Page 22 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

D arcy was ushered through the wrought-iron gates of Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s London residence, its neoclassical facade exuding opulence and authority.

Inside, the entrance hall unfolded in a spectacle of extravagance. Walls adorned with intricate gilded moldings rose to meet a ceiling frescoed with scenes of classical mythology. Rich crimson draperies framed towering windows, their heavy tassels swaying gently in the draft. Marble statues stood sentinel in alcoves, their cold gazes indifferent to the human dramas playing out before them.

A liveried footman led Darcy through a series of lavishly appointed rooms, each more ostentatious than the last. They passed through the Gothic Dining Room, its dark wood paneling and vaulted ceilings evoking the solemnity of a cathedral. Sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting kaleidoscopic patterns upon the gleaming floor.

Finally, they arrived at the Blue Drawing Room, a space where the Prince often held informal audiences. The footman announced Darcy’s presence with a crisp bow before retreating silently, leaving him to face the Regent alone.

The Prince lounged upon an ornate chaise longue, swathed in a silk dressing gown of deep sapphire, embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis. His ample form was partially concealed beneath the folds of the luxurious fabric, but there was no mistaking the corpulence that had become his hallmark. In one hand, he cradled a delicate porcelain cup of steaming coffee; in the other, a snuffbox encrusted with jewels that caught the light with every lazy movement.

His gaze lifted as Darcy entered, a slow smile spreading across his florid face. “Ah, Mr. Darcy,” he drawled, his voice a rich blend of amusement and condescension. “Come to regale me with tales of your derring-do, have you? Pray, do sit. I find the sight of a man standing so tediously formal.”

Darcy inclined his head, suppressing the irritation that threatened to surface. He took the proffered seat, the upholstery yielding beneath him with a sigh.

The Prince regarded him over the rim of his cup, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and malice. “So, tell me, what progress have you made in this sordid affair of Perceval’s demise? I do hope you have brought me something more than excuses.”

Darcy met the regal gaze evenly. “Your Royal Highness, my investigation has uncovered several leads of significance. The matter is intricate, with threads that extend further than initially anticipated. I respectfully request additional time… and monies… to pursue these avenues thoroughly.”

The Prince’s smile faded, replaced by a theatrical sigh of boredom. He set down his porcelain cup with a careless clatter and leaned forward, his gown parting to reveal a waistcoat groaning in desperate protest against its fastenings. “Time, Mr. Darcy? Time is what you request? It has been a fortnight since I entrusted you with this task. A Prime Minister is dead, and I have no names, no confessions, no justice to soothe my poor mother’s cares about the safety of her family. What, pray, have you been doing with yourself in the countryside? Gardening?”

Darcy’s jaw tensed. “Your Highness, I have reason to believe Sir William Cunningham is involved.”

That gave the Prince pause. His expression tightened, just slightly, before he masked it with a scoff. “Cunningham? A boor, certainly, but a traitor?”

“And I believe he may be employing a man long presumed dead. Hugh Maddox.”

Now the Prince blinked. “Maddox?”

Darcy reached into his coat and produced Elizabeth’s drawing. “This likeness was sketched by Lady Elizabeth Montclair.”

The Prince’s brow creased, and he frowned. “Who?”

Darcy sighed. His Highness could not be so inebriated that he had already forgot about Elizabeth.

“The witness, Highness. The Marquess of Ashwick’s daughter.”

“Oh…” The Prince’s features cleared. “Yes, the lady. Cheeky thing. Might make a fetching diversion for… well, never mind. Egad, Darcy, you needn’t look so scandalized. I suppose she is still alive?”

“Quite. As I was saying—”

“You seem very assured of that, yet I do not see her with you. You must have seen her recently, then, my good fellow?”

Darcy fought to smother a sigh. “Rather, Your Highness. Yes, she sketched this from her memory of the second gunman. I say it is striking enough in detail to lend it credibility. Does the face look familiar to you?”

The Prince took it with two fingers, as if the paper might soil him. He studied it for a long moment, then frowned. “Never seen the blighter.”

