Page 4 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Four

“Y ou have been quiet today, my lady.”

Alice’s voice was soft but pointed as she tugged the laces at the back of Elizabeth’s best dinner gown.

Elizabeth forced a small, absent smile, though she knew her maid was too astute to be fooled by it. “I imagine I am permitted to be thoughtful on occasion,” she said lightly.

Alice huffed, adjusting the gown’s shoulders, so they sat just right at her collarbone. “Thoughtful, yes. But you’ve the air of a lady waiting for something unpleasant.”

Elizabeth’s throat worked, shifting the pearls faintly in the mirror. Had she been waiting?

She had spent the afternoon reeling from her audience with the Queen, trying to content herself with the knowledge that the matter had been placed in the Prince Regent’s hands. She had been assured that her duty was done. There was nothing more to worry about.

And yet—here she was, standing still as Alice shook out the layers of her skirts, the fine silk of her gown cool against her skin, the weight of pearls settling at her throat. She was expected to descend the stairs in half an hour, to dine with her father as if this were any other evening, as if the events of the day had not unsettled the very ground beneath her.

But her hands refused to stop trembling.

It was not fear—not exactly. It was anticipation, curling in her stomach like the first threads of a storm. A hundred possible explanations had turned over in her mind since she had stepped out of Buckingham House that afternoon, each one attempting to rationalize what had happened.

The Queen had been unmoved, cool and indifferent, as if Elizabeth had brought her nothing more than some idle bit of court gossip. And yet, before the hour was out, she had already acted upon it.

Elizabeth knew what that meant.

It meant there had been truth in her words—truth the Queen had already known, truth she had been waiting for someone to confirm. And now it was in the Prince Regent’s hands.

Elizabeth had done all she could. She had been assured there was nothing more to worry about. So why did it feel as though something was coming?

A sharp knock at the door startled Alice into a flinch.

Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. She exhaled slowly, carefully. There was only one person who would be knocking at this hour.

The door opened, revealing her father, the Marquess of Ashwick, standing on the threshold with an expression of considerable amusement. “Well, well,” he drawled. “It appears my daughter has acquired the peculiar talent of being summoned to royal audiences twice in one day.”

Elizabeth’s spine went rigid. “What do you mean?”

The marquess stepped inside, holding a folded letter between his fingers. “A royal messenger just delivered this for you.”

Elizabeth stared at it.

Her father beamed as he extended it toward her. “The Queen desires to be ‘entertained’ by Lady Elizabeth this evening, to banish her melancholy. I sincerely hope you have been practicing your Bach and your Clementi.”

Alice gasped. “Her Majesty requests your presence?”

Elizabeth’s mind raced as she reached for the letter, unfolding the thick, cream-colored paper. The message was brief—formal, polite, and utterly confounding.

There was no mention of their earlier meeting. No hint of its true purpose.

Just a simple, gracious command: “Her Majesty, the Queen, commands the presence of Lady Elizabeth Montclair at Buckingham House this evening, that she might lend some agreeable company to dispel the melancholy which currently dims the light of the royal household.”

“You must have made quite the impression, petal.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around the letter, and she blinked unseeingly at the paper. There was nothing about this that made sense. “Father,” she asked, her voice a distant echo even in her own ears, “is the Queen known to summon the ‘agreeable company’ of someone with whom she is barely acquainted, and at such an hour?”

Her father paced idly, hands behind his back. “The Queen has always been a mercurial creature—the whims of royalty, of course. One mustn’t read too much into it.”

Elizabeth looked up sharply. “You are not curious about why she would send for me? This is hardly common.”

“Hardly,” he agreed. “But I imagine it has something to do with the unfortunate business with Perceval. The Queen must be beside herself with worry for her family. Perhaps the king had a difficult episode, as has been rumored. It stands to reason she would seek some pleasant distraction.”

Pleasant distraction.

Elizabeth inhaled slowly.

She knew better. Her father’s theories were reasonable, but they were wrong. She had stood before the Queen only hours ago.

She had seen the calculation behind those dark eyes, the way the Queen had given nothing away—and yet had already determined a course of action. And now, Elizabeth was being summoned again.

This was no idle whim.

Should she tell her father?

She could say it now—tell him why the Queen was calling for her, why she had already had an audience earlier that day, why this had nothing to do with courtly amusements and royal melancholy.

