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

Chapter Three

London, May 14, 1812

E lizabeth was not expecting a summons from the Duchess of Wrexham.

When the footman arrived with the note, she had been in the morning room, feigning interest in a book of poetry while half-listening to the voices drifting in from the study. Her father was at home today, which meant the house had a faintly altered air—not quite busy, but attentive, as if the very walls knew they ought to behave in the presence of their master.

The letter was delivered on a silver tray, and the seal alone was enough to make her heart jump slightly. She broke it open, scanning the words written in the Duchess’s flowing hand: Be ready in an hour. We are going to Buckingham House.

Elizabeth was still reading when she felt her father’s presence at her shoulder.

“A message from Wrexham?” The pleased note in his voice was unmistakable.

She turned, holding the letter aloft. “From the Duchess.”

Her father took it from her fingers, reading quickly. His brows lifted, and a slow smile spread across his face. “To The Queen’s House,” he murmured. “Now, what have you done to attract such interest, petal?”

Elizabeth folded her hands, choosing her words carefully. “The Duchess and I have had some discussions about… recent events.”

Her father gave a dismissive wave. “Ah. The assassination nonsense. The whole of London is in a frenzy over it.”

“This is not nonsense, Father.”

He barely seemed to hear her. Instead, he turned the letter over, as if examining the weight of the paper might tell him more.

“The Queen’s House,” he repeated. “Not a formal audience, I suppose—too short a notice for that. A private meeting.” His lips curled slightly. “Interesting.”

Elizabeth was not sure she liked the way he said it.

“You must dress well,” he continued, handing the letter back. “The Queen is fond of modest refinement—no frills or French embellishments.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Father, I am aware of how to dress.”

“Yes, yes,” he said vaguely, already lost in thought. Then, with a pointed look: “You realize this may bode well for you.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “How so?”

He chuckled indulgently, as if she were hopelessly na?ve. “When a young lady is invited to the Queen’s residence in the company of a duchess, it is not usually to discuss politics.”

Elizabeth held her breath.

“She may be considering bestowing favor upon you. Perhaps something substantial. Preeminence among your peers… perhaps she has taken it upon herself to see you well matched. She has seemed rather taken with you this Season. A pity Montford is still in mourning; he would have made a solid enough husband, dull though he is. But there is Ferndale—charming fellow, very much in the Prince Regent’s good graces. And there has been talk of Prince Nikolaos of Württemberg looking for an English bride, and I heard some murmurs that he found you rather fetching. Imagine that—my daughter, a princess! I do believe even your mother would have to approve of that.”

Ah.

So that was what interested him.

Elizabeth sighed, folding the letter carefully. “Or, perhaps, she simply wishes to speak with me.”

Her father chuckled. “Of course, petal. Of course.”

E lizabeth had stood before dukes and earls, princes and ministers. She had promenaded under the chandeliers of Almack’s, dined in the company of lords, and parried words with the sharpest minds in London society.

None of it had prepared her for this.

The corridors of Buckingham House were cool and quiet, lined with high windows that let in the pale afternoon light. The air carried the faintest trace of fresh-cut roses and lavender, the hush of well-trained servants moving in silence.

At her side, the Duchess of Wrexham walked with absolute poise, her posture perfect, her steps unhurried but purposeful.

Elizabeth, by contrast, felt far too aware of her own movements, as if she had forgotten entirely how to walk like a rational person.

She had never met the Queen of England.

She had been presented at court, yes, but from a distance, a fleeting curtsy among a sea of glittering debutantes. Her Majesty had looked in Elizabeth’s direction once or twice at balls, and there was even one occasion when Elizabeth happened to be leaving the retiring room the very moment Queen Charlotte passed by in the hall. But this—this was an audience .

And an audience granted on short notice.

That alone was enough to tell her that Queen Charlotte knew exactly why she was here, and was willing to listen to her statement.

So why, then, was she so terribly nervous?

They reached a set of double doors, manned by a footman in livery so crisp it seemed untouched by mortal hands. The man bowed. “Her Majesty will receive you now.”

The duchess did not hesitate. Elizabeth followed, willing her legs not to tremble.

The room was sumptuously appointed but not ostentatious, its grandeur softened by the scent of fresh-cut roses and the faint crackle of a fire burning low in the hearth. At the far end of the room, seated in a high-backed chair, was the Queen.

Queen Charlotte had never been a beauty, nor had she ever aspired to be one. There was something severe about her, from her tightly curled white hair to the rigid line of her shoulders. She was dressed in dark silk, her gown adorned with an impressive lace fichu, a walking cane resting against the chair beside her.

She did not rise when they entered, nor did she even look particularly interested.

The duchess swept into a deep curtsy, her movements fluid and effortless. Elizabeth followed suit, lowering herself as far as she could, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor long enough to be appropriate.

A moment passed. A very long moment.

Heavens, were they ever to be permitted to stand again? Elizabeth stared at the floor under her feet, praying she would not topple over.

“You may rise,” the Queen said at last.

Her voice was precisely as Elizabeth had expected—cool, measured, and edged with a faint German accent.

Elizabeth stood carefully, clasping her hands before her.

