Page 21 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-One

May 28, 1812

T he candle on his desk had long since guttered to a stub. A second one burned low beside it, throwing distorted shadows against the far wall of the study at Netherfield. Darcy sat with his back to the fire, boots polished, coat ready, and his plans drawn out with a precision bordering on desperation.

At first light, he would ride for London.

He did not like it. He had left her once before, and in the space of a single morning she had found her life threatened and her trust shaken. But this could not wait—not with the Prince expecting an account, and not with the ghost of a man he once chased beginning to take shape again.

Three years ago, a man named Hugh Maddox had vanished amid whispers of a disgrace too sensitive for the courts. Darcy had been dispatched—quietly, without written orders—by the King himself to investigate the death no one dared confirm.

Maddox had once been a silent hand of the Crown, a fixer who operated in shadow and left no trace. The King never admitted it, not openly, but Darcy had pieced together enough to see the truth—and His Majesty, in a rare flicker of lucidity, had let slip a phrase that confirmed what Darcy already knew.

“Officially,” Maddox was dead. Disavowed. Buried. But off the books… well, there was no proof of anything.

The only likeness Darcy ever saw had been a miniature, painted when Maddox was scarcely out of boyhood—useless now, against the man in Elizabeth’s sketch. But the ring on that man’s hand—the hippocampus seal of a now-disbanded regiment—Maddox would have worn one. And years before, he had shared political sympathies with Sir William Cunningham, back when opposing Perceval’s reforms was fashionable treason.

If Maddox still lived, and if he was working for Cunningham now, then the rot stretched deeper than anyone feared. And Darcy could not unmask a ghost from Meryton.

He closed the leather folio with a snap and turned as Bingley stepped in, hair still rumpled from sleep.

“Good heavens, Porter was right. You’re up and dressed at this ungodly hour,” Bingley said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Which is either a good sign or a terrible one. Judging by your expression, I will assume terrible.”

“I ride to London at dawn.”

That woke him fully. “Alone?”

“Yes. I will hire as many horses as I need, ride quickly and stop only when necessary. I can be there and back in a day.”

Bingley folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “And what am I meant to do while you are galloping off toward glory?”

Darcy exhaled. “Stay at Longbourn.”

Bingley blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again. “You cannot be serious. How long?”

He looked up. “All day. From the moment Mr. Bennet lumbers down the stairs to sneak into his study until the moment the housekeeper shoos you out the door because she has run out of her day’s allotment of candles for the drawing room. I do not care if you are seated beside Lydia Bennet while she recounts the entire lineage of the dragoons. I need a familiar presence in the house.”

“Darcy—”

“She is not safe.” The words came sharper than intended.

He stood, crossing to where Bingley waited. “We are being watched. I need to leave—briefly—but I will not do so unless I know someone is in that house who will notice if she vanishes.”

Bingley made a wry face. “From what you say of the lady, she vanishes rather easily.”

“All the more reason for you to stay close. And if it can be said so lightly, there is more at stake here, even than her life. Or mine.”

At that, Bingley’s expression sobered. “Does she know?”

Darcy hesitated. “Not all of it. Not yet.”

Bingley considered him. “Is it truly her safety you are guarding, or your own sanity?”

Darcy did not answer.

Bingley pushed off the doorframe with a yawn. “Very well. I shall smile at Miss Bennet until my face aches. I shall attempt to match wits with Mr. Bennet in chess—”

“No chess.”

Bingley’s brow furrowed, still somewhat cloudy from sleep. “Eh?”

“Bennet is too much of a distraction. You may smile at his eldest daughter all you like, because she will not let Elizabeth out of her sight, and you will not lose Miss Bennet. But do not, for the sake of all that is decent, let Mr. Bennet suck you into his study for a round of chess.”

Bingley sighed and nodded wearily. “Very well. Your Elizabeth will be guarded. And with any luck, your future mother-in-law will attempt to fatten me until I cannot fit into my carriage for the journey home.”

“You mean your future mother-in-law. Bingley, you had better get some more sleep.”