But she knew what he would say. She could hear it now.

“I believe that you believe what you saw.”

“I am sure whatever you thought you witnessed was very serious indeed.”

“Let the ministers handle it.”

He had already dismissed her once. She could not bear to hear it again.

Her father clapped his hands together.

“Well, petal,” he said, smiling broadly, “you had best be on your way.”

Elizabeth blinked. “What?”

“I have already called for the carriage and it is at the door.” He grinned. “Her Majesty has called, and we cannot keep her waiting, can we?”

Elizabeth’s breath caught.

No warning. No time to prepare. No time to even change into a gown fit for court. The Queen had summoned her, and now she had no choice but to obey.

She lifted her chin, suppressing the flicker of unease curling in her stomach. “Of course not.”

D arcy had no time to adjust his cuffs, steel his thoughts, or even register his irritation before he was ushered through a set of double doors and directly into the presence of the Prince Regent.

The room reeked of excess.

Candelabras dripped wax onto polished tables, their flames casting flickering light over brocade-covered chairs and gilded mirrors. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and tobacco, mingling unpleasantly with the remnants of a half-eaten meal left to congeal on a sideboard.

In the center of it all, the Prince paced.

His coat was too elaborate, his waistcoat over-embroidered, his lace cuffs too frilled for a man of his age and physique—but it was the restlessness in his movements that caught Darcy’s attention.

An attendant hovered anxiously behind him, a delicate glass of brandy in one hand, a jeweled snuffbox in the other, scrambling to keep up as the Prince paced, muttering to himself.

“Ah, Darcy,” the Prince declared abruptly, not pausing in his stride.

Darcy bowed sharply. “Your Royal Highness.”

The Prince waved a hand vaguely, as if brushing aside formalities. “I have a witness now.”

Darcy stilled. A witness?

His own skepticism regarding the rumors had been swiftly losing ground—but this, this was something tangible.

“I assume,” Darcy said carefully, “Your Highness finds this witness credible?”

“Credible?” The Prince snorted, finally stopping to pluck the snuffbox from his attendant’s fingers. He flicked it open with a well-practiced motion, inhaling a pinch before exhaling sharply. “My dear fellow, she saw the blasted thing happen.”

Darcy’s pulse quickened. She? What the devil?

He cleared his throat, affecting his most professional manner. “Then I should like to hear the account in full.”

The Prince huffed and resumed pacing, waving the snuffbox about as he spoke.

“’Twas a young lady—strayed from her companions, found herself in a bad spot. Right place, wrong time, that sort of thing. The Queen heard her story and passed the account to me.”

Darcy nodded. “If Your Highness permits, I should like to take notes.”

The Prince gestured lazily toward a nearby writing desk. A footman materialized at Darcy’s side, setting out ink, paper, and a fine-pointed quill.

Darcy took his seat, dipped the pen, and glanced up expectantly. “Continue, if you please, Your Highness.”

The Prince stared at him. “Continue what?”

Darcy blinked. “The account,” he said slowly. “The witness’s description of the man she saw, his physical characteristics—was he tall or short? Did he limp? The sort of gun he used—did she note it? His position in the chamber—where exactly was he standing?”

The Prince arched a brow, looking almost bored. “I expect you to glean that information,“ he said, flicking his fingers. “That is your duty, after all.”

Darcy set the quill down, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “With all due respect, Your Highness,” he said, keeping his tone painfully even, “how am I to glean such information if I have never spoken with the witness?”

The Prince waved airily. “No bother. You will have your answers momentarily.”

Oh. So he had been summoned here with no briefing, no details—nothing but a royal whim and the expectation that he would, somehow, pluck answers from thin air. It took several measured breaths to keep his irritation in check.

A noise from the hall broke the charged silence. The thud of boots on marble echoed down the corridor, steady and deliberate. Too many footsteps for a single visitor. A sharp command was issued—low, authoritative. A rustle of fabric followed, the whisper of skirts brushing against the floor.

Servants darted out of the way, moving with the quick, trained efficiency of those who knew better than to impede royal business. One footman hesitated before scurrying to adjust a candelabrum, as if suddenly aware that the lighting should be just so.

Darcy straightened slightly, instinct sharpening.

