Page 18 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Eighteen

L ongbourn came into view, a welcome sight after the tumult of the afternoon.

Darcy had half a mind to mount his horse at once, return to Netherfield, and spend the remainder of the day attempting to forget the utterly infuriating conversation he had just endured.

He had almost admitted too much.

Too much truth. Too much of himself.

Elizabeth had tricked him into it, of course. She had pressed and prodded, and before he knew it, she had nearly unearthed secrets he had no intention of revealing.

And worse still, she had made him laugh afterward. As if he could forget—as if all could be wiped away and the impossible might be made possible.

Well. It did not matter now.

He was here. He had ensured her safety. His duty was fulfilled for the day. He would leave—

But something caught his eye. A rider.

Coming from the direction of Meryton at a determined pace.

Darcy’s gaze sharpened. He slowed his steps, the hairs on his neck prickling.

A messenger.

Bingley, beside him, glanced up in mild curiosity but said nothing. Elizabeth and Jane Bennet had slowed, murmuring something to each other as they approached the house. They had not yet noticed the rider.

Darcy had.

He stepped forward, his pulse beginning to thrum.

The messenger reached the drive at the same moment they did. He drew his horse to a halt before them, dismounting swiftly. He was a young man, dressed plainly but tidily, the unmistakable leather satchel of a courier slung across his chest.

“Begging your pardon,” the man said, nodding first to the ladies, then to the gentlemen. “I was sent to deliver this for Miss Bennet.”

Jane Bennet stepped forward instinctively, but the man glanced at his letter once more. “Are you Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

Darcy went utterly still.

Elizabeth blinked. “For me?”

The man nodded, extending the letter.

Jane, clearly unaware of anything amiss, smiled. “Why, Lizzy, you seem so shocked! Indeed, I am surprised you have not had more letters before now.”

Bingley chuckled. “Yes, surely your family must be anxious for news of you.”

Darcy barely heard them. His focus was on the sealed note in the courier’s hand.

The letter was creased. Slightly smudged.

The courier held it out, his expression one of complete disinterest. Just another errand to be completed.

Elizabeth reached for it, her fingers brushing the edge of the page before Darcy’s hand moved faster, intercepting it before she could take hold.

She startled, looking up at him with wide, questioning eyes. “Mr. Darcy—”

He barely heard her. His focus was locked on the creases and folds, his pulse slowing, thudding in his ribs. The paper was slightly roughened from handling, the edges damaged, the wax seal broken with no attempt to mend it. Someone had read this. And then, there was the handwriting.

Not some unknown correspondent’s. Not the rounded, simple scrawl of a country girl writing home to family. This was an elegant, disciplined hand, one instructed by a master—every stroke deliberate, every curve precise. A handwriting he had seen before—on official documents, invitations, correspondence between the highest of society.

Lady Elizabeth Montclair’s handwriting.

A muscle tightened in his jaw, his grip unconsciously stiffening around the letter. He turned sharply to the courier. “Where did you get this?”

The man straightened slightly, boots scuffing the gravel as he answered. “Left at the Meryton post, sir. No sender. I was just told to bring it to Longbourn.”

No sender.

Darcy exhaled slowly, the weight of those two words pressing heavily against his ribs. It should not be here. No one in Hertfordshire was supposed to have any connection to Lady Elizabeth Montclair, and no one outside Hertfordshire knew anything about “Elizabeth Bennet.”

And yet, here the letter was.

Elizabeth took a step forward, frowning. “It is just a letter.”

Before Darcy could reply, Jane Bennet’s voice broke in, gentle but curious. “Is something the matter?”

Darcy turned sharply, schooling his expression into something impassive. “No, Miss Bennet.” His voice was steady, clipped. “Only a minor confusion.”

The lady still looked uncertain, but Bingley merely smiled. “Come, Miss Bennet,” he said lightly, offering his arm. “I believe I promised your father a rematch at chess before we depart. We ought not keep him waiting.”