Bingley rubbed his face. “My what? Something the matter with Mrs. Bennet?”

Darcy gave a huff of breath that was not quite a laugh. “I suppose that depends. The lady is a gracious hostess, if something of a mercenary one. You will not eat half the ham she offers.”

“I shall eat all of it,” Bingley declared, tossing a jaunty salute, followed by a shake of his head, as if trying to finish rousing himself. “For queen and country.”

Darcy chuckled. “Good. Mr. Bennet is aware of certain… matters. A quiet word with him, and he will make excuses for your presence all day if needed.”

“Excellent. Then I shall install myself in their drawing room with every intention of overstaying my welcome.” Bingley paused, his tone softening. “Ride fast. Return faster.”

Darcy nodded once and turned back to the desk. He had letters to burn, notes to hide, and a pistol to clean.

He would be gone no more than a day.

He only prayed it was not too long.

T he morning had begun innocently enough.

The family was just sitting down to breakfast—a modest affair, despite Mrs. Bennet’s regular attempts to bully the cook into producing something grander—when Hill entered, cheeks flushed and voice breathless.

“Mr. Bingley, ma’am,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “He is on the front steps.”

A spoon clattered. Lydia gasped. Kitty squealed.

Mrs. Bennet leaped to her feet so fast her chair tipped backward and nearly toppled Mary. “Mr. Bingley? At this hour?” Her voice rang with triumph and something very near hysteria. “Well! I told you all! Did I not say he would come to his senses? Oh, Jane, this must be in your honor!”

“ Mama! ” Jane hissed, mortified.

But Mrs. Bennet was undeterred. “He has repented, I am sure of it! Blind he may have been these six months, but no man could stay blind forever when confronted with such beauty. Oh, I knew you could not be so lovely for nothing!” She gave Jane a look so pointed it might have left a bruise.

Jane’s blush bloomed instantly. Elizabeth, watching from across the table, wanted to bury her face in her hands in secondary embarrassment.

Mr. Collins cleared his throat loudly, his expression twitching between confusion and indignation. “Mr. Bingley?” he repeated. “At Longbourn? Without invitation? At breakfast?”

Mrs. Bennet fluffed her skirts, pinched her cheeks, and fluttered toward the hall. “Well, he shall have it now, sir! We are not so high in the instep as to turn away a man of such fortune. I say, he may have all the eggs and ham from the larder if it keeps him here long enough to effect his purpose!”

A moment later, Mr. Bingley was ushered into the dining room looking exactly as he always did—sunny, affable, entirely unbothered by the rules of decorum he had just trampled.

“Good morning, ladies!” he said cheerfully. “I hope I am not too early? The air was so fine, I thought I should take advantage of it—and then my horse rather insisted we head this direction.”

Elizabeth stared at him. His coat was unwrinkled. His cravat was neatly tied. Not a man out for an idle ride—but one with an agenda. And she was no simple country girl, easily led by such tales—she knew a determined gentleman caller when she saw one.

He greeted them all in turn, his gaze lingering on Jane just long enough to make Mrs. Bennet beam and Jane squirm.

Then he settled in beside Mr. Bennet, who looked up from his eggs only long enough to say, “I see you have been conscripted, Mr. Bingley.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.

“I—pardon?” Bingley replied, almost too innocently.

Mr. Bennet only gave a small smile and returned to his toast.

Elizabeth did not miss the way Bingley shot a nervous glance at her—then quickly buried himself in conversation with Jane about the garden, the weather, and anything else unlikely to reveal classified intelligence.

Conscripted, indeed. So, this was how Darcy planned to report to the Prince and still keep a close eye on her.

B reakfast ended in due course, and the entire family gathered in the drawing room, with Mr. Bingley and Mr. Collins each making a dash for the seat nearest Jane—a contest that was only ended when Elizabeth declared that to be her favorite seat. Mr. Bingley surrendered cheerfully, Mrs. Bennet frowned, Mr. Bennet chuckled and disappeared into his study for the morning, and that was the end of it.

