Page 29 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

June 1, 1812

“T his was a devilish fine trap,” Colonel Fitzwilliam muttered, tugging on his gloves as he surveyed the wreckage of the ruined cottage. “You drew Maddox out so we could kill him. We questioned the survivor—before he died, that is—and have the names of the ones funding them that happened to line up with our suspicions. All in one night.”

Elizabeth turned toward him, her body aching, her mind still reeling from the terror of the night. Her feet were bandaged, her legs raw from cuts, and her hands… Good heavens, did she have any body parts that were not bleeding?

“A trap? “ she repeated, her voice sharp with disbelief. “We did not plan this. We were running! Hiding—trying to keep innocent people from being shot with us! We had no idea anyone followed us. Mr. Darcy was so cautious!”

Fitzwilliam glanced sideways at her. “Darcy may have let you believe that, but he was no fool. He knew that letter to St. Albans did no more than buy you a day or two to take the fight elsewhere.”

Elizabeth sniffed and crossed her bloodied forearms, blinking against the sting of tears. “You are not saying he… he meant to fight them? That he drew them here on purpose?”

The colonel drew a long sigh, making an almost painful effort at schooling his features to explain the matter patiently. “How long could you have kept running and hiding, Lady Elizabeth? Like enough, the only thing that protected you so long in Hertfordshire was the fact that you were constantly surrounded by a group of other females. Three or four gently bred ladies gunned down in broad daylight does cause talk. From what I gather, the house was too set in the open, so they probably could not get close enough to set fire to your bedroom again. But make no mistake, they would have found their moment soon enough. And this—” he gestured about the shattered cabin— “it worked. Maddox thought he had you cornered but he had no idea we were just behind him. Bloody good show of it, if you ask me.”

Elizabeth looked away, throat tightening. That was not victory. Not to her. Good heavens, what of the Bennets? Maddox had to have had some way of following them from Longbourn. Was there any chance the Bennets had been attacked as well? Tortured to make them reveal her whereabouts? Her breath came in sharp stabs of panic, and her knees began shaking again, so hard that she had to sag against the door—the one where she had first kissed Darcy.

Fitzwilliam crouched beside the body of the man they had taken alive—apparently he was no longer so—and murmured instructions to one of his soldiers. His jaw was set, eyes hard. Whatever confession they had extracted, it was enough to move him.

“Cunningham’s in Northumberland,” he told her, standing again. “If I do not get to him before word of this spreads, we risk losing him.”

“What of him? “ she demanded, gesturing to Darcy lying half-conscious on the cot—head bleeding and chest bare while one of the colonel’s men bandaged his many wounds. “You mean to just leave us here alone?”

The colonel dragged in a heavy sigh as he watched his cousin flinching and groaning, even in his delirium, as the officer probed the paths of the bullets—two, at least, perhaps more. “No, Lady Elizabeth. Quite the opposite, in fact. You must get him to Carlton House at once.”

Elizabeth’s eyes rounded. “ How? He should not even be moved! You cannot put him on a horse all the way to London!”

“I had a thought to that. We have a carriage waiting, though I had not expected to have to put Darcy in it. I’m afraid it is the only way. It is no good me running to Northumberland to take a peer of the realm into custody without His Highness’s knowledge and consent. That is for Darcy to secure, and with all haste.”

“But…” Elizabeth swallowed. “Are you sure he can even make the journey? What am I to do if the bleeding does not stop?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam frowned and stepped to the cot to look over his bloodied cousin. He spoke a few low words to the soldier dressing his wounds, then returned to Elizabeth.

“He will not mistake this for a pleasure tour, but yes, he will survive. Keep him still. That wound at the base of his neck was almost through the artery—Heaven only knows how he kept from bleeding out at once. The shoulder wound will be the one that causes him the most pain, though. The ball tore clean through a deal of muscle, and I fear a fever. Keep pressure on the wounds. Change the bandages if they soak through. We shall send a poultice and whiskey in the satchel. If he stirs, talk to him—I daresay your voice will keep him in this sphere rather than the next.”

She nodded quickly. “What about the wound on his head?”

“Looks far worse than it is. That one is probably why he was knocked out, but we got the bleeding stopped. He’ll have the very devil of a headache when he wakes, but that one is the least of his worries.”

T heir carriage was waiting a few yards down the track—plain, dark, and unmarked. A traveling chariot, small and swift, with shuttered windows and a single driver handpicked by the colonel. It took some trouble and three men to move Darcy’s body, but by the time another quarter hour had passed, the men were back on their horses, and a mostly unconscious Darcy was lodged inside.

Elizabeth had no choice but to climb in after him, but she leaned out before the door was closed behind her. “Where do you expect us to go once we reach London? Surely we will have to wait for an audience. Should I go to my father’s house? Will Mr. Darcy go to Matlock House?”

