Page 23 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-Three

D arcy arrived at Netherfield long past twilight, his hired horse blown and his coat dusty from the road. He had traveled hard and fast, and every bone in his body felt it. The sun had already vanished beyond the trees as he dismounted, muscles aching with the stiffness of a long day’s ride. He passed his reins to a sleepy stableboy and strode into the house, bracing himself for the laconic cheer of a country drawing room.

Instead, he was greeted by the butler with a blink and a bow—and unexpected news.

“Mr. Darcy. We did not expect you until tomorrow. I am afraid Bingley has not yet returned, sir.”

Darcy paused on the threshold, one brow raised. “Not at all?”

“No, sir. He departed for Longbourn before breakfast and has not been seen since.”

Darcy exhaled slowly, lips pressed together in something dangerously close to a smile.

“Very good,” he said. “I shall wait for him in the study.”

He did not even bother removing his coat. He poured himself a glass of something brandied and stood before the hearth with it untouched in his hand, waiting. When Bingley finally did return, the clock in the hall had struck half-past ten.

His friend entered with the flush of wind and candlelight, his coat flung back, his hair askew from a ride taken at more than gentlemanly speed.

“You look half-murdered,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” Darcy said. “Nor, I presume, have you.”

Bingley grinned. “Not in any way Mrs. Bennet would consider adequate, no.”

“I take it our Miss Elizabeth did not attempt to give you the slip today?”

Bingley shook his head. “No, no, quite sedate and well-behaved, in that regard. I expect she is even now retiring to bed, so no gallivanting the countryside for your wayward miss.”

Darcy’s posture relaxed slightly, and he set down his untouched drink. “And? Did he do it?”

“Eh?”

“The parson. I assume he wrote to my aunt and is rather proud of himself for it.”

“Collins?” Bingley sighed, tossing his gloves onto a side table. “Yes. He admitted it this afternoon, and I do not think he regrets it.”

Darcy’s jaw tensed. “I expected as much,” he said. “Did he… say anything else? To them , I mean.”

Bingley hesitated. “I am not sure that he even knows the full truth, but he certainly hinted. Nothing explicit. Nothing that would make too many ripples in polite society, but enough that Miss Bennet looked ready to bite through her teacup, and Miss Elizabeth was set to lob hers at his head.”

Darcy frowned. “I expected he would scold or insult—he is always insufferable—but nothing more.”

Bingley hesitated. “There was more.”

Darcy’s head turned sharply. “More?”

“Not about you, this time, but about Miss Elizabeth. He was rather put out that she defended your honor in public, so he decided to attack her credibility.”

Darcy stiffened. Elizabeth had… defended him? That almost pained him more than if she had denounced him outright. “What did Collins say?”

“He said,” Bingley began, choosing his words carefully, “that he never believed she was a Bennet cousin. Claimed Daniel Bennet never wrote of children, and that Miss Elizabeth’s manner did not match her supposed upbringing.”

Darcy stared at him. “He said that in front of the family?”

Bingley nodded grimly. “In front of everyone. Loudly enough that Mrs. Bennet nearly choked on her tea.”

Darcy’s gaze darkened. “And how did that fall upon Mrs. Bennet’s ears?”

“She was ready to throw him out of the house,” Bingley said with a small, dry smile. “Well, that was how we found matters when we came back. I am afraid I quite lost my temper as well, and the ladies and I… we took some air for a bit.”

Darcy swallowed the rest of his drink without tasting it, without even seeing the glass. “Well? Where stand matters?’

“Oh, Mr. Bennet smoothed it over. Something about Elizabeth being sent to live with some wealthy aunt as a child because her mother’s health could not manage the raising of a small babe, and that she had only lately returned. It was nonsense, but plausible nonsense. Enough for Mrs. Bennet, for she was instantly distracted by the notion of a ‘wealthy aunt’ she never heard of before and forgot entirely about the lady’s parentage. I doubt Collins will actually accept that, though.”