She hesitated for only a moment before allowing herself to be led inside, her soft murmur of agreement fading as they stepped through the doorway.

Darcy turned back to Elizabeth the moment they were alone, his tone flat and precise. “No, Lady Elizabeth , it is not ‘just a letter.’”

She hesitated, her brow knitting together in confusion, but Darcy barely noticed. The slow churn of anger in his chest burned too hot, too immediate.

His fingers curled tightly around the letter, the paper crinkling under the force of his grip. “Apparently,” he said, his voice low and biting, “you wrote to someone, for the handwriting is yours.”

Elizabeth went very still.

He did not stop. Could not.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his tone cold and cutting. “Was I unclear when I told you that you could not— must not—draw attention to yourself?”

Her eyes flashed, her spine stiffening. “I hardly think a letter—”

“You hardly think at all!” The words snapped out before he could stop them, his fury overriding any sense of caution.

Elizabeth’s nostrils flared, her chin lifting in immediate defiance, but Darcy refused to back down. His grip tightened around the letter before he thrust it toward her, forcing her to take it.

“Who was it?” he ground out. “To whom did you write?”

Her lips parted, as if weighing whether to tell him at all, but his dark stare pinned her in place. Finally, she exhaled sharply, barely above a whisper. “Charlotte.”

Darcy nearly cursed aloud.

Of course. Lady Charlotte Wrexham. One of Elizabeth’s closest companions—and the fact that he knew this smote all that was left of his pride. Blast him that he even knew Lady Elizabeth’s inner circles, but the fact that she had written to that particular friend—a woman well-connected enough that letters to and from her would surely be noted!

He raked a hand through his hair, his pulse pounding in his temple. “And you thought that wise?”

Elizabeth squared her shoulders, her chin tilting just so—a telltale sign that she was about to say something insufferably flippant. “I… I was so homesick! And I did not write to my father or my mother—you told me I should not, so I did not. I thought it safe enough to write to Charlotte, especially if I sent it by way of a different—”

“Safe?” His voice dropped, rough with frustration. “This was intercepted, opened, and returned to you. How does that strike you as safe?”

The color drained slightly from her face.

At last.

He watched as her gaze lowered to the page in her hands, scanning the seal, the rough folds, the telltale creases of a message that had been tampered with. The moment she understood it, a sharp breath escaped her lips. Her hands trembled—only slightly, but enough.

Darcy did not move.

He knew that look. He had seen it before in men who realized—too late—that their position on the battlefield was compromised. That the safe ground they had relied on was an illusion. Whoever had intercepted her letter had done so deliberately. And now, they had sent it back.

Not as a mistake.

As a warning. Someone wanted her shaken… wanted her to run.

His anger did not dissipate. It only coiled tighter, heavier. “You should get inside,” he said stiffly.

Elizabeth swallowed, then nodded once.

Darcy turned toward the house, his posture rigid, his thoughts already racing ahead.

Someone had her in their sights. Someone who had taken the time to intercept her correspondence, to ensure she understood she was not hidden. Not forgotten.

They knew exactly where she was.

T he door to Mr. Bennet’s library closed with a gentle click, but the sound echoed in Elizabeth’s chest like a thunderclap.

She had always liked this room. It had reminded her of a more homey version of her father’s study—quiet, comfortably cluttered, filled with shelves that smelled of leather and paper and thought. But now, it felt entirely foreign. Mr. Bennet stood behind his desk, the letter she wrote to Charlotte held loosely in his hand. Darcy hovered nearby, arms folded, gaze simmering with wrath.

Elizabeth had never felt so small.

“I believe,” Mr. Bennet said slowly, “that I have just learned more about my summer guest in five minutes than in the entire length of her stay.”

His voice was deceptively mild, but the look in his eyes was not.

Elizabeth forced herself to meet it. “I am sorry.”

“Indeed?” he said, raising a brow. “And which part, precisely, are you sorry for? Writing a letter that placed us all at risk? Or failing to mention that you were present for the murder of the Prime Minister?”