“No!” Fitzwilliam said sharply. “You must go nowhere. Stop for nothing—not for fresh clothing, not to rest, not even to wash your wounds. I mean it. Drive straight to Carlton House. No detours. No delays. Do you understand?”

She blanched. “But we are covered in blood—we look like highwaymen! I am in no state to be seen by royalty.”

“His Highness started this business,” Fitzwilliam growled. “You are not there to impress him. You are there to end this. The driver has orders not to stop for anyone, but if something forces it…” The colonel extended a pistol. Darcy’s pistol. “Do you know how to shoot, my lady?”

Elizabeth took the cold weight into her hand with a shuddering sigh. “My father treated me more like a son than a daughter.”

The colonel grunted. “Well, that will have to do.”

“Anything else?”

He gave her a grim smile and tipped his hat. “No. Godspeed. Tell Darcy I will see him in London.”

And then he was gone, galloping into the woods with four men at his heels.

She sat with her skirts rumpled and drying blood caked on her knees, Darcy slumped beside her with his weight tilted heavily against her left side. His head lolled to the shoulder that had not been bandaged, and his breath came in soft, uneven hitches.

Once, as the sun began to rise in a haze of gold behind them, he stirred more deliberately, his lashes fluttering. Her heart leaped into her throat. Was he waking?

“Elizabeth?” he rasped.

She clutched his hand, pressing it between her own. “I am here.”

“Did they…” His voice broke off.

“No. They are gone. You are safe.”

“You… what about you?”

“I am well. Perfectly well.”

He sank back into her side and did not speak again. And Elizabeth could do nothing but stroke his cheek and count his breaths. So long as his head rose and fell against her shoulder with each shudder of his chest, he lived.

They rode in silence, save for the endless drum of hooves and the rattling of the wheels. Outside, England sped past—green fields and hedgerows and towns that knew nothing of the war being waged in their capital. She wrapped her arms more tightly around him and closed her eyes.

She awoke some hours later to a burning in her stomach from hunger. Her eyes opened blearily, and she swallowed against a dry throat as she blinked out at the passing trees. They must be near Buntingford—at least, she thought that was what the sign read before it passed out of her view. Her stomach squeezed and gurgled, and she glanced round the carriage.

There was the satchel of provisions, but it was on the opposite seat. Just beside Darcy’s pistol, which Colonel Fitzwilliam had loaded for her. And so, she sat there, gazing at the answer to the painful rumbling in her belly, but too unwilling to slip out from under Darcy’s weight to retrieve it. Instead, she let her head slip back again—her temple supporting Darcy’s cheek, the tickle of his hair ruffling the mess of her curls, and his hand fallen heavily, unconsciously, over her lap.

What would the Prince say to their audacity for stumbling upon his gates in such a state? The colonel had seemed so confident in their reception, as if this affair were the supreme anxiety resting upon the royal head just now. Or perhaps Darcy himself commanded some respect with the Regent. If that were so… well, perhaps not all was lost.

The carriage hit a rut, lurching her head rather sharply against his. Darcy stirred and grunted in pain—a grunt that dissolved into a faint moan.

“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from his brow.

No answer. But he shifted faintly, his brow twitching. His hand moved—just once—toward the wound on his chest.

Elizabeth sprang into action. She slipped from under his shoulder and fumbled for the satchel the colonel had given her, tugged it open with fingers that still stung from tiny shards of glass. Inside, she found not only a parcel of bread and cheese for her, but linen, a tin of salve, and a flask she dared not open yet. She found a clean cloth and peeled back the blood-soaked one that had been tied around Darcy’s shoulder. He flinched, even unconscious.

“Oh—oh, I am sorry,” she whispered, lifting the cloth gently.

The sight of the wound stole her breath. Angry red flesh, blackened at the edges with dried blood. The bullet had passed clean through, Fitzwilliam had said, but the exit wound was wider, raw, weeping.

She worked slowly, for it was all she could do to heave his body about and reach under his ruined shirt to nurse his bare flesh. Tucked clean cloth beneath him. Packed the salve against the wound. Rebound it with trembling hands, remembering the way Fitzwilliam had demonstrated it. The knot must be firm. The pressure even. She braced his weight against her body and tied the bandage tightly, whispering soothing nonsense all the while.

Darcy murmured something—her name, she thought. Or part of it. A fragment.

“It is all right,” she breathed as she wedged herself once more under his ribs, propping him up. “You are safe.”

The carriage jostled again, and he sagged harder against her, his bloodied temple brushing her jaw. She adjusted her posture to cradle him better, mindful of his wounds. Her legs ached, her hands throbbed, and her back screamed in protest, but none of that mattered. Not while he breathed.

Not while she had him.