Darcy turned away, pacing a step. He had counted on Collins’s ignorance. That veil was now torn. “What of the sisters? Will any of them talk?”

Bingley’s smile gentled. “The younger sisters? They believed what their father told them. But Miss Bennet already knew.”

Darcy whirled. “How?”

“She is more perceptive than either of us gave her credit for, I suppose. She said she always knew something was off. But today, when we were out walking, Miss Elizabeth told her everything.”

Darcy’s brows lifted. “Everything? As in… everything? ”

“Everything pertinent, I suppose.”

Darcy heaved a sigh. “So. You know the truth, too.”

Bingley chewed his lip and sucked in a breath. “Yes.”

Darcy nodded and paced away.

“You need not have hidden so much,” Bingley said softly. “I would have helped you more, had I known.”

“I know.”

“But I understand why you did. The more people who know…”

Darcy nodded once. “Indeed.”

Then Bingley chuckled. “Well, I suppose one good thing came of today… I have changed my mind.”

Darcy blinked and turned around. “About what?”

“About the lady.”

Darcy’s shoulders straightened. “Which lady? Miss Elizabeth?”

Bingley smiled like a man with a secret too fine to keep. “No! Miss Jane Bennet.”

Darcy’s stomach uncurled, and his mouth twitched. “Ah.”

“I have secured her blessing to court her. And her father’s, and, naturally, her mother’s. I will be calling often— very often, I hope.”

Darcy tried for a smile, but he had burned through every ounce of warmth in London. What emerged was a faint, tired curve of the mouth. “I told you that you misread her.”

“You did,” Bingley agreed. “And I am very glad I listened.”

Darcy reached for the brandy again, this time with purpose. “I am pleased for you, Charles.”

Bingley clapped him on the shoulder. “Go to bed. You look like death. I will see you in the morning.”

T he house had finally settled.

Dishes had been cleared, chairs straightened, and Mr. Collins—thankfully—had taken himself off to bed after yet another long-winded grace. Now only the low creak of floorboards overhead and the distant ticking of the hall clock gave any sign of life beyond the drawing room, where Elizabeth sat with Jane in comfortable quiet.

A pile of half-folded linen rested between them. Jane was methodical—neat corners, soft hands. Elizabeth’s pile had already toppled twice, and the sheet in her lap had somehow acquired a corner torn along the seam. She blamed Collins. No one could fold after a dinner like that.

But the quiet was welcome. Needed, even.

“I used to dream of a house like this,” Elizabeth murmured. “Warm. Noisy. A little unkempt.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Unkempt is kind. You have seen Mama’s ribbon drawer.”

“I have seen her kitchen.” Elizabeth smirked. “I am fairly certain your cook keeps a poultry ledger more meticulous than the Home Office.”

Jane laughed—a soft, surprised thing—and folded another pillowcase. “Hill is efficient, but I think it is rather in spite of Mama than because of her.”

Elizabeth snorted a silent chuckle, then went still, her eyes glazing a little as she watched Jane’s hands. “My father’s house is beautiful,” she mused. “Marble floors. Carved panels. A garden so vast we once lost a French tutor in the yew maze for half a day.”

Jane looked up, one brow raised in curiosity. “It sounds lovely.”

“But cold,” Elizabeth added. “And too quiet.”

Jane chuckled and tossed her folded linens aside. “I did not know such a thing could exist.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “My mother could not bear it. She left for Devonshire when I was nine. She said she would rather listen to seagulls than my father’s opinions. I visited her, of course. Back and forth, for a time. And she comes to London on occasion—she was there when I was presented at Court. But neither of them… truly wanted company. Certainly not mine.”

Jane’s face softened with sympathy.

“I was not neglected,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Not really. I had governesses and chaperones. I had all the tutors I could ask for, a private education worthy of a son rather than a daughter. I was introduced. Danced. Made friends.” She paused. “But friends cannot replace family. Not forever.”