Darcy did not move. “Your father gave me a quiet order to investigate Maddox’s death three years ago.”

The Prince handed the paper back without meeting his gaze. “My father gave orders to a great many people. Usually after supper, and rarely in his right mind.”

“His mind was clear that day. Maddox was once a Crown agent, was he not?”

The Prince flapped a hand at the air. “If he was, he is not now. You know how these things go. Men become inconvenient, or inconvenient truths become men.” He picked up his snuffbox and tapped it idly against his palm. “And if Maddox is alive, as you claim, why has he not been seen?”

“Because he knows how to vanish when it pleases him. And because those in power are protecting him. Or using him.”

“You mean Cunningham, I suppose.”

Darcy nodded once. “He and Maddox have history. And political motive. Perceval was tightening control over funding. He may have been getting too close. As for how they got Bellingham to stand in front of Perceval and fire the first shot—well, Your Highness, Bellingham did have his own motives, some of which came out during his trial. But I suspect we might find that Bellingham was threatened, as well. Perhaps his family.”

The Prince stood abruptly, robes billowing like a stage curtain. He crossed to the window and stared out, the light outlining the paunch of his figure and the restless tapping of his fingers against the sill. “I brought you into this because you were discreet, Darcy. Useful. Cold-blooded when necessary. Not to serve me riddles wrapped in shadows.”

“Then let me finish the work.”

The Prince turned, the light now showing a dangerous glint in his eye. “Finish what? It seems you have scarcely made a beginning. Perhaps I should give the task to someone else. Someone more decisive. More… obedient.”

Darcy took a single step forward. “And if that someone causes the truth to leak? If it becomes public that Bellingham was coerced? That another man, still free, orchestrated the death of a Prime Minister? What then? How secure is your position, Highness, if foreign papers begin to whisper that the Crown hanged a mere scapegoat?”

The Prince’s jaw ticked. He did not like that word— scapegoat . Nor the suggestion that his already fragile image could be further smeared.

“You brought me in because I do not blunder. I do not speak. And I do not fail. But I must be allowed to do the job.”

A long silence fell. The Prince returned to his seat with exaggerated languor, as if to show he had never truly been rattled. He plucked at a cushion, rearranged his robe, and finally gave a careless wave. “Very well. Another week. But if you do not bring me something—something with teeth, Darcy—I shall install someone else. And you may explain to your pretty witness why the fox is now guarding the henhouse.”

Darcy inclined his head, though every muscle in his body itched to bolt from the room. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

But as he turned to go, the Prince’s voice, suddenly sweet, halted him once more. “Oh, and about your little petition—your charming bid to reclaim that dusty estate of yours…”

Darcy turned back, wary. “Yes, Your Highness?”

The Prince smiled. “I gave it due consideration, of course. Quite touched by your devotion to ancestral rafters and carpets and all that. But alas, my hands are tied. My father’s order was very firm, as it always was in such… cases. I might have doubted the credibility of the charges if you yourself could prove unimpeachable, but given how little you have managed to achieve thus far…”

A cold flush washed over Darcy, but he schooled his features into an impassive mask. “Your Highness, the accusations against my father were disproven. Every witness recanted. Every document verified. I have provided ample evidence to that effect.”

The Prince chuckled, a low, mirthless sound. “Yes, well, evidence can be so dreadfully dull, don’t you think? It is action this world wants. Now, do be a splendid fellow and catch this murderer, won’t you?”

Darcy’s fists clenched at his sides, hidden by the folds of his coat. He bowed stiffly. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

T hey walked in silence for some time, following the worn path behind Longbourn that led toward the brook. The breeze was mild, and the tall grasses whispered with every step. Elizabeth kept her arms folded, eyes on the ribbon of water ahead, aware of Bingley to her left, Jane quietly between them.

She owed them an explanation.

Bingley had barely spoken since they left the house, though his strides had been purposeful, his jaw tight with residual fury. He had not looked at Elizabeth—not directly—but he had hovered just enough to make clear that he meant to stay between her and any danger, seen or unseen.