His face was too pale. His lips, dry. She pressed the flask to his mouth, coaxed a sip between them. When he swallowed, she nearly wept with relief. A few more hours, that was all. A slow, excruciatingly slow rumble into London, and he would be able to rest.

And she would lose him to others.

As the afternoon light shifted, casting the carriage interior in muted shadows and stifling warmth, Darcy stirred more lucidly. His eyes fluttered open, meeting Elizabeth’s with a clarity that had been absent since the attack. He attempted to shift, a grimace betraying the pain the movement caused.

She cupped her hand against his cheek and pressed a kiss to his forehead—soft, reverent, meant for comfort rather than passion.

But then, unable to help herself, she brushed another kiss—slow, aching—against the corner of his mouth.

His eyes fluttered open, hazy at first, but searching. And when they focused on her—truly saw her—his fingers twitched against hers and caught. “Elizabeth?”

“Fitzwilliam.” Her lips parted, heart surging at the look in his eyes. She bent closer, meaning to kiss him fully… and he did not stop her.

Not this time.

Her lips met his—tentative at first, then deeper, fuller as the seconds slipped past and the carriage rocked gently beneath them. His hand, still tangled with hers, tightened. His other came up slowly, with effort, brushing the line of her jaw as though he meant to memorize it.

She sighed into the kiss, felt the warmth of him answering back, the faintest hum in his throat—one that was all relief, all yearning, all yes.

For one brief moment, nothing existed but the press of her mouth against his. The world narrowed to the shallow breath between them. And it was good. It was perfect.

And then his hand shifted, pressing lightly against her shoulder. Not urgent, not unkind. Just firm.

“Elizabeth,” he croaked, voice hoarse and ragged. “No. Do not.” He pulled away, breath ragged, and let his head fall back against the cushion.

“Do not what?” She picked up his hand and pressed it to her lips.

“Elizabeth,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded with regret. “You know very well what I mean.”

“Yes, and you know very well how impossible I am, so I have no intention of abiding by your wishes.”

“Listen to me,” he began, curling his fingers against her mouth and trying—unsuccessfully—to retract his hand. “When we reach Carlton House... you must be cautious in your speech.”

She frowned. “Fitzwilliam, you are injured. I almost lost you! Carlton House is the farthest thing from my mind just now. We can discuss—”

“No! You must promise me. Do not... compromise yourself before the Prince. No matter the provocation.”

Her stomach twisted. She knew what he meant. The lie unspoken between them, the role she could play if she wanted to seal his redemption. Her eyes searched his pale face, his bloodied coat.

“I cannot stand by while you suffer unjustly,” she protested.

His grip tightened, a surprising show of strength. “You must. If you speak out, try to say anything to tickle His Highness’s fancy, I will deny it. The consequences will fall solely upon you.”

Still? Even now, he still thought this way? Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. The protective barrier he sought to erect around her was both infuriating and endearing. “You will not. I know you better than that. You would not let me face that alone.”

His cheek ticked. “Promise me, Elizabeth. I’ll not see you ruin yourself.”

She looked at him, really looked at him—so strong, so foolish, so utterly hers—and nodded, her heart breaking. “I promise.”

Only then did his body ease. His hand slackened and his eyes closed again. She pressed another kiss to his brow, this one lingering, as the carriage wheels clattered on through the dawn toward their fate.

T he gates of Carlton House rose like a judgment.

Darcy sat ramrod straight, despite the agony blooming beneath his bandages. He had barely spoken since the first London cobblestones clattered under the carriage wheels. The wound in his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a dull, insistent warning. But pain was nothing. Pain could be borne. What waited for them inside—what he had known would come—was another matter.

The prince wanted blood.

Elizabeth had moved to sit across from him now, her posture rigid with tension. Even in her borrowed garments, with her sleeves pulled down to hide the bandages on her forearms and her hair bound in a hasty, unruly twist, she looked like nobility. Or perhaps something even rarer—like defiance shaped into elegance.

He watched her without letting his eyes linger. He could not afford indulgence. Not now.

They had not spoken again of their pact. There had been no need. But the silence wedged between them like a splitting maul.

The footman opened the carriage door.

Darcy descended first, careful not to show how the movement jarred him. He turned to offer his uninjured arm to Elizabeth, and she accepted it wordlessly. She would have need of it, for she was too proud to limp, too injured not to, and too stubborn to ask for help.

Inside, the great hall of Carlton House gleamed with marble and menace. Footmen moved like wraiths. The walls whispered power.

They were announced. Her name first, then his. He felt her fingers twitch at the sound of her title, as if it was now foreign to her. There would be no ceremony for her return to the life she had left dangling. There could be no celebration for her survival. Only this audience, and then she would be deposited back in the home whence she had come, just as if time had never stopped.