She flinched.

Darcy remained silent. He had not said a word since they entered the room. But Elizabeth could feel his disapproval, sharp and hot like the tip of a sword against the back of her neck.

Mr. Bennet gave a short sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Let me see if I have this correct. You were present in the House of Commons the day of the assassination, you fled the city under royal protection—in the form of Mr. Darcy here, which I have yet to understand—your maid was likely abducted or worse, and someone has now intercepted your letter and sent it back to you as a warning.”

Elizabeth lowered her gaze. “Yes.”

“Splendid.” He gave a dry chuckle, devoid of humor. “And here I thought the greatest danger to Longbourn this summer would be Lydia’s penchant for impetuous officers.”

“I never meant—”

“I do not care what you meant.” The words landed like a blow. Mr. Bennet’s voice remained quiet, but each syllable was edged with something Elizabeth had not expected: real anger. “What matters is what you have done. Your own house was burned. Is mine next?”

She sniffed once, staring at the floor. There was nothing else to say.

“I let you into this house because I trusted my friend.” He looked toward Darcy. “And I trusted that you would not bring ruin to my daughters’ doorstep.”

Elizabeth’s throat burned. She had never felt shame like this before. Not even when her father scolded her. Not even when the Queen’s men first whisked her away under armed escort. This was different.

This mattered.

“I am sorry,” she said again, the words low and unsteady. “Truly.”

Mr. Bennet stared at her for a long moment, then turned to Darcy. “What now? Do you intend to take her elsewhere?”

Darcy opened his mouth—but before he could speak, Mr. Bennet waved a hand.

“No, no. I will not have it.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “You will stay here.”

Elizabeth blinked. “What?”

Darcy’s brows drew together in clear confusion. “Surely, sir—”

“Where else, precisely, can you take her? Hmm? Short of hiding her away in a cabin in the woods or trundling her off to Scotland…”

Darcy coughed. “As a matter of fact, I—”

Bennet raised his hand again. “She certainly cannot take up residence at Netherfield, even with your sterling reputation, Mr. Darcy. And despite her… questionable choices, she has proved herself remarkably adept at beating me in chess, which makes her the most tolerable companion I have had in years.”

Elizabeth stared. “You cannot be serious.”

Mr. Bennet’s smile was tight. “I rarely am. But in this, I am entirely earnest. If whoever sought to harm you could have got to you here, they would already have done so. However, so far, it appears that you suffer from a bewildering combination of good luck and bad timing. Like enough, sharing a room with another girl was enough to give them pause, and anyone would have to be the veriest fool to try to attack you when Lydia is around. She would set up the hue and cry louder than one of His Majesty’s guards. I should think the very best thing you could do would be to remain at Longbourn.”

“But sir,” she protested, “they did not shrink from attacking my bedroom in London or abducting my maid. What do you think will keep your family safe if I am already discovered?”

Bennet frowned, then nodded at Darcy. “That chap there, I suppose. One day I will have the truth of it—what do you do, sir?”

Elizabeth shifted her gaze to the rather bothersome tyrant who had posted himself between her and disaster… time and again. He had been staring at the floor, but he lifted his eyes just once, flicking them between her and Mr. Bennet… and then his jaw clenched and he looked away.

“You may stay,” Mr. Bennet said, returning to his chair and reaching for a book, as though that settled the matter. “But from now on, I expect full honesty. No more surprises, Miss Montclair. You are not the only one with something to lose.”

She felt a strange heat prick at her eyes—exhaustion, perhaps. Or something else. Gratitude. Grief. Elizabeth nodded, swallowing hard.

“No more surprises,” she whispered.

D arcy had made many difficult decisions in his life.

He had stood before generals and lords, had been entrusted with tasks that would see lesser men ruined. He had faced down enemies in dark alleyways and sat across from politicians with blood on their hands.

But this—this wretched woman—had managed to put him in the most impossible position of all.

And the worst part?

She did not even seem to realize it. Probably not, at least. Perhaps it was better to say that the odds were not in his favor.