The Queen’s dark eyes flicked over her with the same mild disinterest one might afford an adequate painting or a half-decent performance at the theatre.

“So,” she said, at last, to no one in particular. “This is the girl.”

Elizabeth’s stomach tightened, and she tried to keep from staring at anyone in particular.

The duchess tilted her head in quiet acknowledgment. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

A pause.

The Queen turned her attention to Elizabeth directly. “I understand you have something to say.”

The words were not a request.

Elizabeth inhaled, carefully schooling her expression into one of quiet confidence—though her fingers felt cold where they rested against her skirts.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said, keeping her voice clear but deferential.

She recounted what she had seen. She spoke carefully, precisely, omitting nothing—the first misfire, the second gunman with the quieter shot, the way he had slipped into the crowd.

The Queen did not react.

Not once.

Not when Elizabeth described the true shot that had killed the Prime Minister. Not when she spoke of the man who had seen her.

And certainly not when she described how no one else had noticed any of it.

By the time Elizabeth finished, her mouth felt parched, her pulse thrumming against her ribs. She had spoken the truth—all of it.

And the Queen was entirely unmoved.

For a long moment, silence filled the chamber.

Then— “I see.”

That was all.

Two words.

Elizabeth’s breath hitched.

Had she made a mistake? Had she imagined the significance of this meeting? Had she—?

The Queen exhaled, reaching for her cane. “I am told there will be a trial.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the duchess agreed.

“A swift one.”

“As His Highness deems fitting, Your Majesty.”

Another pause.

The Queen pressed her lips together. “So they wish to make an example of him.”

Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Your Majesty, I do not believe—”

The Queen lifted a hand.

Elizabeth fell silent immediately.

“You believe much, Lady Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth stiffened and dropped her gaze to the floor.

She could feel doubt creeping in now, a terrible, humiliating thought forming in her mind— Am I wrong? Did I imagine it?

The Queen tilted her head slightly, considering her. Then, at last, she sighed. “I shall refer the matter to my son.”

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “The Prince Regent?”

The Queen’s expression was unchanging. “That is my son.”

Elizabeth felt herself sway slightly. This was far more serious than she had thought.

If the Queen had already decided to involve the Prince, then she had known—before Elizabeth had even set foot in Buckingham House—that there was truth to what she had seen.

Elizabeth exhaled slowly, straightening.

The Queen lifted a brow. “You are trembling,” she said, not unkindly.

Elizabeth forced her hands to steady. “I am not afraid.”

The Queen’s lips twitched faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. “Then you are a fool,” she said mildly.

Elizabeth swallowed. “I hope not, Your Majesty.”

The Queen adjusted the lace at her wrist. “That will be all.”

The duchess curtsied. Elizabeth followed. They were dismissed.

It was not until they were back in the carriage, rolling away from Buckingham House, that Elizabeth allowed herself to breathe.

The duchess was silent, staring out the window, her expression thoughtful.

Elizabeth’s mind was a riot of panic and indecision. Had she curtsied deeply enough? Had she spoken out of turn? Oh, goodness, her shoes—there was a tiny fleck of dirt on the heel! Had the Queen noticed?

Finally, after they rolled past the gates, she sighed deeply and sagged against the squabs. “She knew.”

The duchess turned slightly, one brow lifting. “I am sorry?”

“She already knew everything I told her.”

The duchess studied her for a moment. Then she simply nodded.

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. “What happens now?”

The duchess sighed. “Now?” She reached for the curtain, pulling it slightly aside to glance at the crowded London streets. “Now, the Crown will manage the affair.”

F itzwilliam Darcy had spent the morning trying to be a normal man.

It was proving tiresome.

His chambers at Albany were neat, orderly, and entirely impersonal—just as they had always been. A bachelor’s residence, suited to a man who required convenience rather than sentiment.

The sitting room was tastefully appointed, its furnishings modest but of excellent quality. The fire was always well-tended, the shelves lined with books, and the desk—a sturdy, well-worn piece of mahogany—was arranged with military precision.

Darcy had spent his first hour at that desk, sorting a stack of odd notes and sightings collected from his sources about London. Not one of them, as far as he could tell, had a thing to do with Perceval’s murder. He would have to search somewhat farther afield to make a beginning.

But before he did that, he paused. It was high time he penned a letter to his sister, Georgiana. She was in London at present, and perhaps when he had liberty, he would pay her a call.

Had he the means, he would have set her up in a house of her own, with a companion of her choosing and the freedom to pursue her education and interests as she pleased. Instead, she was living with their aunt and uncle—the Earl and Countess of Matlock—on the charity of their family.

Darcy had been told that his cousin, Lady Julia, treated Georgiana with kindness, and of course Richard and the Viscount doted on her. But that did not ease his discomfort. Georgiana deserved better than being the poor relation.

His pen pressed a little harder against the page. My dearest Georgie, I trust you are well and that your lessons remain engaging. You will, no doubt, be pleased to hear that I have left Hertfordshire and returned to town—though I regret to inform you that I have nothing of interest to report on the matter of my petition. No progress has been made, but neither has it been dismissed. We must continue as we are, for now, and hope that the tide turns in our favor. I should like to hear from you soon. Let me know how you fare, and if there is anything you require. I shall always do what I can, and I intend to present myself at Matlock House when possible. Yours, Fitzwilliam Darcy

He sighed, sealing the letter before setting it out for his frequently absent manservant to find, whenever it suited him.