Finally, Elizabeth slowed. “This is far enough.”

Jane turned to her, brow creased. “Lizzy—what Collins said—he is not a clever man, nor indeed a very agreeable one. You need not explain—”

“No,” Elizabeth said, then shook her head. “No, I think I must.”

She drew a breath and looked between them. “First, I must thank you. Both of you. For what just happened in that room. I have almost never in my life seen anyone stand up against a slanderer for someone who is not even present as you did for your friend, Mr. Bingley. I daresay it was one of the most… honest things I have ever seen.”

He shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable. “Well. I did not do it for thanks. I did it because Mr. Collins is an insufferable fool.”

Jane cast him a look that would have silenced any other man, but Bingley gave her a sheepish smile.

“Truly,” Elizabeth said, “I have no doubt that he will make trouble. And I fear it will be directed at your household, Jane.”

Jane reached for her hand. “What can he possibly do? I am not worried about that.”

“But you should be.” Elizabeth hesitated. “Because none of this is simple, and I have not been honest. I was placed with your family under false pretenses. You have shown me nothing but kindness, and in return I have lied.”

Jane flinched, but she did not let go.

Bingley stepped forward at last. “Miss Elizabeth, before you say more, may I… explain one thing? Just so we are all clear.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“I do not know everything,” he admitted, “but I do know that my friend—Darcy—was tasked somehow with ensuring your protection. I know that he did not want to involve the Bennet family, but it became the best of a poor set of choices.”

“You… know that much?”

“I was told just enough to be useful,” Bingley said, lips quirking upward. “And given to understand that if I failed to remain at Longbourn for the entire day, Mr. Darcy would be forced to find a new friend.”

Elizabeth gave a small, surprised laugh.

Jane’s eyes were wide. “Then you… you are not here to…” She cleared her throat. “Well, to court me?”

“What?” Bingley blinked. “Oh. Well—” He flushed. “I would be most honored to—well, that is—I had hoped to—but not today! I mean, not as a ruse. Never as a ruse.”

Elizabeth covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

Jane gave him a look of such confused warmth that Bingley visibly forgot what he had been saying.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “Well, I shall let you two sort that out later. As to Mr. Collins’ insinuations… yes. He is right. I am not Daniel Bennet’s daughter. I never heard of the man before I came here.”

Jane flinched again and glanced at Bingley, as if seeking some support. “Oh.”

“My true name is Lady Elizabeth Montclair. My father is the Marquess of Ashwick. You may have heard of him. Most people have.”

Bingley’s brows rose, and a soft, “Ah,” escaped him, but he said nothing else.

“I was in London on May eleventh. The day of Prime Minister Perceval’s murder—I had left my friends, sneaked into the House of Commons to catch a glimpse of… well, that hardly bears repeating. I saw Perceval shot—I saw Bellingham… and I saw someone else.”

By this time, Bingley was clamping his teeth into his upper lip as if biting back words, and Jane’s face had gone rather pale. “Someone… else?” she asked.

“Bellingham’s pistol misfired, or… or something. He was right there—so close, and Perceval jerked when the gunshot rang out. But the shot failed… I do not know exactly how. The second man’s, however, did not.”

“Second man!” Bingley exclaimed.

Elizabeth paused to close her eyes. “He was behind a pillar, waiting—I think he meant to shoot Bellingham if he failed to carry the deed out, but it was Perceval he shot in the end. The shots were less than a heartbeat apart, so tight it might have sounded like a ricochet or an echo of the first blast to others. But the man saw me, gaping at him as he was putting his gun away. He stared straight back at me… saw my face, as surely as I saw his.”

“Good Lord,” Bingley breathed. “That… explains a great deal.”

Elizabeth swallowed and lifted one shoulder. “Anyway, because of that—because I have a fearful habit of wandering from where I ought to be and seeing and doing what I should not—I have been hunted. They set fire to my chambers in my father’s house, captured my maid… I am only ‘lucky’ because I was no longer there when they struck.”

