

Darcy inhaled slowly through his nose. He refused to give Wickham the satisfaction of a reaction.

“How is Pemberley?” he asked instead. As if he did not already know the answer.

“Ah, Pemberley.” Wickham exhaled dramatically, as if indulging in the mere idea of the estate. “She is as lovely as ever, though I confess, I have not been giving her the… attention she deserves.” His gaze flickered to Darcy, deliberate and taunting. “I am sure you understand. Busy men, and all that.”

Darcy’s pulse drummed against his temples. He had known, of course, that Pemberley was being mismanaged. It had been plain in the letters his former neighbors had sent him, in the carefully diplomatic phrasing of the housekeeper who still reported to him in secret. But hearing it from Wickham himself—seeing the satisfaction in his face—was another matter entirely.

“One ought to be careful with such treasures,” Darcy said evenly. “Neglect has consequences.”

Wickham only laughed. “Indeed it does. But I suppose we all must learn that lesson in our own way, must we not?”

Darcy stared at him, at the careless slant of his posture, at the lazy curl of smoke wafting from the stub of his cigar, at the way he had built his entire fortune upon the ruin of another man’s legacy.

He had wasted enough time. Without another word, Darcy turned sharply on his heel, walking away before he did something regrettable.

Behind him, Wickham chuckled. “No parting words? No high-handed lectures?” He raised his glass in mock salute. “Pity. You used to be much more entertaining, Darcy.”

Darcy did not look back.

Let him drink himself into oblivion. Let him squander what he had stolen. Pemberley would fall into ruin under his care. That much was inevitable.

But Darcy would see it restored.

And Wickham—

Wickham would not be the one to stop him.

May 23, 1812

T he late spring air was warm, humming with the lazy drone of bees and the occasional rustle of a light breeze through the trees. On the swing beneath the old oak, Kitty and Lydia giggled breathlessly over some whispered absurdity, while further down the lawn, Elizabeth sat beside Jane on a blanket, their bonnets abandoned beside them in the grass.

Elizabeth had been teasing her for the better part of a quarter-hour now, and at last—at last—she had wrung from Jane a proper laugh.

A real one. Not the polite, reserved chuckle she was so practiced at offering in company, but a full, unguarded laugh.

Elizabeth grinned. “You see? That is much better.”

Jane pressed a hand over her mouth, as though to recapture the sound and shove it back into its proper confines. “I do not—” Another breathless chuckle escaped. “I do not know what you expect me to do, Elizabeth. I simply cannot be as obvious as Lydia and Kitty.”

“Nor should you be,” Elizabeth assured her. “But you are not doomed to stand at the edge of the room like a marble statue, waiting for Mr. Bingley to come to his senses, either.”

Jane huffed a small, reluctant smile.

Elizabeth tapped a finger against her chin. “You must be subtle. Gentle. Unassuming. Thankfully, you have had a lifetime of practice at that.”

“Elizabeth!” Jane scolded, though she was smiling.

“You might let your eyes linger on his for a moment longer than necessary. Or tilt your head just so when he speaks. Perhaps even laugh at his jokes—”

“I do laugh at his jokes.”

“Yes, but you must laugh as if you think him the wittiest man in England.”

Jane gave her a dubious look. “He will think me a simpleton. He does not even pretend to be any such thing.”

Elizabeth grinned. “Yes, well. You must at least make him believe you believe it.”

Another small laugh from Jane, and Elizabeth felt oddly triumphant.

From the swing beneath the old oak, Lydia and Kitty’s giggles rang out. “Oh, but I would have died of laughter had you heard Mr. Tyndale talking about Mrs. Purvis’s drawing room rugs!” Lydia was exclaiming. “He said it as if he actually believed it.”

Kitty, breathless with mirth, clung to the ropes of the swing. “And did you see the way he tripped over his own feet? I nearly fell into a fit!”

Elizabeth shook her head, returning her attention to Jane. “There, you have an example of the sort of… shall I say ‘empty words’ that you may freely avoid. You must do precisely none of that.”

Jane pressed her lips together, stifling another laugh.

Elizabeth tilted her head, studying her. “But you are afraid of Miss Bingley, are you not?”

Jane hesitated. “Afraid of her? She is… well, I think she is a very fine lady.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Come now. You think she would eat you if given the chance.”

“Do not be ridiculous.”

Elizabeth arched a brow.

A pause.

Then Jane muttered, “…Perhaps only a little.”

Elizabeth grinned. “Then it is a fortunate thing that Miss Bingley is not the one you are trying to impress.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “You need not be obvious, Jane. You need not drop your lace handkerchief or sigh his name at inopportune moments.”

Jane gave her an exasperated look.

“But,” Elizabeth continued, “you might consider a little flutter of the lashes when he next takes your hand for a dance.”

Jane’s blush deepened. “But he almost never asks—”

“A brief brush of your glove against his sleeve—”

“Elizabeth, stop.”

Elizabeth grinned. “A slight, breathless sigh whenever he enters a room—”

Jane was laughing again, shaking her head. “You are impossible!”

“Yes, well. Someone must guide you in these things, Jane.”

Jane shook her head, still smiling.

And then— the sound of carriage wheels. Both girls turned as a dark, unfamiliar carriage rolled into the drive, its well-kept horses coming to a slow halt before the house.

Elizabeth’s mirth faded instantly. Her stomach clenched, her heart tightening into something uneasy. Was it…?

She was being foolish. It was likely nothing. But her eyes darted to Jane, searching for confirmation that this was unexpected.

Jane frowned. “I do not know who that could be.”

Elizabeth released a breath. Not Darcy, probably. Not yet. Surely, he was still in London, and up to his rather nice shoulders in paperwork.

Mr. Bennet stepped outside now, hands in his pockets, his expression one of mild resignation. He barely spared the carriage a glance before shifting his attention toward his daughters.

“Well, my dears,” he said dryly. “It seems we are to have a guest.”

The carriage door opened. A tall, rather solemn-looking man stepped down, his movements stiff and deliberate. He took in Longbourn’s facade, then turned to Mr. Bennet with a deep bow.

Elizabeth blinked.

Jane did, too. Then she glanced toward her.

“Oh dear,” Jane murmured. “I believe that must be Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

Jane’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Papa’s cousin, Elizabeth. The one who is to inherit Longbourn.”

Elizabeth glanced back at the stranger, watching as he straightened and adjusted his cuffs with an air of importance. “You have never met him?”

Jane shook her head. “No. Nor have my sisters.” A slight sigh. “Papa must have known he was coming, but he said nothing to Mama.”

Elizabeth winced. “I imagine that was a strategic choice.”

Jane pressed her lips together, her blue eyes holding a tinge of sympathy. “Mama will set up a real fuss now.”

Elizabeth sighed.

Then Jane’s expression shifted. Her brow pinched slightly. “Oh dear.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “What?”

Jane’s gaze flickered toward the house, then back to Elizabeth. “Where is he to stay?”

Elizabeth hesitated. The thought had not even occurred to her. There were always rooms. Spare chambers, guest apartments, places tucked away for when company arrived. At Ashwick’s London residence, Elizabeth had never once needed to consider the logistics of accommodating a visitor.

She turned her gaze toward Longbourn.

Jane cleared her throat softly. “It… might become necessary for us to share.”

Elizabeth blinked.

Then, turning back to Mr. Collins—who was presently bowing a second time to Mr. Bennet—she smiled faintly.

“I can think of worse fates,” she murmured.

Jane laughed softly.

And just like that, she—Lady Elizabeth Montclair, who had never had to share anything in her life—was to have a roommate.