Page 20 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty

T he afternoon waned, throwing long shadows across the drawing room floor. Elizabeth sat with her badly botched embroidery balanced on her knee, though her needle had stilled some time ago. She barely noticed the thread looped loosely between her fingers. Her thoughts were far from domestic concerns, tugged instead toward darker corners—unfinished sketches, whispered suspicions, and the gnawing certainty that something more was coming.

She was just contemplating whether to rise and take some air when Mr. Bennet appeared in the doorway. His expression was, as ever, difficult to read, though his eyes held a gleam of something—amusement, perhaps, or perhaps a warning.

“My dear Elizabeth,” he said with a hint of gallantry, “I have received a rather charming note from my cousin Daniel. I suspect you might find it diverting. You will find it on the desk in the study.”

Elizabeth blinked, startled. His cousin Daniel…? Oh! Right. She rose quickly. “Of course.”

He stepped aside, gesturing with a slight incline of his head. “I shall leave you to it.”

She crossed the hall, the quiet clack of her slippers against the wood barely audible. As she entered the study, the familiar scent of pipe smoke and leather-bound books greeted her—along with something else.

Darcy was already inside.

He stood near the window, having apparently just climbed through it, one hand still brushing dust from his coat. He turned at once, eyes locking with hers, his expression dark.

And she was very suddenly, very completely, alone with him.

“Miss Ben—oh, bother with the disguise. I rather despise it, anyway.”

She puckered her mouth. “Is that what you crawled through a window to tell me?”

Darcy’s expression was taut, his jaw clenched in a way that betrayed more than mere unease. He paced a step away from the window, then stopped himself.

“I apologize for the ruse,” he said stiffly. “Recent developments have necessitated caution, and I would not that Mrs. Bennet… or anyone else… knew I was here.”

Elizabeth stepped forward, hands folding reflexively in front of her. “I understand,” she said quietly. Then, after a beat, added, “If this is about what happened yesterday—Mr. Collins—”

He looked up sharply, surprised. “Collins? No.”

She tilted her head. “Because I thought perhaps you had come to… I do not know. Clear the air? That man has no sense of tact. And you did not deserve—”

“This is not about Collins,” he interrupted, not unkindly. His voice was quieter now, hoarser. “Though if I began addressing every insult he offered, I should never finish.”

She gave a wry smile, but it faded as she took in the rest of his expression. Tension hummed off him like a wound wire, and beneath it—something darker. “Then what is this about?”

There was a pause. Darcy’s hand drifted toward the inside pocket of his coat, but he did not reach for anything. Instead, he fixed her with a look that made her breath catch.

“The sketch,” he said at last. “The man you drew.”

Her brows furrowed. “What about him?”

“I believe,” he said carefully, “we may now know who sent him.”

“Oh?” She drew closer. “Then why did you come to me?”

Darcy reached into his coat and pulled out a folded paper. “I may have a name for the man providing the money, but I am still at a loss for the identity of the man who pulled the trigger. I…” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Egad, I do not know why I am showing this to you. You have given me what you could, but we are running short on time. I suppose I hoped you might recall something more. Anything…”

Elizabeth accepted it, unfolding the paper to reveal the sketch she had drawn days earlier. The sight of it sent a shiver through her; though it was her own handiwork, the man’s visage now felt eerily unfamiliar. As though the work belonged to someone else. She stared down at the stark lines, the shadowed angles of the man’s face, the narrowed eyes.

“It still troubles me,” Darcy said, watching her closely. “The detail in this is exceptional. Clearly, you saw this man. Anyone who knew him could point the finger at him. I just have no idea who it is. He does not resemble anyone I can implicate.”

Her eyes traced the lines, absorbing each detail anew. A nagging sensation stirred within her, as if a crucial element hovered just beyond her recollection.

“I wish I had introduced myself, then,” she said tartly, and trying to hand the paper back. “How terribly negligent of me.”

But Darcy refused to take the drawing. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice edged with urgency, “I must ask—did you… imagine… or embellish… any details of this image? Is it truly an accurate representation?”

Elizabeth’s head snapped up, eyes flashing with indignation. “I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I did not invent this man. Every line, every shadow—I captured them as faithfully as memory allows.”

