Page 19 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Nineteen

M r. Collins arrived back at Longbourn in high spirits—and with a loud voice in the hall to prove it. Laughter followed him—Kitty’s shrill giggle and Lydia’s breathless commentary on something they had seen in town.

The noise carried into the drawing room, where Elizabeth sat with her pitiful first attempt at embroidery, watching Jane blushing at Mr. Bingley. Mrs. Bennet perked up immediately at the sound of voices returning to the hall.

A moment later, Mr. Collins stepped into the room, still rubbing his hands because his gloves had proved a bit too tight. Kitty and Lydia tumbled in behind him, chatting animatedly.

“Oh, Mr. Collins!” Mrs. Bennet called brightly. “We did not expect you back so soon!”

“Indeed, indeed, madam, I found my errands in Meryton quickly concluded.” He turned around and swept the room with a pleased swagger of a greeting, then stopped cold as his eyes fell on the doorway.

Mr. Darcy stood just outside the sitting room, having only just emerged from a quiet conference with Mr. Bennet. At the sight of him, Collins blanched, and Darcy… Darcy went entirely red in the face and looked as if he had seen a demon.

Collins’ back straightened with almost comic rigidity. “Mr. Darcy,” he stammered, “I was unaware of your presence here.”

Darcy inclined his head slightly, his expression impassive as he entered the room enough to permit a greeting. “I think you will find the feeling mutual, Mr. Collins.”

Mrs. Bennet, oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature, fluttered her hand. “Yes, how delightful you have already been acquainted! Mr. Collins, Mr. Darcy is a guest of Mr. Bingley’s once again. Such a pleasure. Could not keep away from our lovely ladies in Hertfordshire, I daresay,” she added with a giggle.

Collins gave a jerky nod, his eyes still fixed on Darcy, the color in his cheeks becoming splotchy. “I confess myself quite shocked,” he said, his voice choking on the words. “To find Mr. Darcy of all people here—in a respectable household!”

The air in the room froze.

Mrs. Bennet blinked. “What a very odd thing to say, Mr. Collins. Mr. Darcy is Mr. Bingley’s friend. Why should he not be here?”

Collins looked flustered, then pounced on the opening with the eagerness of a man who had waited too long to deliver his piece. “Ah, but madam, surely you have heard—his family name, once so celebrated, has fallen into disgrace.”

Elizabeth turned sharply toward him. “Disgrace?”

Collins lifted his chin, hands clasped before him in mock solemnity. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself, my most esteemed patroness, has spoken of it. The Darcys of Pemberley—what is left of them—are no longer received in certain circles.”

The silence that followed was almost surreal, for the Bennets were a family that were not known for quiet reflection. But now, the clock was the loudest noise in the room.

Jane’s gaze flickered uncertainly between Collins and Darcy. Mr. Bingley’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed dangerously—if, indeed, so affable a man could look dangerous. Even Mrs. Bennet, normally eager for gossip, looked somewhat unsure.

Darcy stood perfectly still. His face betrayed nothing, but Elizabeth could see it—the stiff set of his shoulders, the iron thread of tension running through his jaw. He was enduring this. Silently. Proudly. And not, she suspected, for the first time.

Collins continued, emboldened by Darcy’s silence. “It was all very tragic. The estate, you see, was lost to the family. Ruined. A dreadful scandal, everyone says as much. Though Lady Catherine did not speak of particulars, only that her nephew was no longer… suitable company. A libertine , she has pronounced him, and for good and proper reasons, I am certain.”

A quiet gasp escaped Kitty. Lydia, for once, said nothing at all. Bingley managed a weak, “Now, see here…”

But it was Elizabeth who rose slowly from her chair, the embroidery hoop falling unnoticed to the floor. “Mr. Collins,” she said, “I do not think this is the sort of thing one says in another man’s drawing room.”

Collins turned toward her, blinked, and then said with obsequious confidence, “I only meant to spare the family any embarrassment. One would not wish to form close associations with a gentleman whose circumstances are so very… tainted.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak again, but another voice beat her to it.

“I believe,” said Mr. Bennet, emerging from the hallway, “that if anyone in this room is causing embarrassment to my family, it is not Mr. Darcy.”

A hush settled over the room again.

Mr. Collins sputtered. “But… but I said! The man is a libertine! I—I merely repeated what I was told by a most reputable—”

“Yes,” Mr. Bennet said dryly, “and with such excellent timing, too.”

Elizabeth glanced sideways at Darcy.

He had not moved. Not so much as blinked.

