Page 2 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Two

London, May 12, 1812

L ady Elizabeth Montclair had never known what it was like to be needed.

She was wanted , certainly—coveted, admired, endlessly discussed in drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs—but never needed.

And now, when it truly mattered, when she alone knew the truth of what had happened yesterday, she could not get a single soul to listen.

Not even her father.

The Ashwick townhouse was a grand, elegant building just off St. James’s Square, with tall windows that looked out onto the streets of London and a staff that operated with quiet efficiency, whether its master was present or not.

Which was fortunate, as he rarely was.

The Marquess of Ashwick spent most of his time at White’s, Tattersall’s, or Parliament—depending on the time of day and whether the subject at hand was politics, horses, or the ongoing woes of the country.

Her mother, meanwhile, was nowhere near London.

She had long since removed herself to Devonshire, her family’s ancestral estate, content to play lady of the manor while pretending she had not been exiled there years ago when she and her husband mutually declared that more children were not to be, and consequently, they could not abide the sight of one another.

As for Elizabeth, she had the townhouse, the maids, the carriages, the silk gowns, the endless social engagements—everything but purpose.

Until now.

Until she had seen a man murdered in the halls of Parliament and realized—with chilling certainty—that she had seen what no one else had.

And her father, a man of considerable influence, rank, and power, would not even look up from his desk.

T he study smelled of tobacco and old books, the heavy scent of some sort of meat and brandy clinging to the air. Papers were stacked in neat piles upon the desk, and a single lamp burned low, casting a golden glow over her father’s disinterested expression.

Elizabeth stood before him, hands clenched at her sides. “You are not listening to me.”

“I am listening, petal,” the Marquess of Ashwick said, not looking up from the document in his hand.

“No, you are hearing me,“ Elizabeth corrected. “You are not listening .”

Her father sighed deeply, set the paper down, and finally fixed her with a gaze that was both indulgent and distracted.

“Well, then, my dear,” he said. “Do tell me again what you saw. I promise to apply my full attention.”

She hesitated, suddenly uncertain. The moment felt too big, too important—and yet, here she was, standing in the same study where she had once begged permission to keep a stray kitten, feeling much the same sense of futility.

“I was at the House of Commons yesterday.”

Her father’s brows lifted a fraction. “Were you?”

“Yes.”

He did not ask why. She was both relieved and vaguely mortified.

“I saw what happened,” she continued, gripping her hands together. “I saw the shot that killed him. And it was not the man they arrested.”

Her father’s expression did not change.

“It was not Bellingham!“ she pressed, heart pounding. “His pistol misfired. I saw it. There was another shooter.”

“Mm.”

That was all.

Not “Good God, Elizabeth, are you certain?” or “This is of vital importance! We must speak to someone at once!”—just a quiet, utterly indifferent murmur.

Elizabeth exhaled sharply. “Father!”

“Petal?”

“You do not believe me.”

“I believe that you believe what you saw.”

Her temper flared. “That is not the same thing.”

Her father leaned back in his chair, regarding her with the same half-amused, half-dismissive expression he had worn for years.

“And you think,” he said, tapping his fingers against the armrest, “that the Prime Minister of England was murdered in cold blood by an unknown second shooter, and that no one but my daughter—who had no business being there in the first place—managed to see it?”

“Yes.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Elizabeth.”

She knew that tone. The one he used when he was about to placate her with empty reassurances before sending her off to do something more ladylike.

“I am certain,” he said, “that whatever you saw felt very serious indeed. But Parliament is full of ministers and officials. If there had been another gunman, it would have been noticed.”

“No, it would not,” she insisted. “Because I was not supposed to be there, so I was hiding. I had a vantage point no one else had. I saw something—”

“And I am sure the ministers will handle it.”

She inhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. “You do not understand—”

“I understand,” her father interrupted, pushing back from his desk with a heavy sigh. “I understand that Spencer Perceval’s assassination is a tragedy, and that it has caused a great many headaches among those of us who actually have a role in government. I understand that I have spent the last day in endless meetings while the entire House of Lords determines how best to proceed. And I understand, my dear, that you are not involved in any of it.”

