Page 6 of Better Luck Next Time (First Impressions #3)

Chapter Six

Southwark, May 15, 1812

E lizabeth awoke cold, miserable, and vaguely furious at existence.

For a single, blissful moment, she did not remember where she was. The scent of her familiar rosewater perfume still clung faintly to the fabric twisted around her, and there was warmth against her cheek from where she had pressed into the folds.

A sharp ache throbbed at the base of her skull, her back protesting violently as she tried to shift her position. The mattress beneath her had been stuffed with something far less forgiving than feathers—straw and wood shavings, perhaps, or scraps of fabric stolen from a tailor’s floor. She had been uncomfortably cold all night, and yet she was overheated now, tangled in the heavy folds of some wool thing that was both too heavy to be a proper blanket and too misshapen to cover her evenly.

That would be why the draft hit her when she tried to roll over.

She inhaled sharply, eyes blinking open to a ceiling that was not familiar, not elegant, and not remotely respectable. The scent of moldering wood, unwashed linens, and something musty and unpleasant filled her nose. The muffled sounds of a raucous argument from downstairs drifted up, accompanied by the occasional thud of something hitting a table—or a person.

It all came back in a rush.

She sat up too quickly and winced. Her back protested.

The bed—if one could call it that—would have made a passable torture device, the thin mattress barely disguising the hard slats beneath. Her legs were tangled in something thick and heavy, and she realized with a fresh wave of horror that it was that strange man’s coat.

Or at least, it had been his coat.

Now, it was something far worse—a casualty of her restless sleep, wrinkled, twisted, hopelessly rumpled and probably soiled from whatever was on that mattress. And worst of all, as she shifted beneath the overcoat, she felt the grainy stickiness on her palm where it had brushed against the bedsheets.

She inhaled sharply and shoved the overcoat to the floor. Darcy could hardly complain—it was not as if that would make it any more soiled than it already was.

Pushing the coat away only served to remind her of how freezing the room was, and she shuddered. She sat up with a groan, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, attempting to restore some feeling to her chilled body.

What she would not give for a proper fire, for a warm bath, for a breakfast served on a tray rather than whatever stale bread and weak ale the downstairs innkeeper would consider a meal.

But it was not the cold, nor the discomfort, that truly set her stomach twisting. It was the fact that she was still here.

Still trapped in this awful, suffocating little room.

Still trapped with him .

The chair across the room groaned under the full weight of Mr. Darcy, who was slumped back at an uncomfortable angle, his arms crossed, his head tipped back against the wall. The sight of him—a tall, immovable force, both brooding and disheveled—reminded her of the fact that she could not go home. That her father had no idea where she was.

Her father! Surely by now someone had come for her. Her father would have sent men searching. The duchess would have been appalled, no doubt asking the duke to storm the palace for answers. The Queen—surely—had seen fit to clarify whatever absurd mistake had landed Elizabeth in this predicament.

Yes, surely someone had sorted this out.

All she needed was to compose herself, smooth her hair, and—

Her gaze caught the cracked mirror above the rickety dresser, and her mouth fell open in horror.

Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, crossing the room in two strides, eyes widening in abject horror at her reflection.

Her normally smooth waves had transformed into a disaster, tangles escaping from her pins, loose strands sticking up at angles that defied nature. Her face was pale, smudged with fatigue, her gown wrinkled beyond repair.

She looked—dear heaven—she looked common. And she did the only thing she could possibly do.

She screamed.

D arcy awoke in a state of pure instinct. His body jerked upright, muscles snapping tense as a rush of blood kicked into his muscles and propelled him into immediate alertness.

His mind instantly leapt to the worst possible conclusion—someone had broken in, they had been followed, they were in danger—his hand shot to his boot, fingers closing around the hidden blade tucked beneath the worn leather.

But instead of an attacker, instead of an intruder, instead of the reasonable cause for alarm that his instincts had anticipated…

He found Lady Elizabeth Montclair standing before the mirror, her hands in her hair, her face frozen in absolute horror.

“What is it?” he barked.

She whipped around, pointing at herself in the cracked mirror like she had just seen an actual demon. “ That! ”

Darcy blinked. And then dragged a slow, exhausted hand down his face. “You are screaming,” he muttered, voice hoarse from sleep, “at your own reflection.”