Jane’s hand flew to her mouth.

“It was not my choice to be placed with your family. I had no say in the matter. Mr. Darcy was charged with keeping me safe, and when he had no other options, he brought me here and bade me to behave myself… for once in my life. I… I never meant to lie to you.” Tears filled her eyes. “And I never meant to put your family in danger. I am sorry.”

Jane reached for her and pulled her into an embrace, holding her tightly. “You silly, brave, impossible creature,” she whispered. “Of course I knew you were lying.”

Elizabeth froze. “You did?”

Jane laughed softly. “Not about everything. But enough. I know very well Uncle Daniel never had children. His wife was so often ill, poor creature. But Papa vouched for you, so I never pressed. And Lizzy, you said once that you did not like tea, but I have seen you drink three cups in a row just to avoid conversation. And I am rather certain you were inebriated the day you first came to Longbourn, yet I have not seen you touch a drop since. That is not the behavior of a normal girl.”

Elizabeth let out a watery laugh. “And I thought I was the sly one, but all along, you were a step ahead of me.”

“You were never our cousin,” Jane said, cupping her cheek fondly. “But you were always our Lizzy. And I loved you like a sister from the first day.”

Bingley cleared his throat awkwardly. “If I may… this is all quite touching, but if matters are as you say, Miss… egad, I am not even sure what to call you.”

Elizabeth tried to laugh again, but it came out as a near-sob. “Mr. Darcy calls me ‘that impossible woman,’ I am quite sure. You may as well do the same.”

Bingley gave a vague smile and a shake of his head. “I think you might be surprised… but no matter. Perhaps we should return to the house before Mrs. Bennet sends out a search party. Or Heaven forbid, sends Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth nodded, glancing over her shoulder. “You are right. Mr. Darcy warned me against exposing myself where I could be harmed, and we are rather far from the house.”

“Do you think he will truly write to Lady Catherine?” Jane asked.

“I am certain of it,” Bingley said grimly. “And if she takes it upon herself to interfere…” He trailed off, his face darkening.

Elizabeth frowned. “Why would she? Surely she has no influence over what Mr. Darcy does.”

“Oh, she believes she does,” Bingley said. “And that belief, unfortunately, is a danger in itself.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “I know she is Mr. Darcy’s aunt, but she lives in Kent and he is a grown man. Why would her ‘disapproval’ matter in the least? And… and why would Collins call him… indecent? From what I have seen, he is the farthest thing from it.”

At that, Bingley shifted uncomfortably, pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “That tale is mostly Darcy’s to tell,” he said. “And he would likely disown me for even speaking this much. But since we are already so far down the road of shocking revelations…”

He sighed. “His family once held a title—his father was the Eighth Earl of Pemberley. Wealth. And land. A great deal of both, in fact. Pemberley is… good heavens, I saw it once, and I still think it the fairest estate in all of England. But it belongs to another now—not even a proper relation, but a family endowed by chance or favor. All of it stripped away and given to a miscreant by royal order.”

Jane gasped softly. “Stripped? By the Crown?”

“That… that is not done lightly,” Elizabeth murmured.

“Indeed, but it was done to the Darcys,” Bingley said. “Unjustly, I assure you. The charges were… well, grievous, to be sure, but entirely false. Still, it was a fearful scandal—one I am not at liberty to explain. Darcy was away at Eton when it all began. He had no hand in it. But people like Lady Catherine”—he scowled— “never forget such things. Or forgive them. Particularly not when she imagines herself the sole guardian of propriety in England.”

“And Collins?” Elizabeth wondered.

“Oh, Collins parrots whatever she says. If Lady Catherine declared Mr. Darcy a pirate, Collins would be drawing maps by morning.”

“But why now?” Elizabeth asked. “What could she think to do to him now, of all times?”