Elizabeth stiffened.

“I am trying to tell you—”

“You are telling me a fine story.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “I am telling you the truth.”

Her father exhaled, then stood, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You are my brightest, most brilliant girl,” he murmured. “But you let your imagination run away with you.”

She stared at him, cold disbelief creeping into her veins.

That was it. That was all.

A pat on the head. A “Run along, dear.”

The one man in all of England who had the power to do something—who could bring her to the right people, get her words in the right ears—had dismissed her entirely.

Elizabeth turned on her heel and walked out.

If he would not listen, she would find someone who would.

E lizabeth had barely reached the door when a knock echoed through the house.

It was answered immediately, and a murmur of voices drifted from the entrance hall. A moment later, a footman appeared in the study doorway, bowing low.

“My lord, the Duke of Wrexham and Her Grace the Duchess have arrived. The duke asks to speak with you on an urgent matter.”

Her father exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “Of course he does.”

Elizabeth froze. The Duke of Wrexham? Here?

Charlotte’s father.

Her mind raced as the realization struck—Charlotte had spoken often of her father’s role in government affairs. He was a man of immense power and influence, one of the oldest and most respected dukes in the realm. If he was here, speaking with her father, then—

This was about the assassination.

Before she could even consider what to do, footsteps sounded in the hall, and then—Her Grace the Duchess of Wrexham swept into the room on the arm of her husband, the duke..

The duchess was a striking woman, tall and impeccably dressed, her dark hair arranged in a fashion that suggested effortless grace—but was, Elizabeth knew, the work of at least two maids and an entire morning’s preparation.

She was not a warm woman, nor a sentimental one, but she was intelligent, well-connected, and powerful enough to walk into any room without announcing herself. She was also one of the few ladies of rank Elizabeth could tolerate for more than half an hour.

“Ah,” the duchess said, her gaze flicking between Elizabeth and her father. “I see we have interrupted something.”

Her father sighed heavily. “You have interrupted my daughter’s latest conviction that the world is not operating to her exacting standards.”

The duchess’s lips twitched. “How dreadful.”

“I was just leaving,” Elizabeth said, her voice carefully light. “Shall I have tea sent to the drawing room for you, Your Grace?”

The duchess waved a gloved hand. “Lovely, dear girl. I should also like some company. Walk with me.”

Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before nodding.

Her father was already dismissing her concerns. Perhaps the duchess—perhaps a woman , someone with sense and influence—would listen.

She gestured toward the hallway. “Shall we take tea in the blue sitting room?”

The duchess smiled, looping her arm through Elizabeth’s with a practiced ease. “Lead the way.”

Elizabeth kept a perfect posture as she poured tea, carefully measuring out the sugar with the calm precision of someone whose nerves were entirely intact. Mostly intact.

They had spoken first of nothing at all—who had been seen at court, which gowns had been admired, the usual inconsequential gossip. But beneath the pleasantries, the true conversation lingered like a storm on the horizon—unavoidable, gathering strength, waiting for the moment it would break.

At last, the duchess sighed, setting down her cup. “This business with Perceval is truly dreadful. The entire court is in an uproar—one cannot take three steps without hearing of it. And now my husband is closeted with your father, no doubt ensuring that the world keeps turning.”

Elizabeth set down her spoon. She hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering her voice. “There is more to it than everyone thinks.”

The duchess lifted a brow. “Oh?”

Elizabeth swallowed. “There was another shooter.”

The duchess blinked. Then she laughed lightly, shaking her head. “My dear, such rumors—”

“It is not a rumor. I saw it with my own eyes.”

The duchess stilled. “To say such a thing,” she mused, studying Elizabeth’s face, “one would have to have been in the House of Commons, but I recall perfectly that you were with Charlotte in the Ladies’ Gallery yesterday.”