She whirled toward him again, her expression a mixture of indignation, disbelief, and distress. “Look at me!” she cried, flinging a hand toward the mirror.

His head fell back against the chair, and he closed his eyes again. “I am looking,“ he said flatly. “And yet, I see no crisis.”

“No crisis? My hair looks as though I woke in a ditch and rolled the rest of the way here!”

Darcy opened one eye, surveying her for a long moment before allowing a slow smirk to curl at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he mused, “in that you are correct. That is precisely what you look like.”

Elizabeth spun back to the mirror, gesturing violently at her head. “You do not understand. You do not have waist-long hair that kinks into fist-sized snarls at the slightest provocation. You have not had to sit by the hour letting someone work out the knots with tears in your eyes and praying you have hair left when she is done!”

Darcy sighed again, deeper this time, rubbing his temples. “I fail to see the problem,” he said, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “No one expects you to look like a marquess’s daughter today. You are in hiding. Perhaps you should refrain from screaming your distress for all of Southwark to hear.”

Elizabeth scowled. “Forgive me for not wishing to look like a street beggar.”

Darcy let his head thud back against the chair. “Your vanity,” he muttered, “is the only thing untouched by the night’s trials.”

She whirled on him. “My vanity? You think this is about vanity? I am talking about hours of pain and forced idleness!”

He gestured vaguely toward her undone curls. “Be that as it may, I can assure you, the greater danger this morning is not your hair.”

She shot him a venomous glare, muttering something about arrogant, impossible men, then whipped the overcoat off the floor and flung it in his direction.

He caught it without blinking.

It was wrinkled beyond repair, the fabric still warm from her body, and, just as he had feared, the scent of her perfume clung to it like it had been deliberately seared into the wool.

His fingers flexed involuntarily over the fabric, and for an instant—only an instant—he lifted it to his nose.

Then he jerked it away. What a silly reflex! It was not as if he needed to confirm what he already knew. She had spent all night burrowing into the coat, rolling over it, wrapping herself in it like a blasted cocoon.

And now—it smelled like her.

His shoulders stiffened as he shook it out and threw it over the back of the chair with a bit too much force.

Elizabeth, thankfully, had already turned back toward the mirror, sighing in gloomy despair as she attempted to restore some order to her tangled curls.

Good.

He did not want to discuss it.

“T his is intolerable. We must send word to my father.”

Darcy did not look up from fastening his coat. The insufferable man.

“No.”

Elizabeth’s brows drew together. “ No? ”

“The last thing we need is to tell the Marquess of Ashwick where to send an armed retrieval.”

She opened her mouth, indignant, then shut it. “Then the Duchess of Wrexham—only a letter! Enough to tell them—”

“Still no. I thought we settled this last night.”

Her nostrils flared as she turned away, pacing toward the window. “My father will be looking for me,” she insisted. “I was only summoned for an audience with the Queen. I ought to have been home! The palace—surely they sent word?”

“Naturally. You heard His Highness. Her Majesty has already seen to it. You are invited on a ‘pleasure tour’ with some of the Queen’s favorites, and your father will receive ‘letters from you.’”

She turned fully toward him. “And you know this for certain?”

He hesitated. It was only for an instant, but the crack in his veneer shone through. “Yes.”

Elizabeth’s lips parted slightly, as though tasting the words. “And who, do you suppose, will they get to write these letters?”

Darcy stopped to peer out the window again, so he was not facing her when she heard him say, “Her Majesty employs skilled people. They have your handwriting from invitations and acceptances…”

“They cannot.”

He let the curtain fall and turned toward her. “Very well. Think that if you will.”

“No, I…” She shook her head. “Perhaps my hand might be copied convincingly, but what of my words? Anyone who knows me would know I was not the one writing.”

He collected his hat with a quiet, humorless laugh. “Every young lady thinks she is so unique that her friends would discover the same at the slightest whiff of oddity. Do not flatter yourself, Miss Elizabeth. No one knows you as well as you think or cares as much as you believe. And do not sneer at me when I call you that. Far better that I should call you ‘Miss Elizabeth’ than ‘Lizzy’ like some doxy.”

She lifted her chin. “You would not dare .”