“Surely your parents care for you,” Jane supplied hopefully. “Not all are capable of expressing their feelings, but I cannot think they were entirely ambivalent toward you.”

Elizabeth lifted one shoulder. “No, I was useful. Sometimes. Mother would send me lists of things to look for when I went shopping, Father would use my friendships to strengthen his alliances…”

“Surely there was more than that!”

Elizabeth looked down, fingering a loose thread on the coverlet. “I doubt my mother even knows I am not in London. As for my father, he has supposedly received letters purporting to be from me as I am out ‘on holiday,’ and I doubt he has bothered to notice the handwriting is not mine.”

Jane fell silent.

Elizabeth glanced toward the fire, where the last coals glowed faint and red. “I must confess, Jane, I thought it would be fearfully dull and provincial when Mr. Darcy insisted I was to come here. I thought I would be bored into a stupor. Instead I found noise. Laughter. Kitty and Lydia arguing over jam. Your mother shouting across the garden for Mary to put down that dreadful book before she trips over the cat.”

Jane ducked her head, trying not to smile. “Mama is… dramatic sometimes.”

“Your mother may be dramatic, Jane, but she cares about you. Desperately.”

The smile faded into something gentler. “She does.”

“I envy you that,” Elizabeth whispered.

They fell to staring at the fire in silence.

A few minutes later, as Elizabeth stood to take the bundle to the hallway, Mr. Bennet stepped in through the side door—book in one hand, slippers scuffing quietly on the rug.

“Ladies,” he said with a mild nod.

“Papa.” Jane rose, brushing a thread from her sleeve.

“Mr. Bennet.” Elizabeth bobbed a slight curtsy, linen still in her arms.

He eyed the pile with a touch of mock suspicion. “You have not taken to housemaid duties, I hope. I shall be forced to speak to Hill about exploitation.”

Elizabeth offered a crooked smile. “I suspect Hill would say it is I who require the supervision.”

“She would not be wrong.” He approached the hearth and tapped a finger against the mantel, as if checking for dust. Then his eyes flicked back to Elizabeth. “You are well?” he asked quietly.

“I am,” she said, surprised by how much she meant it.

He nodded once. “Good. Then I shall not worry until I must.” A glance at Jane. “Which I am sure will be sometime tomorrow.”

“Papa.”

He patted Jane’s hand, turned back toward the door, and ambled out without another word.

Elizabeth stood still for a moment, listening to the familiar sound of his uneven gait retreating down the hall.

The home was not hers. The name was not hers. Nothing about this life was meant to last.

And yet—when the door closed behind him—she felt, for the first time in her life, as though she belonged.

May 29, 1812

D arcy had built the network years ago, brick by brick, favor by favor, until it stretched like a silent lattice beneath the polished surface of respectable England. It had begun during a quiet inquiry into the forgery ring that nearly unseated a viscount—and grown in complexity with every mission the Crown had entrusted to him since. He had learned early that success in this work depended not only on discretion in action, but in the company one chose to trust.

So, he had trusted almost no one.

His informants were as disparate as they were discreet—post riders, ostlers, taproom boys, stable hands, innkeepers who kept two ledgers, and messengers who asked no questions. None of them knew more than a sliver. None knew they were part of a whole. Each had been paid in coin, favor, or silence, and each was instructed to pass their information only to a courier bearing a false name, at a false hour, their faces concealed.

This was not a web—it was a maze. And only Darcy knew the shape of it.

By Friday morning, the pieces began to arrive.

One report from a stable east of St. Albans: a red coach, lacquered but not new, had changed horses under cover of rain. The ostler noted its trim—black piping, nothing else—and said the driver had looked wrong for a gentleman’s servant. Shifty. Too thin. A southern accent.

More curious still, the driver had asked for directions to the road west—not toward London, but Oxfordshire.

Two towns over, one of Fitzwilliam’s men, posing as a common traveler with a toothache and an urgent parcel, had seen the same coach again before dusk. Still no passengers. Still silent.