Two guards arrived first, their gold-trimmed coats pristine, each positioning himself at either side of the door. One reached for the handle, but instead of opening it immediately, he hesitated—listening, waiting for some unseen signal.

Darcy glanced toward the Prince.

The man was grinning.

Not in amusement, but in pleasure—the look of a man who had orchestrated some great revelation and was now delighting in the moment before the curtain lifted.

With great theatricality, he adjusted his cuffs, took a slow sip of brandy, and exhaled in satisfaction.

“Ah,” he said smoothly, his voice silken with amusement, “here she is.”

E lizabeth expected to be taken to the Queen’s private chambers.

That was where she had been before, when she had been summoned that afternoon with the Duchess. The corridors of Buckingham House were labyrinthine, but she had taken note of her surroundings as she walked, cataloging the turns, the rooms, the adornments, the lighting, the rugs… all of it.

Now, however—they were going in the opposite direction.

She hesitated slightly, her silk skirts almost tangling around her ankles as she tried to conceal a glance at her surroundings.

Perhaps the Queen simply spent the evening in a different part of the house? That would make sense. Yes. That would—

Her thoughts cut short as she realized the guards escorting her had suddenly… multiplied. Two had walked with her from the carriage, but now more men closed in behind them, moving with the crisp efficiency of soldiers accustomed to forming a perimeter.

Elizabeth glanced at them sharply. They did not meet her gaze.

She swallowed. Was this still a royal summons, or was she being taken into custody? Had she inadvertently confessed to some crime? Surely, it was not against the law for a lady to be in the House of Commons. So, what…?

She forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep her head high, though her pulse had begun to pound in her throat. She had no choice but to keep walking.

The doors ahead swung open, and she was ushered inside. Elizabeth stepped forward—and stopped short.

The Queen was not here.

Instead, leaning against a gilded chair, dressed in far too much embroidery, a brandy glass in one hand and a jeweled snuffbox near the other, was—

The Prince Regent.

Elizabeth’s pulse skipped. She immediately dropped into a curtsy, so abruptly that her feet might have been knocked from under her.

She had never been formally presented to the Prince Regent—she had seen him at court, certainly, but this was… intimate.

Uncomfortably so.

The Prince made no immediate acknowledgment of her bow. He simply exhaled lazily, adjusting the cuffs of his too-elaborate coat before gesturing vaguely in her direction. Then, to her continued astonishment, he turned—not to a lord or a minister, but to a man seated at a writing desk. A man with a questioning look on his face.

Elizabeth could not see much of him, only the sharp set of his shoulders, the marked widening of his eyes, the faint gasp he emitted before he turned back to the Prince with studied patience.

The Prince waved his hand vaguely in her direction. “This is the lady, Darcy.” He leaned forward, as if trying to recall something. “Lady Elizabeth Mont…” He trailed off, then turned to her with a flick of his fingers. “Go on, pronounce it for me, if you please.”

Elizabeth’s throat refused to work.

Something in the stiffness of the man at the desk—this Mr. Darcy, apparently—made her think he was annoyed by the delay.

She kept her gaze low, fixing her eyes on the marble just near the Prince’s feet. “Lady Elizabeth Montclair, Your Royal Highness.”

The Prince smirked in satisfaction and repeated her name as if tasting a rare delicacy. Then he waved a lazy hand. “Ask her your questions, Darcy.”

There was a brief, charged silence. Then—a chair scraped against the floor as Mr. Darcy rose. Elizabeth had barely composed herself before he stepped forward, standing fully within view for the first time.

He was younger than she had expected. Not young, exactly, but certainly not some stuffy royal secretary, either. His dark hair was severe, neatly styled, his black coat cut with precision, entirely free of the garish embellishments that adorned the Prince.

His expression was controlled, his features marked by sharp angles and sharper intelligence. He studied her for a moment, then motioned for her to come closer as he returned to his desk and reached for a sheet of paper.

Elizabeth swallowed and did as he invited.

“Lady Elizabeth,” he said, his voice deliberate and slow, the kind of tone one used when trying to extract the most accurate response possible.

She nodded slightly, gripping her hands tightly together.

“You saw a second man in the lobby,” Darcy stated. “Describe him.”

Elizabeth inhaled slowly. “He was… he was tall, I think.”