Elizabeth inhaled slowly. “I slipped away.”

The duchess’s fingers tightened slightly around her teacup. “You were there?”

Elizabeth nodded. “I was in an alcove. Behind a support column. I knew I should not have been there, so I kept hidden. Charlotte knew—I left her in the Ladies’ Gallery. She was the only one who knew where I had gone.”

A flicker of something crossed the duchess’s face—a reaction quickly masked.

“And I was not alone. The real shooter was hidden there as well. I saw him fire. And he—” She swallowed. “He saw me. ”

The duchess said nothing at first, merely studying Elizabeth with the sharp, searching gaze of a woman who had learned to sift truth from fiction. Elizabeth braced herself for disbelief.

And at first, she got it.

Her Grace sighed, shaking her head. “Elizabeth, my dear, I am sure—”

”I know what I saw.”

The duchess opened her mouth, likely to utter some soothing dismissal, but then—she again studied Elizabeth’s face. The fear in her eyes. The lingering pallor in her cheeks.

The duchess set down her tea. “You truly believe this.”

Elizabeth let out a shaky breath. “I do not need to believe it. I know it. They arrested the wrong man.”

The duchess exhaled slowly, folding her hands in her lap. “Well. Something must be done.”

Elizabeth blinked. “What?”

“Do you think I would sit here and allow you to be hunted?” The duchess scoffed. “Really, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth let out a breathless laugh—a nervous, unsteady thing. “I suppose,” she said, attempting lightness, “that I might be in some trouble over having gone to the House of Commons alone, if it were spread abroad. But otherwise, it is unlikely the man could even know who I am. I am probably quite safe.” Yes, if she repeated that enough times, she would persuade herself of it.

It did not work.

The duchess studied her for a long moment before shaking her head.

“No, my dear,” she said softly. “You are not.”

Elizabeth swallowed.

The duchess straightened, smoothing her skirts. “My husband the duke has the Prince Regent’s ear. I shall see that you are heard. And protected, if necessary.”

Elizabeth swallowed. “How?”

“That, dear girl,” the duchess said, rising gracefully to her feet, “is a matter for the Prince of Wales to decide.”

She turned toward the door.

Elizabeth stood quickly. “Your Grace—”

The duchess turned, and for the first time, her expression softened.

“Do not worry, Elizabeth. The Prince has a rather long arm.”

White’s, London—May 13, 1812

F itzwilliam Darcy had always known his place in the world.

He had been raised to understand the nuances of power—who wielded it, who sought it, and who would destroy themselves in its pursuit. He had been taught the art of caution, the value of discretion, and the wisdom of never reaching too high.

Yet here he was. Being shown back into the most private of rooms of White’s, about to speak with one of those men of power.

He had arrived in London scarcely an hour ago, having risen at dawn to bid farewell to Netherfield after only one day. The express had been cryptic, but Darcy was not a man to ignore such messages—especially when they directed him to White’s.

And he was not a man to walk into such a meeting blind. He had collected a broadsheet at the coaching inn, skimming the headlines over a quick meal.

The Prime Minister had been shot.

That, at least, he understood.

But the summons had offered nothing further. No details, no explanation—only a time, a place, and an unspoken command to appear. It had come with no official insignia, no government seal—yet upon his arrival, he had been taken up the back stairs, shown into a private room, and told to wait.

And Darcy had waited. He had no illusions about why he had been called.

He was useful.

He was discreet.

And—perhaps most importantly—he owed no man anything.

That last part made him valuable. Because it meant he could not be bought.

When the door finally opened, it was not some minister or private secretary who waited on him, but the Prince Regent himself.

Darcy, much to his own satisfaction, did not visibly react, though it was rather a long pause before he entered the room fully.

The prince was a large man, lavishly dressed in a blue coat embroidered with gold, a jeweled snuffbox in one hand, a half-drained glass of brandy in the other. He carried himself with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been denied anything of importance.