The bait had worked.

They were chasing a ghost, and now, Fitzwilliam had tails on them.

Darcy spread the notes across the writing desk in his room at Netherfield, eyes flicking from one detail to the next. The paper was cheap, the ink smudged, but the pattern was unmistakable. Someone had taken the hint embedded in Elizabeth’s letter—had seen the name “St. Albans” and moved in haste.

He could not know for certain if it was Maddox. But it could not be coincidence. No one else would have the means or the motive to react so quickly. Perhaps a proxy. Perhaps Maddox himself. Either way, it meant the game had changed.

He reached for a fresh sheet and composed his reply to Fitzwilliam in a hand so tight and controlled it barely resembled his own. New directives: any further sightings of the red coach are to be recorded, not intercepted. Let them run. Let them believe they are gaining ground. Let them think the quarry just ahead.

Darcy sealed the letter with wax, pressed no signet, and handed it off to the groom with careful instructions.

Only then did he let himself sit back in the chair and close his eyes, just for a moment. They were chasing a ghost. But it was better than being hunted by one.

H e did not leave Netherfield that day. The storm clouds that threatened the horizon had not yet broken, but he could feel them gathering at his back, every hour wasted a provocation to fate. Still, he stayed.

He wrote letters and burned half of them.

Missives to his associates at the Home Office—he had his regular duties to pay heed to as well—inquiries to lesser informants…

…A half-started note to Elizabeth he should never have considered writing… He crumpled that one and then, not satisfied, threw it in the fire and waited until it was ash.

At one point, he found himself composing a dry, formal warning to the innkeeper in St. Albans who had reported the red coach—only to ball it up, too, and hurl it into the grate before it reached its third line. There was no reason to warn the man. No one knew the trail had been laid but those he trusted. And yet he could not shake the feeling that they were all standing atop a cracked floor, waiting for it to give.

He stood long at the window, watching the road to Longbourn, arms folded tight across his chest.

Caroline Bingley discovered him there just after noon, sweeping into the study without so much as a knock. She wore a muslin dress that fluttered as she walked—carefully chosen, no doubt, to draw the eye—and carried a deck of cards in one hand.

“I declare, Mr. Darcy, if you remain posted at that window much longer, you shall be mistaken for a governess waiting on the post,” she said with a lyrical laugh. “Come, do let me distract you. I am positively dying of tedium, and Charles has been no help at all—off chasing pheasants with the steward or some such thing.”

“I am occupied,” Darcy said without turning.

“Then let me be occupied with you. Whist? A stroll in the orangery? I have heard the roses are nearly in bloom.” She came to his side and peered out the window. “You know, I have often thought roses are quite vulgar when left to their own devices. Rather like some people, do you not agree?”

“Caroline,” came Bingley’s voice from the hall, all affable warning and just enough steel. “There you are.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I thought you were out, Charles.”

“Not all day. You are needed in the drawing room. Louisa is searching for you to advise on the new pianoforte arrangement.”

Caroline blinked. “The pianoforte—? But she—”

“Now, if you please.” His tone did not shift, but it was final.

She hesitated, casting a glance between them—then turned on her heel and swept out, muttering something about the tyranny of being useful.

Bingley stepped in behind her, his expression apologetic and faintly amused. He gave Darcy a conspiratorial smile and crossed to the door, speaking low to a waiting footman.

“See that Mr. Darcy is not disturbed again,” he said. “By anyone.”

The footman bowed, and Bingley clapped his friend once on the shoulder before departing, whistling.

Darcy exhaled heavily and returned to the window.

Longbourn remained out of sight, hidden behind the sweep of trees and the rolling hedge. But he could see the path that led there. See the cart that trundled by at midday. The dust kicked by an afternoon rider. The slow progress of a shepherd’s flock across the distant pasture.

He asked himself, more than once, what the devil he thought he was doing.