Darcy’s quill hovered over the paper. “You think?” he echoed.

She flushed slightly. “I was standing at a distance.”

“Then describe his shape.”

Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Broad-shouldered, I believe. But not as large as the guards. He was well-dressed, though not ostentatiously so.”

Darcy nodded slightly, jotting something down. “What color was his coat?”

Elizabeth paused. “It was dark,” she said, then hesitated. “I… I think it was brown?”

Darcy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are uncertain?”

“There was a great deal of commotion at the time, Mr. Darcy.”

“Indeed.” He turned the paper slightly. “And what of his hair?”

Elizabeth blinked. “His hair?”

“Yes,” Darcy said, voice cool. “What color was it?”

Elizabeth felt heat creeping up her neck. “I… I do not know. He was wearing a hat that looked like every other man’s hat.”

Darcy tilted his head slightly but said nothing.

The Prince, meanwhile, popped open his snuffbox and inhaled a pinch, looking thoroughly unconcerned.

“What sort of pistol did he carry?”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “A small one.”

“Of what make?”

Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. “I… do not know.”

“Engraving? Silver accents?”

“I did not see.”

Darcy exhaled loudly, clearly irritated.

Elizabeth stiffened. “You are asking questions that require a level of knowledge I do not possess, sir.”

Darcy looked back at her sharply. “Then what, exactly, did you see?”

“The second most powerful man in England falling to the floor, covered in his own blood.”

Darcy’s quill paused over the page. He stared at the page before him for several seconds. Then, after a moment—he nodded.

“That,” he said, voice quieter, “is useful.”

T he Prince had gone mad. Darcy was sure of it now. But there was nothing to do but carry on with his inquisition, though his pulse was about to burn through his temples and his stomach threatened at any moment to give up its contents.

“The exact moment he fell,” Darcy said, keeping his voice level, precise. “Do you recall when the shot struck him? Was there a delay?”

Lady Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “A delay?”

“Yes.” Darcy dipped his pen into the ink, the scratch of the quill filling the brief silence. “Did he collapse the instant the shot was fired, or was there a moment—even a breath’s hesitation—before he fell?”

She hesitated. “I—”

Darcy pressed. “Did he turn toward the shooter? Did he clutch his wound? Did he attempt to speak?”

Her lips parted, then pressed together in frustration. “He staggered,” she said, as if testing the memory against itself. “I think.”

Darcy nodded sharply.

“Which way?” he asked.

She blinked. “Which—way?”

“When he staggered,” Darcy clarified, his pen poised, “did he reel backward? Forward? To his left or right?”

Lady Elizabeth inhaled, her dark eyes shifting up and to the right… or, rather, to her left. Darcy watched carefully—that, in itself, was a good sign. At least she seemed to be remembering something rather than inventing something.

“Backward, I believe,” she said at last.

“You believe .”

Her chin lifted slightly at the coolness of his tone. “Yes.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes slightly but nodded, his mind already calculating.

The angle of the body, the reaction time—these things mattered. They could determine the position of the shooter, verify whether a single bullet had struck or if—

The Prince sighed loudly from his chair.

Darcy paused, glancing up.

“Oh, do settle all this later, will you?” The Prince waved a lazy hand, reaching for his brandy glass.

Darcy blinked. Settle it later? The Prime Minister had been murdered, and he had been summoned here for answers. The very idea of—

Steady, Darcy , his own thoughts interrupted him. He could hardly afford to make a hash of this.

Very politely, he asked, “How does Your Highness desire for me to carry on?”

The Prince sighed again, as if Darcy were a particularly slow pupil. “Well, obviously, the lady cannot go home,” he said, as if this were the most self-evident thing in the world. “We must detain her.”

Darcy’s head snapped toward Lady Elizabeth—

And immediately regretted it.

She had gone pale as bone, her pupils wide and dark, the whites of her eyes stark against them. Her breath had quickened, the rise and fall of her bodice subtly unsteady.

Darcy swallowed.

Turning back deliberately, he said, “I hardly think it necessary to detain the lady like a common thief. She has done nothing to merit such treatment.”

The Prince shook his head, tutting. “Darcy, Darcy—you quite do not comprehend the matter.”

“And how, Your Highness, ought I to comprehend it?”