But his gaze was fixed, unwavering, on the fire. And in his stillness, she saw the tight control of a man who had borne humiliation before. Alone. And who expected to bear it again, the same way.

Something ached deep in her chest.

Not pity.

Something more complicated than that.

And far more dangerous.

T he carriage ride back to Netherfield was conducted in near-total silence—at least, for the first ten minutes. Darcy sat rigid, jaw clenched, eyes fixed out the window, hardly breathing. The fields of Hertfordshire blurred past unnoticed.

At last, Bingley shifted beside him. “Well,” he said, with painful cheer, “that was… enlightening.”

Darcy did not answer.

“Come now,” Bingley added. “At least it was a man nobody knows or cares about, and not a parliamentary inquiry.”

Darcy closed his eyes briefly. “He is hardly someone ‘no one knows or cares about.’ Do you not know who he is?”

Bingley blinked innocently. “Should I? I suppose I found it odd that he was talking about your aunt. How does he know Lady Catherine?”

“He is her bloody parson! I met him when I went with Richard to Rosings last summer—fool, I, I thought perhaps she would speak to me after ten years, but I could not have been more wrong.”

Bingley frowned and shifted in his seat. “Still bearing that grudge because you were ‘unfit’ to marry her daughter, eh? Look, Darcy, I would not worry about it. Who cares if Collins decides to run his mouth a bit? You saw how Bennet silenced him. I doubt anyone in town listens to a word he says.”

“No, no, you do not understand. If Lady Catherine learns I was not only present in the Bennet household but consorting with—”

“‘Consorting,’ good Lord,” Bingley said under his breath. “You sound like Collins.”

Darcy turned a slow glare on his friend. “If I’d had any idea Collins was Bennet’s heir… He will not let this rest quietly, and therein lies the trouble.”

Bingley laughed. “Likely not. He is probably composing a letter to your aunt as we speak. Written on the very finest vellum, in the most atrocious hand, with half a dozen flourishes to call you a libertine without using the word, because I doubt he could spell it properly.”

Darcy said nothing. He felt… hollow.

No, worse. Exposed.

He had spent the better part of the last ten years trying to reclaim his name with caution and calculation—and now, with one blowhard parson and a single vulnerability—thanks to the Prince’s idea of a joke or a test, or whatever this was—it was all unraveling.

And Elizabeth had heard it all.

Bingley studied him more carefully now, all traces of his hopeful sort of humor fading. “I am sorry, Darcy. I know what this means to you.”

“No… I cannot think you possibly could,” Darcy replied quietly.

Bingley sucked in a breath and sat back, chastened. They said nothing else for the remainder of the ride.

When they arrived at Netherfield, Darcy did not even wait for the footman to lower the steps. He jumped down and strode toward the house, ignoring the startled greeting from the butler, his coat whipping behind him in the breeze his strides created. Bingley followed at a more sedate pace, catching up only when Darcy had already pushed open the door to the study.

Darcy crossed to the hearth, standing with his back to the room as Bingley closed the door.

“Brandy?” Bingley offered.

Darcy did not answer.

Bingley poured two glasses anyway, setting one on the desk and holding the other loosely in his hand as he perched on the arm of a chair. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Bingley nodded. “Excellent. Let us sit in silence, then, while your blood pressure quietly murders you.”

Darcy turned at last, his expression carved from stone. “He will write to her.”

“Then let him,” Bingley said. “She will huff and bluster and complain to her dogs, and the sun will still rise tomorrow.”

Darcy stared at him. “You have no idea what she is capable of.”

Bingley blinked. “Perhaps not. But I do know you. And I have never seen you this rattled.” He stood fully now, his tone turning careful. “This is not just about your name.”

Darcy’s jaw tensed.

Bingley narrowed his eyes. “What is going on?”

Silence. A long one.

Darcy’s hand twitched near the untouched glass on the desk. “There are things I cannot tell you.”

“You mean you will not tell me.”

“I mean,” Darcy said evenly, “that the fewer people who know, the safer it is for everyone involved.”

Bingley stepped back, folding his arms. “So that is what this is. A matter of safety.”

Darcy said nothing.

Bingley exhaled. “Well. That is more of an answer than I expected.” He reached for his own glass and took a drink. “Is it her? ”

Darcy looked at him sharply. “I do not know what you mean.”

“I mean your mysterious ‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet.’”

Darcy stiffened. “ My Miss Elizabeth? Bingley, you are imagining an attachment where none exists.”

“Am I? You are always watching her. Protecting her.”