“Ah, there you are, Darcy.” The prince waved vaguely in his direction as he crossed the room. “I wondered if you would make me wait. But no, here you are, like a good little soldier. Most commendable.”

Darcy inclined his head politely, but said nothing.

The prince sighed and lowered himself into a chair with great theatrical effort, as though the very act of sitting were a burden upon his person.

“You are aware, of course,” he drawled, reaching for the decanter with a watery sniff, “that our dear Mr. Perceval is now quite dead.”

Darcy nodded once. “I saw the broadsheets.”

“Ah, good! Good, good.” The prince poured himself another glass, swirling it absently. “Then you are also aware that the trial proceeds even as we speak. A fine, efficient bit of justice, is it not? Shoot a prime minister on Monday, be sentenced to death by Friday. We shall see it done.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “’Twill set a most delightful precedent.”

Darcy remained silent.

The prince sighed again, studying him over the rim of his glass. “Tell me, my dear fellow—what do you make of it?”

Darcy hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It seems… remarkably swift. Efficient. Tidy, Your Highness.”

“Oh, quite. Which is why I am concerned.”

Darcy’s gaze flickered up.

“I have heard whispers,” the prince said, leaning forward slightly, “that this little affair is not as simple as it seems.”

Darcy blinked.

“Oh, do not look at me like that.” The prince took a lazy sip of brandy. “I care not for your delicate sense of discretion. I have been told there is more afoot. And while I am perfectly content to allow our dear ministers to pat themselves on the back for swift and decisive action, I would be remiss—would I not?—if I allowed my own safety to be so thoughtlessly assumed.”

He set the glass down with a sharp clink. “Because, you see, my dear fellow, when prime ministers start dropping dead, it does tend to make one wonder—who might be next?”

Darcy said nothing. He had spent too many years in the shadows of government affairs to entertain rumors. The assassination had been brutal, certainly—but it was not unusual for men to seek vengeance for perceived injustices. Bellingham had a motive. An old grievance. He would be swiftly tried and condemned.

The matter was settled.

“Your Highness,” Darcy said at last, his tone deliberate and just skirting on the edge of patronizing, “it is highly unlikely that there is any truth to these whispers.”

The prince scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, well, that is a relief! Darcy has decided, so we may all rest easy.” He gestured wildly toward the door. “Shall I call for a scribe? Shall we have it written into law?”

Darcy did not flinch.

The prince sighed with his usual theatrical flair. “Come, come, man. I care not for your reputation in the Home Office. I care not for your distinguished sense of principle. I care only that a man has been shot dead and someone has whispered in my ear that perhaps—perhaps!—there is more to it.” He fixed Darcy with a shrewd look. “And that, my dear fellow, is where you come in.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, weighing his options. He had no desire to involve himself in a fruitless hunt for phantoms. But neither did he think the prince was going to allow him a choice.

So—he might as well gain something for the trouble.

He leaned back slightly, his tone carefully deliberate. “Perhaps Your Highness might also reconsider my petition.”

The prince stilled. Then, with exaggerated casualness, he reached for his brandy. “My dear fellow,” he said airily, “I have no earthly idea what you are talking about.”

Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Your Highness is mistaken. You know precisely what I am talking about.”

The prince sighed heavily, tilting his head back against the chair. “Must we discuss such dreary matters? The lands were transferred by royal grant, quite aboveboard, quite proper. Would you have me undo the will of a reigning monarch?”

Darcy raised a brow.

The prince rolled his eyes again, then sat forward, dropping the act. “You are insufferable.”

Darcy inclined his head. “And yet, Your Highness summoned me.”

The Prince groaned. “Very well! I shall take your tedious little matter under consideration.”

“A most gracious concession,” Darcy said dryly.

The prince waved him away. “Yes, yes, I am a beacon of mercy. Off with you. Do whatever it is you do.”

Darcy rose, inclining his head. “Then I, too, shall take your matter under consideration.”

“You are most tiresome, Darcy.”

Darcy smiled thinly. “Your Highness may consider it a mutual affliction.”