The Prince leaned forward, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “She cannot return home because she was seen.” His voice was light, careless, as though discussing a matter of mere inconvenience. “And I do not relish the notion of losing my only witness before the true murderer has been caught.”

He took a sip, as if that settled things. Then, with a lazy flick of his fingers, he added, “Besides, I imagine the Marquess would be dismayed to be deprived of his daughter.”

Darcy’s stomach tightened. Something in the air shifted, and he glanced at Lady Elizabeth again—

And nearly had to dash his eyes down before his own reaction gave him away.

The color had returned to her face—but not in relief. Her breath had quickened for an entirely different reason. Her fingers knotted at her sides, knuckles white, her gaze darting not to the Prince but wildly around the room, as though she were seeking an exit.

She was furious. Barely restraining herself.

In seconds, she was like to do something rather… irreverent, and then all would be lost.

Darcy turned sharply back to the Prince. Between clenched teeth, he asked, “What, precisely, does Your Highness mean to do with her?”

The Prince frowned. “ Do with her?”

Darcy’s jaw locked. “It is a matter of some pertinence.”

The Prince sighed as if the matter were tedious and gestured vaguely. “ You will take her, of course.”

A beat of silence.

Darcy’s jaw dropped. For a long, heavy second, he could only stare.

Then—he felt it.

A heat on his cheek. Not a flush, but the distinct weight of someone’s eyes on him.

Lady Elizabeth was staring at him.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head.

Her lips had parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looked betrayed.

Darcy quickly turned back to the Prince.

“Your Highness,” he said carefully, “where, pray, do you expect me to take her? I can hardly put her in my closet at The Albany. No ladies are permitted, and besides—”

The Prince scoffed. “Do you take me for a fool? The lady must be hidden. You must take her somewhere to that effect.”

Darcy’s blood—what remained of it—rushed to his head. No . No, no, no… Anything but—

“Another name,” the Prince went on, “another place of residence. I trust no one but you, Darcy—you owe no man anything.”

Darcy’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. “Your Highness, I am… I am a bachelor.”

“You are a gentleman by reputation,” the Prince continued as he drew another pinch of snuff, “so I expect the lady will remain intact in your keeping.”

Darcy’s breath hissed in through his teeth. Intact … how very delicate. And entirely out of character for the Prince to even care about.

“And the fewer who know her whereabouts, the better. I do not even wish to know where you take her.”

A sharp inhalation.

Darcy felt it rather than heard it, and Lady Elizabeth Montclair’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “What am I to tell my father? Does His Highness expect I will not be missed?”

She had spoken out of turn, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Darcy glanced at her in alarm, but she did not look at him. Her eyes were fixed on the Prince. She lifted her chin defiantly, waiting for an answer.

The Prince blinked. “Well, by Jove, she is a sprightly creature! I could have you hanged, dear thing.”

Darcy rose from the desk, his paper and quill abandoned. “She asks a reasonable question, Your Highness. One cannot simply ‘disappear’ with the daughter of a peer.”

“Oh, Her Majesty will manage the affair.” He waved a bored hand. “It will probably be reported that you have been invited on a pleasure tour with some of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting—one of those dreadful little excursions to the countryside. I know nothing of such matters, but my mother is very clever in these things. Your father will think nothing amiss—will likely be terribly flattered, in fact. And of course, we shall see to it that he receives regular ‘letters’ from ‘you’ while you are away.”

Darcy winced.

Lady Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. Slowly, stiffly, she turned her head and stared at him.

Darcy was not a coward. But at that moment, he rather wished he were anywhere but here. Dead would be easiest.

The Prince yawned and motioned away the servant who was offering to refill his glass. “Well, then,” he said brightly. “That is all settled.” He flicked his fingers at his guards. “Escort them out.”

Darcy’s stomach clenched.

The guards immediately stepped forward, gesturing toward the doors.

“I expect your reports in the usual way,” the Prince called.

Darcy barely heard him. He was too busy considering the many, many ways this was about to become a disaster.

“Oh, and I shall have satisfaction within a fortnight, Darcy. No show of it this time—just a body. Am I quite understood?”

Darcy clenched his jaw, inclining his head. Then—before Lady Elizabeth could unleash the treasonous outrage he could see simmering on the tip of her tongue—he turned, grabbed her hand, and dragged her out of the Prince’s sight.