“No, what I ‘would not dare’ is to let a lead ball puncture that pretty satin bodice on your gown. I should think His Highness would be rather put out with me. I might even lose my place at the Home Office. So, until further notice, you are my cousin, ‘Miss Elizabeth’—dash it all, I suppose we shall have to invent a surname for you—or you shall be my mistress, ‘Lizzy’ from Rotten Row. Which do you prefer?”

She puckered her mouth into a scornful pout that she hoped would scald whatever conscience this wretched man possessed. “Neither.”

“Just as well. A proper mistress is much friendlier, and as for a respectable maiden…” He squinted one eye at her. “I would be ashamed to confess a relation to someone so haughty.”

Elizabeth bent and threw the chamber pot at him. A pity it was empty.

He caught it easily, but his expression turned from mocking to grave. “Fool,” he growled. “You almost broke the window! Do you want to be discovered?”

“What I want seems to be irrelevant, does it not?“ she snapped.

He sighed and set the empty pot back on the floor. “You will get used to it. We all do.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms. Silence. And glares—he was rather skilled at glaring back at her, much to her dismay. Better than her father, which was unfortunate.

Then, she gave a short, bitter laugh. “They really told my father I was on a royal pleasure tour?”

Darcy remained silent.

She let out a slow breath, turning toward the mirror again. Her cheeks were sallow, her hair only slightly less shocking than it had been.

“How long,” she asked, glancing at his reflection, “do you suppose this pleasant excursion shall last?”

Darcy looked down. He had no answer. And she knew it.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “This is absurd.”

Darcy did not disagree. But it did not matter.

Because it was happening anyway.

D arcy had a headache.

Not a faint one. A real, pounding, behind-the-eyes sort of headache that he normally associated with weeks of little sleep, too much responsibility, and Home Office reports that ran in circles and told him nothing.

Except this headache had nothing to do with reports.

It had everything to do with the infuriating woman pacing a hole in the floor of their rented room.

Elizabeth Montclair had been fuming in silence since he had all but dragged her from the lodging house and bundled her into a hired carriage. Now that she had been fed, slightly rested, and was somewhat less horrified by her own reflection, she had apparently rediscovered the energy to be difficult.

Darcy had no time for it.

He had already sent a coded message to Fitzwilliam, arranged for a private room, and given explicit instructions that they were to receive no visitors save the one he was waiting for. Lady Elizabeth Montclair had not taken well to the arrangements.

“This is indecent!” she declared, for what had to be the twentieth time. She crossed her arms, turning to him with a scathing glare. “You mean to leave me here alone?”

Darcy did not look up from double-checking the locks on the window. “You will not be alone,” he said shortly. “The innkeeper and his wife are here.”

“Yes, and I am sure they will be absolutely heroic should anyone attempt to drag me out of here at gunpoint.”

He turned to her then, arms folded, expression unimpressed. “And who, precisely, do you imagine will be dragging you anywhere? They would have to find you first.”

She lifted her chin. “I do not know, Mr. Darcy. You have made it quite clear that someone might.”

Darcy exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge of it between his fingers. “I will not be long,” he said tightly. “And you will be safer here than anywhere else.”

She scoffed. “A coaching inn? Hardly. And why must I stay behind while you go off unattended?”

“Because your input is not helpful at this present juncture. And because I am not the one being hunted.”

That stopped her. For just a moment, she seemed to process his words, but instead of accepting them, she sniffed and turned away, pretending to study the ragged curtain over the window.

“I could be of use,“ she muttered. “You do not know that I would not be.”

Darcy huffed a laugh, rubbing his temple. “Oh yes,” he said dryly, “I cannot imagine a finer asset to a covert investigation than an heiress with a penchant for throwing chamber pots at her captor.”

She whirled back to him, eyes flashing. “Captor?”

He should have chosen a different word. But it was too late now.

Elizabeth Montclair, rightful heiress, only pride of the Montclair lineage, and notorious thorn in his side, pursed her lips in scandalized offense. She was about to unleash hell.

And that was when the coded knock came at the door—two short, one long, and two short.

Darcy opened the door without preamble, letting Fitzwilliam stride into the room with all the casual confidence of a man who was only half-surprised to be summoned to a questionable inn.

“You had better have a bloody good reason for this,” Fitzwilliam said, shaking his head as he stepped inside. “You know how I feel about unplanned excursions to Southw— oh. ”

He froze in his tracks as he caught sight of Elizabeth.