That was done.

Now—to make himself useful.

D arcy walked to the Home Office, rather than taking a carriage. It was not a long distance, and besides, he had always found that a man walking with purpose was less noticeable than one arriving in a fine conveyance.

The government offices were as he had left them—the same dark-paneled rooms, the same low murmur of conversation, the same suspicious glances exchanged in passing.

He was not a full agent—he was too much of a gentleman for that, but too penniless to be anything else—so he occupied a strange place in the hierarchy.

Not quite trusted.

Not quite expendable.

He had learned, over time, how to make himself useful without making himself vulnerable.

Today, he was merely observing. The broadsheets had already laid out the public narrative—a lone assassin, a close range shot, a swift trial, a grieving nation. But he wondered if anyone inside the Home Office was quietly doubting that narrative.

He took his usual route through the halls, pausing at an open door where a clerk was furiously copying out reports.

“Troubled times,” Darcy murmured, as if making casual conversation.

The clerk barely glanced up. “A terrible business, indeed.”

“The trial seems swift.”

The man let out a soft snort. “Swift? That’s one way to put it. They’ll have him hanged before the week is out.”

“Efficient justice.”

“Political justice.”

Darcy lifted a brow. “Oh?”

The clerk sighed. “The Home Secretary wants this buried. No debate, no fuss—just a quick execution and a return to order.”

A pause.

Darcy let the silence linger, then asked, as casually as he could— “I have never yet seen a case so simple. Uncomplicated and clean, and perfect for the broadsheets.”

The clerk stiffened.

Darcy leaned in slightly. “Have you heard any rumors?”

The man hesitated. Then, in a lower voice— “There was a whisper—nothing confirmed, mind you—of someone else in the lobby. But if there was a second man, he disappeared clean. The ministers don’t want to hear it.”

Darcy’s fingers tightened into a fist behind his back.

Someone else.

He was not the only one who had heard the rumor.

He did not linger. The Home Office was not a place for idle loitering, and a man who asked too many questions soon found himself with more problems than answers.

By the time he stepped back into the grey afternoon light, he had already pieced together what he knew for certain.

The prince had called him in because of a rumor. That rumor had made its way inside the Home Office. And at least one man—possibly more—had doubts about the official story, but the Crown wanted the public knowledge to remain limited.

Darcy sighed. The Prince Regent had been right about one thing. There was more to this.

He was going to have to find out what.

D arcy hated London at this hour.

The streets were crowded, noisy, suffocating, filled with the mingling scents of sweating horses, unwashed bodies, and the filth of the gutters. The evening traffic of carriages and pedestrians moved in chaotic waves, forcing him to weave his way through the press of bodies.

He should have taken a carriage. He did not like to be jostled and delayed, and yet, he had chosen to walk. He needed the movement, the sharp bite of cool air, the sensation of his boots striking against the cobbles.

He needed time to think.

He had spent the afternoon in various clubs and pubs and back alleys, sifting through half-truths and whispers, and had walked away with little more than confirmation that the rumors existed. And that—supposedly, anyway—no one in power wanted them acknowledged.

And now, with night descending over the city, he was on his way to his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Richard would be at his flat by now, and Richard would tell him the truth. If there was anything more to this affair—if there was something beneath the surface that only those in military and intelligence circles knew—his cousin would have heard of it.

He turned onto Jermyn Street, the familiar route toward St. James’s Square. Fitzwilliam kept rooms in a respectable townhouse, neither extravagant nor meager. The kind of place a well-bred soldier might live, comfortable but practical.

The sound of hooves hammering the street reached him first. Then—the movement. Dark shapes shifting ahead, closing in.

Darcy stopped just in time.

Out of nowhere, a dozen men surrounded him—horsemen in the street. Foot guards flanking him on either side.

The King’s Guard.

A sharp rush of irritation spiked through him. He did not move, his jaw tightening as the soldiers boxed him in, their polished boots and gleaming scabbards forming an impenetrable wall.

Good heavens, this was unnecessary.

He was no fugitive, no man on the run. If the Prince had wanted to see him, a simple message would have sufficed. Still, he kept his expression cool, detached.

“What,” he said, voice edged with irritation, “is the meaning of this?”

The commanding officer—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the expression of a man who had no interest in explaining himself—reined in his horse and looked down at him.

“Mr. Darcy,” he said. “You are commanded to appear before His Royal Highness at once.”

He exhaled slowly. So. It was to be now.

“Am I to assume,” he said dryly, glancing at the armed men surrounding him, “that His Highness will not permit me to complete my business first?”

“You assume correctly.”

The rumble of wheels on stone approached from behind. Darcy turned just as an unmarked black carriage rolled into view, its windows heavily curtained, its meaning unmistakable.

He sighed. “Very well.”

He turned on his heel, ascended the carriage steps without hesitation, and pulled the door closed behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the carriage lurched forward into the London night.