“‘As faithfully as memory allows…’” he repeated. “Surely there is something you may have missed. Overlooked. The turn of his nose, the set of his mouth… Are you sure that was what his hat looked like?”

“No, no, those are quite…” She tilted her head. “But perhaps…”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Then what is it? What detail eludes you?”

She returned her gaze to the sketch, frustration knitting her brow. The man’s face, his posture, the surrounding elements—all seemed in place. She had even captured the pillars behind where he stood when she saw him. Yet, an intangible void persisted.

Suddenly, her breath caught. Her eyes locked onto the man’s hand, the one holding the pistol, and clarity struck like a bolt of lightning.

“The ring,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Darcy’s posture stiffened. “What did you say?”

She looked up, eyes wide with realization. “I remember seeing a flash of gold when he was putting his pistol back in his coat. It caught my eye, but then I was looking more at the pistol.”

“Do you recall anything about it?”

She squinted, as if trying to pull the wisps of memory into something tangible. “Thick, with an image in the center. I think it might have been a signet ring. There was a figure in the center, set in ebony.”

He blinked. “You are sure? You are not simply ‘recalling’ this to appease me? Your memory is accurate in this case?”

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “No, I can see it—I could not have invented that memory.”

Darcy stepped closer. “Describe it to me.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, summoning the image from the depths of her memory. “Gold, with black details. Not large or ostentatious. I know this sounds strange, but I could swear it bore the design of a jagged 'J' shape. Or perhaps a hippocampus—a sea horse.”

Darcy’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as if restraining a surge of emotion. “You are certain? ” he pressed, his voice a shade deeper.

She nodded slowly. “As certain as one can be from recollection. Why? What does it signify? Perhaps it was not a hippocampus, but that is the shape my mind sees—”

Darcy turned away, pacing a few steps before facing her again. “I doubt you invented something so odd and yet so coincidentally significant. The hippocampus is the emblem of the King’s Fellowship for Civil Order—a society with noble beginnings but... rather questionable endings.”

Elizabeth’s mind raced, attempting to connect the dots. “And the man who wore this ring?”

Darcy’s gaze met hers, a storm of contemplation and concern swirling within. “If he possessed such a ring, it suggests he was a member—or perhaps an associate—of the Fellowship. This ties him to influential figures, potentially even… egad, I dare not name him yet, but there is… an individual… one I already had reasons to suspect, who has known affiliations with the group.”

Elizabeth’s skin prickled.

She had drawn a face from memory. She had added detail. Shadow. Line. Structure. But until this moment, she had not known that a ring—something she had not even consciously registered in the moment—would be the key to unmasking an entire network of corruption. Of danger. And possibly, of murder.

“You said ‘questionable endings.’ Is this… Fellowship… defunct?” she asked carefully, watching the muscle twitch in his jaw.

Darcy gave a short, humorless laugh. “It should be. It was meant to be dissolved a decade ago. But some men do not relinquish power so easily.”

“And you know people connected to it?”

“I cannot say. Not with certainty. But a man from the disbanded regiment that bore this crest—one of its fiercest loyalists—disappeared about three years ago. He was presumed dead. I investigated his ‘murder’ myself.” Darcy’s voice dropped. “But I suspect now that he is very much alive. And if he was at Westminster…” He trailed off.

Elizabeth felt the breath tighten in her chest. “Then he could be the one who pulled the trigger.”

Darcy said nothing. His silence was confirmation enough.

She folded her arms. “Why would he wear the ring? Why leave such a mark?”

“Men like that… they do not fear being seen. They leave symbols behind the way a cat leaves feathers—trophies. Warnings. And sometimes… declarations.”

She swallowed. “Declarations of what?”

“Allegiance. Or ownership.”

Elizabeth blinked. “By whom?”

Darcy raised a brow. “I think, Lady Elizabeth, it might be safer for you if I said nothing more until I can be sure.”

She sighed in disappointment. They stood in silence, the crackle of the hearth filling the space between them. Darcy had been watching her, then it was as if his eyes stung and he had to look away.

It was Elizabeth who spoke first. “I wish you would let me say how sorry I am,” she said softly. “For what happened yesterday.”

Darcy’s brows drew together. “You need not—”

“But I do,” she said firmly. “You were humiliated, and I…” She hesitated, glancing away. “I should not have appeared to find any of it amusing.”

That earned her a look—half disbelief, half something else. “I did not accuse you of that.”