Darcy scoffed. “Nothing of the kind. I like Mr. Bennet. His eldest daughter is tolerable enough, and as I said, she seems to have a tendre for you. I endure the rest of the family for—”

“Poppycock. She is no ‘long-lost cousin.’ She ‘arrived’ at Longbourn with absolutely no warning whatsoever—”

“Mr. Bennet is oddly capricious in the disclosing of planned guests. Only look at Mr. Collins’ similarly unannounced arrival if you need evidence of that.”

“—The very same day you returned from London, after a summons so ‘urgent’ that you left off a planned leave that you had so desperately earned?“ Bingley clicked his tongue. “Come, Darcy, I may not know the exact nature of your business at the Home Office, but I am not incapable of drawing a straight line between two points. She is no more a Bennet than I am.”

Darcy lowered his eyes. “She is… important,” he confessed. “And for now, Bennet is the safest name for her to use.”

Bingley finished the bite he had just taken and swallowed. “I suspect that is the best reply you mean to give me. If I can help, you need only ask.”

Darcy’s voice was quiet. “I know.”

Another beat of silence passed.

Then Bingley muttered, “Still, I rather wish I had struck the man. Just once. For sport.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from Darcy. “You are not alone in that.”

“Drink your brandy,” Bingley added, “before it evaporates just to spite you.”

Darcy lifted the glass. It did not steady his pulse. But it helped. Slightly.

May 26, 1812

T he morning sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawns of Netherfield as Darcy stood near the window, a letter trembling slightly in his grasp. The elegant script on the envelope was unfamiliar, but the contents within were unmistakably urgent.

“Mr. Darcy,” it began, “I trust this letter finds you well. I have come across information regarding the payments to Bellingham that you inquired about. It is imperative that we discuss this matter in person. Please meet me at the Red Lion Inn in Meryton at your earliest convenience. Discretion is advised.”

The letter was signed simply, “A Concerned Friend.”

Bold. Terribly bold. Or desperate.

Darcy’s brow furrowed. He had spent years delving into the murky depths of corruption, but this was the first time someone had reached out to him so directly—and so mysteriously. The timing was suspect, especially given recent events.

He folded the letter meticulously and slipped it into his coat pocket. Turning from the window, he found Bingley observing him with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Another anonymous missive?” Bingley inquired, his tone laced with forced levity. He was seated at the small breakfast table, a half-eaten piece of toast forgotten on his plate, his eyes flicking between Darcy and the sealed letter in his hand.

“Something of the sort.” He did not bother to sit, merely stood at the window, scanning the words again with narrowed eyes. “A potential lead on the Bellingham matter.”

Bingley’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he set it down, his expression hardening. “The Bellingham matter,” he echoed. “Do you mean the fellow who shot Perceval? Darcy, is that what you’ve been chasing all this time?”

“Among other things. I shall be going for a ride later, alone.”

Bingley exhaled sharply. “Well, that explains a good deal.” He leaned back in his chair, frowning. “You are not working on a typical tea smuggling inquiry, are you? This is not merely corruption or bookkeeping trickery.”

Darcy turned to face him fully. “It was never about smuggling. Not truly.”

Bingley stood. “Then what, Darcy? Political assassination? Treason?”

Darcy gave him a long look.

Bingley ran a hand through his hair. “And you’re going to meet this anonymous source alone?”

“I must,” Darcy said. “If there’s a trail, it’s gone cold in London. But this—” he tapped his coat pocket lightly, “—this may be something.”

Bingley looked stricken. “You cannot go unarmed into this. If they knew where…” He stopped and cleared his throat. “A certain… person… was—”

“I am not bringing her into it,” Darcy snapped, then instantly regretted the sharpness.

Bingley blinked, startled not by the words, but by the tone.

“Apologies,” Darcy muttered. “This must be handled delicately. Quietly. Any attention could ruin the lead.”

Bingley gave a low whistle. “Darcy, if you are right… you are hunting something far more dangerous than stolen banknotes.”

Darcy nodded once, grimly. “Which is why I cannot afford to miss this meeting.”

“And which is why you bloody well should not go alone,” Bingley said. “At least take a weapon. Or someone you trust. Do not be a martyr.”

“I trust you,” Darcy said after a pause. “But I need you here. And if anything happens to me, you must protect… her . Trust only Fitzwilliam.”

Bingley’s face sobered at that. He nodded once. “Then promise me you’ll return.”

Darcy hesitated at the door, just briefly, then gave a single nod.

“I always do.”