This was not Pemberley. These were not his affairs. Elizabeth Bennet—no, Lady Elizabeth Montclair —was not truly his to guard… certainly not indefinitely. She was the daughter of a marquess, destined for some viscount or duke or, God help her, a political attaché with a gift for boredom. What right had he to pace like a sentry, to chase rumors and rearrange the chessboard of his life for the sake of a woman whose trust he had not even earned?

But he stayed.

And when the sun dipped low, he made ready to ride. Not for reconnaissance. Not for strategy.

He needed to see for himself that she was safe.

B y nightfall, the air had turned cool and damp. Clouds veiled the stars and turned the sky to ink. The wind moved low through the fields, brushing over the grass with a hush, as if the earth itself were holding its breath.

He rode out alone.

No servant. No house crest on his saddle. Just an ordinary brown gelding and a dark riding cloak. He did not take the main road. He had no wish to be seen. Instead, he followed the edge of a copse to the west, where the trees pressed close and the fence line curved along the rise of a shallow hill.

From there, he could see the house.

Longbourn stood quiet in the distance, its sharp roofline softened by the dark. Two windows glowed gently above the parlor—golden and warm in the night. Jane Bennet’s, he guessed. And Elizabeth’s, since Collins’ arrival necessitated that they share.

She would be preparing for bed.

Perhaps she was brushing out her hair, grumbling about “those dratted curls” again—the ones that gave her a crown of so many intricate luxuries that he had yet to glance at them without losing his breath.

Perhaps she was reading by firelight, her brow drawn, her lips twitching faintly at the margin of some inner thought. Perhaps she was already asleep, her hands tucked under her cheek the way he had seen her once before, after that first mad dash out of London. He had not meant to watch her then, either.

But he watched now.

There were no figures in the windows. No movement. No sign of unrest. Just the quiet of a house at peace.

He stayed in the shadows a long time.

It was absurd, and he knew it. For tonight, at least, she was safer than she had been in weeks. The trap had worked—the letter had drawn attention. Fitzwilliam’s men and his own informants were reporting in regular intervals. Longbourn had not been breached. No stranger had been seen on the road.

And yet, he could not leave.

He had hardly slept the night before. His limbs ached from a full day in the saddle, followed by a day of idleness at his desk. His shoulders ached worse. His eyes stung, and he still carried the scent of coal smoke from the Prince’s insufferable study in his clothes.

But this—this silent vigil under a moonless sky—felt more vital than anything else he had done. More necessary than any report, any strategy, any gallows-bound theory.

She was in there—and now, at least, she trusted him.

He thought of what Bingley had told him—about Collins, about the things that had been said in that drawing room. Elizabeth was not stupid. She would begin to think things… ponder things… Egad, how had she not already put it all together?

Still, she had stayed, heeded his words, because he had asked her to.

He had no claim to her. Not as a protector, not as a suitor. Not even as a friend. He was only the man who was supposed to keep her head on top of her shoulders until another could claim her hand.

He shifted slightly in the saddle, his hands tight on the reins. The gelding snorted and shook his head.

He had no right to want her.

But want her, he did. Every time she turned her head toward him with fire in her eyes, every time she caught him staring and said nothing, every time she had stood unflinching while the world shifted beneath her feet—he had felt it pulling him closer, past reason, past restraint.

He would not act on it. Not ever. She deserved better than a man in exile from his own name, with no title, no standing, no future to offer but disgrace. She was the daughter of a marquess. He was nothing now, but a tarnished tool the Crown found convenient.

And yet—God help him—he could not rule his heart.

He watched those two golden windows from the safety of the trees, unmoving, unblinking, as if something in the candlelight might speak to him.

He knew what was coming.

The letter trap had bought them a little time, but not enough. Once Lady Catherine’s reply arrived, the story Collins had started would blaze through Meryton. Elizabeth’s false identity would not hold. His own would be dragged into the light beside it.

They would have to run. And soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he only watched. And for a moment—just a moment—he let himself imagine that he belonged there, too.