But then, no one quite knew what to do with themselves. Sunlight spilled through the lace curtains, setting every dust mote aglow and making the faded upholstery look warmer than it deserved. Elizabeth had taken her embroidery in hand—not because she had either the intention or the ability to stitch a single useful thing, but because it offered an excuse to observe Bingley.

He had been perfectly cheerful, of course. Too cheerful. Suspiciously cheerful, as though he were not just tolerating the Bennets’ company, but was determined to relish it or perish in the attempt. He need say nothing to confirm it for her—Darcy had clearly sent him.

The Bennet household had risen to the occasion. That occasion being Mr. Bingley must not be allowed to leave. Mrs. Bennet simply would not have it, no matter how awkward the conversation or how many hints Collins dropped about wishing to walk into Meryton. Rather, she plied her guest with tittle-tattle and tea and more than one pointed insinuation that Bingley might enjoy the prospect of the room better from the very seat he had surrendered to Elizabeth.

The plan was sound. Elizabeth simply had not anticipated how long a day could be when everyone was playing a role and no one admitted why.

By ten o’clock, Lydia had already suggested two games, demanded one walk, and asked Kitty six times whether officers might call. Kitty had no answers, but this did not stop her from whispering possibilities like a schoolgirl reading tea leaves.

By eleven, Mrs. Bennet had produced a pudding.

“Breakfast is over,” Jane had whispered.

“Then it is a midmorning refreshment,” Mrs. Bennet had declared, plopping the dish down on a little table beside Bingley with such force the table rattled.

Mr. Bingley, undeterred, beamed at her. “How very delightful, ma’am.”

He was going to die here , Elizabeth thought, and he would be smiling as he did it.

By noon, even Mary—usually immune to social tension—had looked up from her sermon notes and remarked to Kitty, “This is quite a lot of effort for one man.”

Mr. Collins had taken grave offense at that. “It is a great deal of effort for the wrong man,” he had muttered.

Elizabeth had not missed it. Nor, apparently, had anyone else, but Mr. Bingley kept smiling, anyway.

Now, seated in a half-circle around the drawing room, with a blazing fire they did not need and conversation they did not enjoy, they all suffered together. Jane poured tea. Lydia whispered. Mr. Collins, seated beside the fire like an unmovable statue of pomposity, cleared his throat with theatrical weight.

“I must observe,” he began, in the tone of a man who had been waiting far too long to speak, “that it is unusual for a gentleman of no landed estate to remain so long in company without a stated purpose.”

Bingley, to his credit, blinked only once. “As to that, I do have an estate, sir, even if it was not a hereditary one. More to the point, I had understood my company was welcome, sir.”

Mr. Collins sniffed. “It is not my place to determine who is welcome in my esteemed cousins’ home. But I must be vigilant, as I am sure Lady Catherine would expect, when a man of no known connections to the family lingers among its unmarried daughters.”

Elizabeth set her teacup down with a distinct clink.

“I believe,” she said sweetly, “that Mr. Bingley is a favorite neighbor who has often dined under this roof. He is also an old friend of Mr. Darcy, who is a guest of Mr. Bingley’s at Netherfield. And as Mr. Darcy has been a frequent and welcome visitor to Longbourn, and both gentlemen share a particular friendship with my uncle Mr. Bennet, I daresay the matter of connection is quite settled.”

“I question the wisdom of calling Mr. Darcy welcome,” Collins said with a tight little smile. “He may be my honorable patroness’s nephew, but he has long disdained to acknowledge it. And now he lurks in Hertfordshire with no stated business and an attitude of entitlement that I, for one, find most unchristian.”

Elizabeth’s vision sharpened to a dangerous clarity.

“You are free to find fault in whomever you like,” she said, “but I must correct the record. Mr. Darcy is in Hertfordshire on his own terms, which need not concern you, and he has behaved with nothing but civility toward this family. As for you, Mr. Collins, it would be well if you remembered that hospitality once extended obligates a guest to discretion.”