She stared at him, arms still crossed in defiance, her expression the perfect mix of indignation, hauteur, and deep, unconcealed skepticism.

Fitzwilliam turned slowly back to Darcy.

Darcy braced himself.

“Well,” Fitzwilliam drawled. “This is new.”

Darcy sighed.

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “What manner of fresh cretinery is this?”

“My cousin,” Darcy said stiffly. “And ‘cretinery’ is not a word.”

“It is now,” she decided. “Language adapts to life. There was never a need for such a word until now.”

Fitzwilliam grinned, stepping forward with a flourishing bow. “Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, at your service.”

Elizabeth did not curtsy. She merely narrowed her eyes, looking Fitzwilliam up and down with clear disapproval.

“And you,” Fitzwilliam continued, straightening, “must be the reason my dear cousin looks as though he’s just spent a month marching through the gutters of Whitechapel.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “I was rather under the impression he always looked like that.”

Darcy exhaled sharply, looking at the ceiling.

“Excellent,” Fitzwilliam said, clapping his hands together. “You do have a sense of humor. That should serve you well. Now then—” He turned back to Darcy, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “I assume you’ve not gone completely mad. What the devil is going on?”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I will explain everything,” he said, avoiding Elizabeth’s gaze. “But first—”

“Wait.” Fitzwilliam held up a hand and sniffed.

Darcy stiffened.

Fitzwilliam’s brows lifted. “Do you smell that?”

Darcy exhaled. “I am well aware I have not bathed. We have not been afforded such a—”

Fitzwilliam waved a hand. “No, no, you—” He sniffed again. “You actually smell quite nice.”

Darcy blinked.

Fitzwilliam grinned. “Rosewater,” he declared. “It’s distinctly rosewater.”

There was a silence. Darcy did not move. From the corner of his vision, he could see Elizabeth still as a statue, her arms folding just a bit tighter over herself.

Fitzwilliam’s grin widened.

Darcy cleared his throat, brushing past him toward the window. “That is irrelevant.”

Fitzwilliam laughed. “Is it, now? Well, then, I am all anticipation to learn what you do consider ‘relevant.’”

Elizabeth sniffed and turned away.

Darcy pointed at her. “Lock the door behind us. Am I quite understood?”

She tilted her head just enough to show him the tip of her pointed chin and the slit of one half-lidded eye. Well. That would have to do—she was not going to offer any better promises.

He gestured to his cousin. “Let us have a private word downstairs.”

D arcy had never regretted anything more than answering the Prince Regent’s summons.

That was saying something, considering he had once voluntarily set foot in Whitechapel on a rumor and spent a full night in an alley pretending to be unconscious just to hear the right conversation.

But this—this was worse.

This was playing nursemaid to a nobleman’s daughter—a woman who had no useful information—while unraveling a conspiracy—again, with no useful information, while actively resisting the urge to strangle everyone in sight.

Including his own cousin.

“So let me see if I comprehend this,” Fitzwilliam said, stretching his legs out beneath the small, rough-hewn table in the dim alcove where they had found some measure of privacy. “The Prince has sent you to unravel a potential conspiracy—on nothing but a whisper—because a young lady claims she saw a second shooter?”

“She did see a second shooter.”

Fitzwilliam arched a brow. “Did she? And you know this for certain?”

Darcy made a face. “To the best of my discernment. She was hiding, out of sight. No one else had the vantage point she did,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “She saw something that does not align with what everyone else believes.”

Fitzwilliam rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, nodding. “Well. If the Prince believes it, it must be true.”

Darcy shot him a scathing look.

Fitzwilliam grinned. “I do have some news, cousin,” he said, leaning back. “Bellingham was convicted not two hours ago.”

Darcy had expected that, but his stomach still sank. “I see.”

Fitzwilliam looked grim now. “It was quick. Too quick. The evidence was presented, the witnesses all aligned, and the jury did not even leave the box before delivering their verdict. He will hang within the week. A pity, the poor soul.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, if your… lady… whatever she is… is to be believed, Bellingham is not the murderer.”

“No, he was guilty,” Darcy muttered. “She saw him fire. Everyone saw him fire. His may not have been the fatal shot, but he is not an innocent man.”

“Yes, but was he guilty alone?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“That is the very thing the Prince has asked me to determine.”