Darcy stood rigidly by the fireplace, the flickering light casting sharp shadows across his face. Mr. Bennet had just declared that Elizabeth would remain at Longbourn, a decision that, while practical toward the lady’s interests, did little keep others safe, or to quell the storm brewing within Darcy.

Elizabeth sat across from her host, her posture uncharacteristically subdued, eyes fixed on her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The usual spark in her gaze was dimmed, replaced by a sheen of remorse that Darcy had seldom witnessed. It almost looked genuine.

Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. “Well, it seems we have settled that matter.” His attempt at levity fell flat, the gravity of the situation rendering his usual wit ineffective. He rose from his chair, casting a lingering glance at Elizabeth before nodding curtly to Darcy. “I trust you both will exercise more caution henceforth.”

With that, he exited the room, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth alone amidst the oppressive quiet. How the devil Bennet meant to explain leaving him alone in his study with an unmarried female to his wife and daughters, Darcy had no idea. He would probably find himself “betrothed” to the woman before the day was out, but what did that matter? “Elizabeth Bennet” did not exist, anyway.

But Lady Elizabeth Montclair… he had a word or two to say to her. Once he trusted himself to speak at all.

The flickering candlelight caught the edges of her dark curls, framing a face full of defiance and wariness. “You have not said anything,” she observed.

Darcy exhaled slowly. “You wish for me to speak?” His words were clipped, cutting. “Very well. You have jeopardized everything. Everything.”

Her chin lifted slightly. “I did not mean—”

“Oh, let me guess.” His tone was venomous. “You did not mean for your letter to be intercepted. You did not mean to reveal your location. You did not mean to compromise your safety and put every soul in this house at risk.”

Her lips parted, then pressed together in frustration.

He continued, relentless. “Tell me, ‘Miss Bennet,’ when you wrote this letter, did you consider—for even a moment—that the men who killed the Prime Minister might still be watching your friends? That they might not have fallen for the same ‘holiday with the Queen’ ruse that fooled your father? That there are people who do not wish for you to speak?”

She hesitated. It was brief. Almost imperceptible.

But he saw it. And he felt sick.

Because she had not thought of it then.

She had not thought of it at all.

She swallowed, her eyes flashing up to him. “And what would you have had me do? Pretend my friends do not exist? Let them worry for me? Assume I have vanished off the face of the earth?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

Her nostrils flared. “That is—”

“Necessary.”

She let out a sharp breath, lurching back in her chair as if he had struck her.

Darcy turned away, pacing a few steps. He could not bear to look at her just now, not when anger still clawed at his chest like an unrelenting beast.

Not when fear still gripped him, despite his best efforts to force it down.

“I thought it would help.”

Darcy whirled. “What?”

Elizabeth closed her eyes, and a single tear leaked down her cheek. Genuine or not, at this point, he did not care. Or, at least, he should not care.

“I thought if Charlotte had word from me, she would not worry. That she would corroborate the story put out by Her Majesty, and no one would be the wiser.”

Darcy’s shoulders sagged. “Truly? Or are you inventing this tale now, after you have been found out, to make yourself look less culpable?”

She raised her gaze to him. “You hold such a dim view of a lady’s intellect that you truly believe such a creature would not be suspicious if her friend disappeared? You think a woman like Lady Charlotte Wrexham, or her mother, the Duchess—who both knew what I saw that day in the House of Commons—would not find it slightly alarming that I was suddenly ‘spirited away with the Queen’s ladies’?.”

Darcy swallowed. “I am certain Her Majesty—”

“Knows nothing of me!” she finished for him. “Do you suppose Her Majesty knows how I part my hair? Whether I prefer cream or lemon in my tea? That I have my own funny way of crossing my writing in correspondence, that I misspell the word ‘harbor’ every third time I write it?”

He stared at her. Of course not. He had not thought—had not cared—about cream or lemon. About the quirks of handwriting or the pattern of errors in a word. He cared only for her safety. For silence. For simplicity.