“Embarrass him, I should think. Make him enough of a spectacle that anyone will think twice before being seen with him. She has done it before. Darcy and I were on holiday in Bath two years ago and when she heard of it, she sent a single letter to some friend of hers and by the next day, neither of us were admitted to the Pump Room. It is all because she once thought Darcy would eventually marry her daughter, you see, and when the family was disgraced, I suppose she could not peddle her daughter’s virtue elsewhere, so they remain at Rosings as two bitter creatures, each so weary of the other’s face that they must seek their entertainment by the post.”

“So… she would see all Meryton turn against him,” Jane murmured. “That is a pity. Most people in town were just learning to like him. It must be hard for the poor man to make friends.”

“I am afraid it is worse than that.” Bingley glanced at Elizabeth and his fists flexed as he swallowed. “Darcy cannot afford any sort of particular attention. Not now. Not when he is already working under royal sanction, and certainly not while trying to keep you alive. He needs to blend in, like any other man. To be unobtrusive.”

He met her eyes. “Darcy knows your location is no longer a secret, but so far, he believes his connection to you has remained secure, which buys him time and a bit of leverage. But Lady Catherine’s idea of ‘loyalty and duty’ is to shout his name from the rooftops while denouncing his every move. If she arrives in Meryton waving a letter from Collins… well. The quiet is over.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “Then the hunt begins.”

“Yes,” Bingley said softly. “And we will all be caught in it.”

D arcy found Colonel Fitzwilliam in his flat, coatless, cravat hanging loose, and sleeves rolled to the elbow as he bent over a sprawl of papers that would have given most clerks vertigo.

“You look entirely too cheerful for a man elbow-deep in Home Office filth,” Darcy said, closing the door behind him.

Fitzwilliam looked up and grinned. “Do not let the candlelight fool you. I am wallowing in moral decay.”

Darcy sank into the armchair opposite. “Any news of Alice?”

The grin slipped. Fitzwilliam set down his pen and folded his arms. “Some. Not enough. I have intelligence that she is alive—or was, as of three days past.”

“Three days ago? What does that mean?”

“There is rumor she escaped. Slipped her guards near Brighton. Possibly headed north, though it is difficult to track a girl with no friends, no money, and a name she probably dares not give.”

Darcy pressed his lips together. “So she is alone.”

“If she is the one these reports refer to,” Fitzwilliam said carefully. “There were no clear identifiers, but it matches what we know.”

“No ransom demand. No threats. No message of any kind,” Darcy said. “They did not want her alive, did they?”

Fitzwilliam gave a tight nod. “She was not the target. And either she knew nothing of value, or she already told them what she could. I expect they were taking her somewhere to make her disappear.”

Darcy exhaled slowly. “Let us hope she proves as elusive as her mistress.”

Fitzwilliam cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. “Now. Cunningham. Anything new there?”

“Perhaps.” Darcy pulled a folded paper from his inner coat and handed it across the desk. “That sketch again. Take another look.”

Fitzwilliam gave it a glance, then paused. “Am I supposed to recognize this devil? I already told you—”

“Do you recall that business with Hugh Maddox? Disappeared three years ago. Any chance this could be him?’

Richard turned the drawing in the light. Squinted. “Devil take it… that might be him.”

“You think so?”

“The jawline is right. Hairline, too. I never met Maddox, but I once saw him riding out with Lord Beresford’s company near Portsmouth—couple of years before he disappeared.”

Darcy’s brow rose. “Do you recall the miniature?”

Fitzwilliam snorted. “Painted by some society wife’s cousin, if memory serves. She also painted pigs with cherubic faces. Not exactly known for anatomical fidelity.”

“That explains a great deal.”

Fitzwilliam studied the drawing once more. “If Maddox lives—and if he is with Cunningham—then we are not just dealing with a scandal. We are dealing with state treason at a level I have never seen before.”

Darcy nodded once. “And I have spoken with Eddleton.”

“The clerk who left breadcrumbs in the Treasury?”

“Shell accounts. Regular payments. From a fund tied to the Auxiliary Services, funneled through charities and printing houses—every one of them linked to Cunningham’s known associates.”

Fitzwilliam exhaled slowly, brows drawn together. “He gave you this himself?”