Mr. Collins flushed. “You presume to rebuke me, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Oh, I should hope not,” she said brightly. “I was aiming to insult you outright.”

There was a long, pinched silence.

Then Mr. Collins, straightening, turned to Jane. “I do beg your forgiveness, cousin. I had not intended to create unpleasantness. I had merely hoped—” he coughed— “that the affections we once shared might yet endure.”

Jane, who had shared precisely nothing but a strained smile, looked confused.

Mrs. Bennet, now glowing with the kind of horror only unprofitable suitors could bring, fluttered a handkerchief. “Oh! Mr. Collins, I am sure Jane is not inclined—”

But Mr. Collins had moved on.

“And speaking of cousins… and attachments… I must confess,” he said, “that I had begun to entertain suspicions regarding Miss Elizabeth.”

The room fell silent.

“I confess it strange to me. Now, it is true that my father had little contact with the Bennet branch of our family, but he did show me the family lineage on more than one occasion, by way of advising me of my…”

At this juncture, Collins placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head toward a gasping Mrs. Bennet. “That is to say, how the misfortunes of one branch of the family created something of a blessing for me. I must say, there was no record of my cousin Daniel Bennet ever having a daughter. And while the resemblance to your family is… plausible, it is hardly conclusive. Moreover, Miss Elizabeth, your manner is, I daresay, nearly as refined as the delightful Miss Anne de Bourgh’s. I must question whether such elevated training could have been afforded by so modest a family as my cousin’s must be.”

Elizabeth could not speak.

“I have made inquiries,” Collins went on. “And I have written to my esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, to ask her advice, both on this matter and that of her profligate nephew ingratiating himself among unsuspecting families. She is most shrewd in such matters. I expect her express reply within the next day or two.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth.

And found she had nothing to say.

Nothing that would satisfy Jane’s soft, uncertain eyes watching her across the room. Nothing that would explain the burn rising in her cheeks or the sudden ache in her chest.

“I am certain,” she said finally, “that any doubts you may hold will be answered in time.”

Her voice was too quiet. Her lie was too thin.

Jane knew.

Of course she did. And Elizabeth, who could deflect nearly anything with charm or laughter, felt herself shrink under the weight of that silent, gentle gaze.

Bingley, who had been staring at the hearth as though trying to crawl into it, suddenly turned. “You wrote to Lady Catherine?”

His voice was not cheerful now. Not surprised or angry, just… cool. Stripped of its usual warmth. And harder than Elizabeth had ever heard it.

Collins nodded. “Naturally. She will know what is best. And she will likely write to her nephew, if she believes he is acting imprudently.”

Elizabeth’s head snapped toward Bingley.

The blood had drained from his face.

“You had no right,” he said quietly. “None at all.”

“I wrote only what I observed,” Collins huffed.

“You wrote to a woman who believes herself superior to every soul in England and thinks nothing of making lives miserable when her pride is bruised.” Bingley stood. “And you may have placed others in danger for no reason beyond your own wounded vanity.”

“My—! Danger? Sir, I—!”

“I think,” Bingley said, voice shaking with fury, “that we have had enough entertainment for one day.”

He strode to the door to the hallway and yanked it open. Cool air flooded the room.

Elizabeth rose too. She had to leave. Had to think. Besides, Darcy had sent Bingley to watch her . If he left—

But Jane caught her wrist gently. “Lizzy,” she whispered. “Please.”

Elizabeth looked down. Jane’s fingers were slender, steady. There was no anger in her expression—only hurt. And perhaps a trace of betrayal.

“Jane,” she said quickly, “will you walk with me?”

Jane blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Please. Just for a moment.” Her voice was quiet, urgent. “I will explain.”

Jane hesitated only a second before nodding. She rose and joined her without a word.

Elizabeth cast one last look behind her. Collins was sputtering, Lydia had begun whispering furiously to Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet looked torn between rage and triumph. Mr. Bennet, wisely, had disappeared.

Elizabeth turned and followed Bingley out into the sunlight, Jane at her side, and let the door close on whatever fresh outrage Mr. Collins was now shouting behind them.