“No?” she asked, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You think I did not notice how your jaw clenched every time he mispronounced ‘libertine’? You think I did not smirk at the way his face was turning purple with ugly yellow splotches?”

A faint flush crept along the edge of his collar. His hand flexed at his side. “I… noticed. You, that is. Not him.”

She tilted her head. “You take every insult like a blow. A man like you can hardly afford—”

“Afford what?”

She sighed. “I have few useful skills—you have said as much yourself. But this, I know, for my father told me often enough. Feelings are costly, Mr. Darcy. Dignity… it is dear. Most cannot afford to defend it, but you — Well, you looked as if you would have broken Mr. Collins in half if it were not another man’s drawing room he stood in. And I thought I was the reckless one.”

He looked up sharply. But not in protest. “I do not think you are reckless.”

“You most certainly do! How many times have you had to thunder after me when I was up to some foolhardy mischief?”

Darcy’s throat worked. “I have… tried to understand your perspective. And I think you are brave. Clever. And utterly impossible.” He hesitated. “And I think if I were a better man, I would have stayed away from you.”

She mouthed the words in repetition. Stayed away…

“But I am not,” he said simply. “And I did not.”

She blinked. “Why would you think you had to stay away from me? Am I so terrible?”

Darcy exhaled, his jaw tightening. “No… I am. If I were stronger, more prudent, I would have found a way. But I am not. And—”

“The prince did not give you a choice,” she finished.

“No,” he said. “But even if he had…” His voice faltered.

“Mr. Darcy, you make no sense. First, you act as if I am some leper forced upon you, and now you say it was because of some misplaced sense of fault of your own. I insist—”

“I will tell you everything,” he said quietly. “Just not now.”

That sounded rather final. And for once, Elizabeth said nothing at all. What could she say to the man who had risked everything to come back here? To protect her. To see her. Even if he never said it aloud.

Especially because he never said it aloud.

Her voice was very soft. “I suppose we are both guarding some secret.”

A faint twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “A matched set… Elizabeth.”

Her lips parted—to say what, she did not know. Correct him on his omission of her proper title? Dig a bit more into the morass of his private thoughts? But before the moment could fracture, before she could say something ruinous, Darcy turned back toward the window.

“I must go. There are people I need to speak with. Someone is trying to erase their trail, and they have killed to do it. But now… we have something to start with.”

“The ring,” she said.

“And the lady who noticed it,” he added.

She smiled faintly. “That makes me dangerous, I suppose.”

“Yes. It does. I will return tomorrow and we will work up that letter I spoke to you of yesterday.”

And then he was gone, slipping through the window the same way he came—like a ghost. Like a shadow.

Leaving Elizabeth alone with her sketch, her thoughts, and a heart that beat a little too fast for comfort.

May 27, 1812

T he problem with bait was that it tended to attract more than one kind of predator.

Darcy stood beside the writing desk in Mr. Bennets’ study, watching Elizabeth pace. Her arms were folded tight, her brow drawn in contemplation—or resistance. Possibly both.

“I am not fond of the idea,” she said finally.

He had not expected her to be. “Nor am I.”

Her pacing stopped. “Then why suggest it? What if it brings harm to the Bennets?”

“Because whoever returned your letter intended a threat, not silence,” he said. “They already know you understood it as such. What they do not know is how much we learned from it—or what we intend to do next.”

Elizabeth gave him a long look. “So this is not to fool them.”

“Partly,” Darcy said. “But mostly, it is to provoke them into tipping their hand.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “And if it works?”

“Then they will act—and we will be watching when they do.”

She set her fist on her hip.

The stance was pure defiance—shoulders squared, chin lifted, the curve of her waist drawn in silhouette by the afternoon light. There was a flicker in her eyes, something bright and amused and entirely too knowing, as if she was daring him to object. Darcy exhaled slowly and looked away.

He was beginning to suspect she knew exactly what she was doing.

Then, to his surprise, she sat beside the desk, reached for the paper, and dipped her pen. “Very well. Let us set a trap.”

She wrote quickly, fluidly—nothing obvious, nothing alarming. A charming note to Lady Charlotte Wrexham, full of droll observations about village trivialities and the burdens of rustic leisure. Elizabeth made light mention of her “holiday,” carefully threading in a detail Darcy had offered—that Her Majesty had indeed retired to Frogmore, just outside Windsor, for the season. It would lend her lie a veneer of credibility for anyone curious enough to test it.