Darcy nodded. “Two days ago. We met at an inn—privately. He was nervous. Said someone had broken into his flat. Drawers opened. Ink spilled. Nothing taken. A warning.”

“And?”

Darcy’s jaw tensed. “He handed me the ledgers and left through the back. I told him not to return home. To go to ground.”

Fitzwilliam glanced away. “Then you should know—yesterday morning, a body was pulled from the Thames. No identification. The coroner marked it vagrant, possibly suicide. But—” He hesitated. “One of your sources, Tibbs, was at the docks. Said the man wore a Treasury seal under his coat. Described him as thin, anxious. Brown coat. Frayed cuffs.”

Darcy was silent.

“I cannot confirm it was Eddleton,” Fitzwilliam said, more gently. “But I am fairly certain it was.”

Darcy pressed a hand to his temple. “He was only trying to help.”

“They always are,” Fitzwilliam murmured.

A brittle silence fell between them.

Then Fitzwilliam asked, “Do you think the Prince will investigate it?”

Darcy’s mouth twisted. “His Highness suggested I was… failing him. Then laughed off the entire affair over a plate of candied almonds.”

Fitzwilliam gave a short, mirthless laugh.

Darcy looked up. “And then he threatened to pull me off the case. Replace me with someone quicker. More obedient.”

Fitzwilliam’s expression darkened. “He would not.”

“He would,” Darcy said flatly. “And he might. If only to be rid of the discomfort. But that would leave her exposed.”

Fitzwilliam swore again. “Well, what came of it?”

Darcy stood and crossed to the window. “I convinced him to give me more time. Barely.”

“You should stay in London,” Fitzwilliam said. “You can push this through from the inside. Leverage my contacts. Use your resources at the Home Office. Turn up enough proof to make a scandal irrelevant.”

“I cannot.”

Fitzwilliam turned in his chair. “Why not?”

Darcy’s gaze did not leave the window. “Her location has been compromised. I left Bingley in my place for the day, but I must return.”

“Bingley,” Fitzwilliam repeated. “You left Bingley in charge of an assassination witness. I would not trust him with a plate of jellied scones.”

“Better him than a regiment,” Darcy muttered. “He smiles too much to be suspicious.”

Fitzwilliam raised both brows. “Well, that answers part of what you never told me. So, she is in Meryton, eh?”

“I have set a trap,” Darcy said. “If someone moves to silence her, I intend to be there to catch them.”

Fitzwilliam nodded slowly. “So the lady is no longer just a witness.”

Darcy turned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Fitzwilliam’s expression was maddeningly neutral. “It means that you have never gone to such lengths for any other informant.”

“She is not an informant,“ Darcy snapped. “She is an innocent woman—”

Fitzwilliam grinned. “And we are back to the part where you’re pretending not to be smitten.”

Darcy stiffened. “I am not—”

“You are,” Fitzwilliam said, leaning back. “You would not be this defensive if you were not.”

“I am not some besotted idiot drooling over the first fine pair of eyes to look my way. She is reckless. Infuriating. Entirely unsuited to the role she has been forced to play. I am simply doing my duty to protect—”

Fitzwilliam waved a hand. “Yes, yes. Your sacred duty. Just admit she has you twisted round her little finger and save us both the agony.”

Darcy’s glare was eloquent.

“Very well,” Fitzwilliam said, unrepentant. “Deny it. But you are riding into the lion’s den with barely a sword, and you are doing it for her , not some vain hope—misguided, I am sorry to say—of restoring Pemberley.”

“I am doing it for England,” Darcy said coldly.

Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Of course. God save the King and all that. Do try not to get yourself shot.”

Darcy picked up his gloves. “That would be terribly inconvenient.”

He was nearly at the door when Fitzwilliam said quietly, “I will make inquiries in the regiments. If Maddox is out there, someone has seen his shadow.”

Darcy paused. “Thank you.”

“Send word the moment you reach Meryton,” Fitzwilliam said. “I will do the same the moment Alice surfaces. Or Cunningham slips.”

Darcy nodded and was gone.