Elizabeth pushed on, her voice trembling but firm. “Do you imagine her secretaries can forge a friendship? The kind that knows when you are frightened from the way you sign your name?”

Darcy opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say.

He turned from her, jaw tight, the letter still crumpled slightly in his fingers. The blasted thing had compromised everything—and yet she sat there, explaining how she had meant well, as if that erased the danger.

“It was not your place,” he muttered, barely trusting himself to speak at all.

“And yet I was the one who was taken,” she said. “Not you. Not Her Majesty. Me .”

Darcy’s spine stiffened. She was right.

It did not make her actions less reckless. It did not absolve the risk. But it reminded him that all his caution, all his careful guarding, had come after the fact. She was the one who had witnessed a horror, and had her life upended because of it.

“I was trying to help,” she added softly, the light catching the shards of amber in her eyes as she turned her face toward the window. “To keep someone from worrying unnecessarily and stirring up the sort of gossip we wished to avoid.”

Darcy stared at her profile—so calm, so stubborn. She had disobeyed his orders—orders meant to keep her alive. She had endangered herself, as well as the entire Bennet family. But in her mind, she had done it to protect the thin lie that was currently keeping her hidden.

And somehow, infuriatingly, he could not condemn that.

“Whatever your intentions were , you are now compromised,“ he said at last, his voice low.

Elizabeth swallowed so hard he could hear her throat working across the room. “I know.”

“And do you understand what that means?”

She held his gaze. “That they know where I am. And who is sheltering me. And if they have half a wit, they have probably put together the name of the man protecting me.”

Darcy unleashed a sigh. So, she had spared the matter some thought. Some remorse. “Yes.”

She exhaled slowly, nodding, her face carefully blank. But there was something in her eyes—a flicker of something she had probably never let herself feel before.

Fear.

Not the petty fear of inconvenience or discomfort.

Real, honest terror.

She understood now.

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “I must stay.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I was meant to return to London. But I cannot leave now. Not when we know someone is watching you.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “You would abandon your work?”

His fingers twitched at his sides. “If my work follows you here, then my duty is here.”

Elizabeth swallowed. Her throat moved slowly, deliberately. “What do we do?”

Darcy straightened. “We must be vigilant. Trust no one outside this household—save, perhaps, Bingley at point of need. Any further correspondence must be scrutinized.”

She nodded jerkily. “I understand.”

Darcy’s mind moved faster now, pulling threads and sorting them into patterns. He paced once more, two strides to the hearth and back again, the beginnings of a plan taking form even as his pulse still thrummed with unease.

Elizabeth was being watched. That much was now certain. And they apparently wanted her scattered, terrified, thinking about running again…

Then… why not use it?

He turned to her abruptly. “If they are watching your movements—if they intercepted your letter—then they are intercepting from somewhere close.”

She frowned, following his logic, but wary. “You wish to draw them out.”

“I want to know where your letter was taken. Who had the opportunity. Which hand betrayed you.”

“And you think you can track that?”

He nodded once, sharp and certain. “It will take planning. I shall have to coordinate with Fitzwilliam, and perhaps involve a man or two from the Post. Quietly.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, her expression guarded. “You want me to write another?”

“Yes. Nothing too pointed. Another note to Lady Charlotte—or even another friend. One who would expect to hear from you. Something innocuous. And this time, I will control its path. I will mark it, perhaps plant false information in it—details only a spy or traitor would note. And then I shall see where it ends.”

A silence fell between them, full of possibility and risk.

“You’re using me as bait,” she said at last.

His jaw tightened. “I am using you to find the men who want you silenced.”

Her eyes did not flinch from his. “And if they bite?”

“Then I shall be ready. This time, I will not be two steps behind. This time, I will meet them face to face.”

Elizabeth was silent for a long moment. Then, at last, she said quietly, “Very well. But if I am to play the mouse, Mr. Darcy… you had best be the hawk, rather than some other.”

His mouth twitched grimly. “I intend to be.”