“Is it truly Frogmore?” she asked without looking up.

He leaned forward slightly, reading over her shoulder. “It is. I heard it confirmed while in London last week. Her Majesty prefers the gardens in early summer.”

“How quaint. Perhaps I shall mention the lilies.” Her tone was dry, but her eyes sparkled. “Would Her Majesty prefer white or yellow, do you think?”

“She prefers peace,” Darcy said, watching the fine movement of her hand as she wrote. “And does not care what color it comes in.”

Elizabeth hummed under her breath. “Pity. I should have liked to embroider some symbolism.”

“You are embroidering quite enough.”

“Cad that you are! You must have been hearing rumors from Jane, because I could not embroider a convincing flower if my life depended upon it. Though it is not for lack of diligence on her part to teach me.”

“I can hardly believe you let anyone teach you anything at all.”

“Now, see here, sir, I—” She turned slightly at that—just enough for him to realize how near they had become, her shoulder brushing his sleeve, her scent—clean linen and some pale trace of lavender— disruptively close.

Darcy straightened too sharply and folded his arms behind his back. “The ‘cousin,’” he said, changing the subject. “Have you named him?”

“Mr. Redfield,” she replied at once, eyes still on the page. “From Hampshire. Very fond of trout fishing and political radicalism.”

Darcy arched a brow. “Inventive.”

“I thought so.” She dipped her pen again and read aloud as she wrote. “He has invited me to St. Albans next week. I think I shall decline. There is something suspect about his waistcoat. Then again, his breeches are rather fetching, so perhaps it might be worth a foray. What say you, dear Charlotte?”

“ Breeches? “ Darcy scoffed. “Lord have mercy.”

“You think ladies do not notice how a man looks in his breeches? I assure you, we do. For instance…” She tossed a saucy glance over her shoulder, letting her eyes trail suggestively toward his waist and downward.

Darcy moved to stand behind her more completely—out of her field of view. “Finish writing, if you please. We shall be at this all day.”

“You are terribly dull sometimes. Very well.” She blew out a huff that feathered the hair falling over her face, and dipped her quill again.

Darcy watched her lace in the misleading cues they had agreed upon: a reference to “poppies in bloom”—a red herring suggesting surveillance nearby; the invented cousin, “Mr. Redfield”—a trigger word Fitzwilliam’s men would now be able to track in any intercepted intelligence; and the mention of a planned excursion to St. Albans, which they had no intention of making.

The message, though addressed to Lady Charlotte, was written for someone else entirely.

He watched her dot the final sentence and set down her quill with a small sigh of satisfaction. “There. I believe I have lied thoroughly enough for one day.”

“You did not lie,” he said. “You rearranged the truth into something more useful.”

Elizabeth glanced sideways, smiling faintly. “That sounds suspiciously like what the Home Office does.”

“It is.”

Something passed between them then—dry amusement, shared complicity, and something quieter beneath. It left the air thinner than before. Darcy turned away first.

“I am going to London to make my report to Prince George tomorrow. I shall send this from the posting inn at St. Albans,” he said. “With luck, they will believe the bait. Or chase a ghost to St. Albans. Either way, Richard’s men will start following it—see whose hands it passes through.”

Elizabeth stood and stretched slightly, arms over her head. “Poor Mr. Redfield,” she said. “Always embroiled in the wrong sort of company.”

“You are fortunate he is not real,” Darcy replied, reaching for the letter.

She arched a brow. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, “he would be entirely unsuited to you.”

And before she could reply—before she could smile that knowing smile that made his thoughts scatter—he turned and started for the window so he might climb back out onto the lawn, with no one—least of all, Collins—the wiser.

“Do tell your cousin to keep his wits about him,” she said, stopping him. “If anyone is going to be captured following a decoy, I should prefer it not be someone I do not dislike.”

Darcy inclined his head. “He will be thrilled to know you care.”

“I do not. But you will be insufferable if anything happens to him, and I dislike you less when you smile on occasion.”

She was already halfway to the door leading out into the hall when she tossed it over her shoulder, casual as anything.

Darcy watched her go, heart clenching in that maddening, inevitable way it always did now.