L ater that afternoon, under a sky thick with the promise of a late spring thunderstorm, Darcy made his way toward the Red Lion Inn—a modest, half-timbered establishment nestled at the edge of Meryton. The sign swung slightly in the wind, its creaking hinges drowned out by the chatter from within.

Inside, the inn was dim and smoky, crowded with the usual mix of laborers, tradesmen, and travelers. The scent of some sort of hot pottage clung to the air, mingled with the bitterness of spilled ale and sweating men. Darcy paused in the entryway, letting his eyes adjust to the low light as he scanned the crowded room.

His gaze landed first on a man seated by the hearth, nursing a tankard and saying nothing. Broad-shouldered, with a deep scar trailing one side of his neck. His coat was travel-stained, but of good cut. He was out of place—too alert, too still. Darcy’s attention lingered for a breath too long.

Then the man beside him laughed, and the stranger turned to clap him on the shoulder. “Same fool stories, Tom? Thought you’d have grown out of ’em by now.”

The local—Tom, apparently—grinned and swore that his tale about a haunted mill was entirely factual. The tension in Darcy’s spine eased. A local, then. Or pretending very well.

His gaze shifted again, this time to a corner table near the hearth, where another man sat alone, fidgeting with a weathered hat in his lap. He was thinner, more anxious, and dressed with care that did not suit the surroundings. His eyes darted toward the door the moment Darcy entered, and for a fleeting second, their gazes met.

Darcy approached with deliberate calm, loosening the top button of his coat. “Is the sun shining in London?” he asked quietly, resting one gloved hand on the back of the chair opposite.

The man flinched slightly. “Not since nightfall.”

Darcy nodded. “Darcy, at your service.”

“Eddleton, at yours,” the fellow replied. “You’re late.”

“I am early,” Darcy corrected, “by four minutes. If you are who you claim to be, then we cannot afford to waste time.” He did not sit.

Eddleton hesitated, then reached into the inside of his coat and produced a small brass token—barely larger than a coin—stamped with a unique cipher known only to the Home Office.

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. He withdrew his own from his pocket and laid it flat on the table beside Eddleton’s. They matched. That was the final proof he needed.

Satisfied, he took the seat opposite, angling his body to keep the wall at his back and his view of the inn unbroken.

Eddleton leaned forward, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I was told to come to you if I found anything more. Fellow in a red coat—said you’d know ‘im—said to use no names. So I didn’t. But I have something now. Something… real.”

Darcy’s eyes sharpened. “Speak.”

Eddleton produced a folded packet wrapped in oilskin, tattered and smudged at the corners. “I found references to Bellingham—indirect, buried in old ledgers from the Treasury Office’s auxiliary funds. Names I’ve seen before, from a previous inquiry. One I was warned to drop.”

Darcy took the packet and did not open it. Not here.

“These names—” Eddleton wet his lips. “They’re tied to shell accounts. Untraceable without deep authorization. But there are enough patterns, enough trails… They were paying him. Regular sums. Spread over months.”

“Are the accounts still active?” Darcy asked.

“I do not know,” Eddleton admitted. “But someone does. And they’re making it very clear that this trail is not meant to be followed. Threats, blackmail.”

Darcy’s expression hardened. “Have you been threatened?”

“No,” Eddleton said quickly. “But I was followed. My flat was broken into last week—nothing taken. Just… touched. I found my desk drawer open, and my ink bottle spilled.”

A warning, then. Whoever this was had enough on Bellingham to force him—or trick him—into a fool’s errand that could only end with a bullet or a noose. Surely, they were leaving nothing else to chance.

Darcy pocketed the oilskin. “Your identity will be protected.”

Eddleton offered a dry, humorless laugh. “It’s too late for that, I think.”

He hesitated, then added, even lower: “There’s talk. Quiet, but spreading. Someone saw something that day at the Commons. A witness.” His eyes flicked to Darcy. “They think he was behind a pillar. A junior clerk, perhaps. But there’s noise about… silencing him.”

Darcy did not speak. His jaw locked tight.

If Eddleton had heard even scraps of rumor, then the secret was unravelling far too fast. And he was out of time.

They rose together, the scrape of their chairs drowned by a burst of laughter from the nearby table. Darcy nodded once and stepped away—but paused at the threshold.

“You will go to ground,” he said without turning. “Do not return to your flat. Do not speak of this again. You will be contacted, if needed.”

Eddleton gave a faint nod, and Darcy slipped out under a gathering summer storm.

He had barely gone ten steps before he felt it again—that prickling sensation at the base of his neck. A subtle shift in the air.

He glanced back once.

The man by the hearth was gone.

And so was the laughter.