The Prince Regent received them in a tall chamber, its tall windows draped with heavy brocade that filtered the blaze of sunset into subdued amber tones. He lounged in a high-backed chair of crimson velvet, positioned beside a mahogany writing desk cluttered with sealed dispatches, half-eaten candied fruits, and an ornate snuffbox left ajar. A gleaming watch chain coiled like a golden serpent at his waist, catching the light with each of his languid movements.

He did not rise.

“Well,” the Prince drawled, swirling a glass of ratafia in one hand. “Look at you both.”

Elizabeth curtsied, and Darcy bowed deeply, trying not to wince. “Your Royal Highness.”

The prince’s gaze meandered over them, pausing to take in Darcy’s disheveled appearance. “You look like a sailor dragged off to the docks,” he remarked, his lips curling in a semblance of amusement. His eyes then flicked to Elizabeth, and he tsked softly, shaking his head. “And as for the lady... What have we here, Miss Montclair? Dressed like the undermaid of a provincial apothecary. And are those bandages? Good heavens, what an awful to-do.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted. Darcy saw the fire in her eyes before the words formed, and he stepped forward—not between them, but enough to remind her.

She caught herself. Barely. Her chin lifted.

The prince’s smile widened, as if privately entertained by the lady’s spark of defiance and Darcy’s obvious diversion. “You have come to report, I trust?” he said, reaching for a sugared grape and popping it into his mouth with deliberate leisure.

“I have. Colonel Fitzwilliam is en route to Northumberland to apprehend Cunningham on charges of conspiracy to commit murder. One of the assailants who attacked us survived long enough to provide a confession. He identified Bellingham and two others as accomplices, and we recovered the insignia of the Fellowship from Maddox’s body.”

The prince exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “So,” he murmured, almost to himself, “the traitor was real. A good bit of luck there, Darcy.”

A brief silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the distant chiming of a clock and the popping sound of another grape in the Prince’s mouth.

“This presents a delicate situation,” the prince sighed, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest. “The public must remain ignorant of such... unsavory affairs. The monarchy’s image is, after all, a tapestry woven with threads of perception.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Discretion is paramount, Your Highness.”

“Indeed. Measures will be taken to ensure this remains within the confines of those who need to know.” He leaned forward slightly, the movement causing the golden chain at his waist to glint. “You understand, Mr. Darcy, that such loyalty and service do not go unnoticed.”

Darcy bowed. “I serve at the pleasure of Your Highness and the realm.”

“Quite.” The prince tilted his glass toward Elizabeth. “And the lady?”

Darcy’s jaw clenched. “Survived, thanks to her own bravery and quick thinking.”

“I dare say. A good bit of luck, indeed.” The prince turned to Elizabeth. “And how did you find your guardian, Lady Elizabeth? A steady hand in troubled waters? I trust he did nothing… untoward, while he had you in his sole keeping.”

Darcy held his breath.

Elizabeth flicked a glance to him…

Do not… he prayed silently. Do not say it!

But what if she did? What then? Was there any realm of fantasy in which he could make her his? Over her father’s certain objection, over the derision of the ton …

Half of him longed for her to blurt the words in defiance… the whiff of salaciousness, the accusations of impropriety… She was just recalcitrant enough to do it.

Elizabeth swallowed and turned to meet the prince’s gaze evenly. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “was ever the perfect gentleman. He protected me at great personal cost, and never once compromised either his honor or mine.”

There was a long silence.

The prince blinked. Once. Then leaned back in his chair, the glass forgotten in his hand.

“Well,” he murmured, “is that not a pity.”

Darcy felt the air shift. He looked to Elizabeth, who had gone pale beneath her cuts and bruises. Her mouth was set in a thin, defiant line.

He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“Well, I suppose there ends it. Back to Ashwick House, eh?” The prince rang a bell, and a steward entered.

“See to the lady,” the prince said with a dismissive wave. “She is to be dressed, supped, and returned to her father. Use the Windsor silks—nothing too fine, but I will not have her arriving like a washerwoman.”

Elizabeth looked back at Darcy—this time, with a hint of panic in her eyes.

He could not speak. He inclined his head instead, as formal as any stranger.

The steward guided her from the room… and the door closed off his view.

The moment she was gone, the prince turned back to him.

“You will go to the Home Office,” he said crisply. “There is still paperwork to be concluded. Bring me everything that links Cunningham to the Fellowship. If I am to see the man dispatched or transported, I must think of a way to do it quietly. We have already hanged a man for dear Perceval’s murder, God rest his wretched soul. I shan’t have anyone else thinking it worthwhile to attempt likewise.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The prince looked down at his desk. “And Darcy.”

Darcy paused. “Your Highness?”

“You may go.”

No word of Pemberley. No gesture toward restoration. No mention of justice.

Darcy bowed once more. The ache in his shoulder flared.

He turned and walked away, leaving the prince in his sunlight, and Elizabeth behind him.

Perhaps for the last time.