Fitzwilliam took another sip of ale, then eyed him over the rim of his glass. “And what in blazes do you mean to do with her? ”

“She cannot stay in London,” Darcy said shortly. “And I cannot keep her.”

Fitzwilliam’s lips twitched. “Oh? You mean to say you do not wish to install an heiress in your Albany flat? What a waste.”

Darcy leveled him with a dark glare.

Fitzwilliam grinned wider. “You could always bring her home to Matlock. I am sure my mother would adore—”

“I would rather put my head through that wall.”

Fitzwilliam laughed, but Darcy ignored him, muttering half to himself as he mentally eliminated the few, terrible options before him.

“I cannot take her to Netherfield. No plausible reason for her to be there. Bingley has his sisters with him, and they would talk.”

Fitzwilliam hummed in amusement. “I would pay to see Caroline Bingley’s face.”

Darcy did not dignify that with a response.

“She cannot go to Matlock. Or to Pem—” He cut himself off. Pemberley was not his to take her to. He exhaled. “Well. She cannot remain in London.”

“Yes, you have said that twice now,” Fitzwilliam pointed out helpfully.

Darcy scowled. Blasted, bloody nonsense, all this! Had he not answered that summons, he could have been comfortably settled by a roaring fire with Bingley last night. Might be out after the hounds this morning, possibly with a stimulating game of chess to look forward to with Bennet. But no, he had gone to White’s, like a blighted fool, and been dragged into the thick of it.

He sighed. “She needs to be hidden somewhere no one would think to look.”

“That much is obvious,” Richard replied.

Darcy plucked at his chin as his eyes glazed over in thought. Somewhere discreet. Somewhere no one would question an unknown “relation” suddenly appearing in the household. Somewhere—

His thoughts stuttered.

Hertfordshire.

Netherfield.

Longbourn.

Darcy’s thoughts lurched, catching on a thread of something—something that might actually make sense. His spine stiffened.

Mr. Bennet.

It was preposterous.

It was perfect.

The Bennets had a cousin no one had ever met. A connection already whispered about among the neighbors, an expectation of someone appearing someday to claim the estate. No one would think twice if another relative—distant, forgotten, unimportant—also surfaced from obscurity.

The Bennets were loud, chaotic, impossible to ignore, yet utterly unremarkable to those in high society. Who would suspect them? Who would believe them capable of harboring a fugitive?

No one.

No one would ever look for a missing heiress there.

Darcy rubbed a hand over his mouth, mind racing.

Would Bennet agree?

Darcy huffed. Of course, he would. He would find it amusing. A lark. A secret to keep from his wife, a joke to play with himself as the only audience.

But there would need to be compensation.

That, too, could be arranged. The Prince owed him. And Bennet was practical—he would not turn down a financial incentive, not when it meant an easy favor.

Darcy’s fingers twitched at his side, tapping his thigh as he ticked off the ideas.

If he took residence at Netherfield again, he could keep watch. He would be close. He could—

It could work .

God help him, it could actually work.

His thoughts spun, momentum building, one possibility tumbling into the next, barely aware that Fitzwilliam was staring at him with increasing alarm.

“What the devil are you doing?” Fitzwilliam asked, voice slow with suspicion.

Darcy did not respond.

“You’re doing it again,” Fitzwilliam muttered. “That thing where you start speaking in half-sentences and your eyes dart around like you’re reading invisible reports in the air.”

“I need to write to Mr. Bennet,” Darcy muttered. Then, before the thought even finished forming, he shook his head. “No. I need to speak with him.”

Fitzwilliam blinked. “Who? Where?”

“Hertfordshire.”

A pause.

Fitzwilliam’s expression edged toward genuine concern. “Are you well?”

Darcy barely heard him.

“Longbourn,” he muttered, the plan assembling itself faster than he could articulate it. “A family of daughters—quite respectable. A cousin no one has met. If she takes the name…”

Fitzwilliam’s brows pulled together, deeply, profoundly concerned now. “Darcy,” he said slowly. “Do try to form a coherent—”

A noise.

Faint, at first—just the low murmur of voices from above, indistinct, blending with the general hum of the inn.

Fitzwilliam stopped speaking and rolled his eyes upward, toward the sound, but Darcy barely registered it. His mind was still spinning, assembling, caught between the details of Hertfordshire, Longbourn, and how precisely he was going to convince Mr. Bennet to take in a fugitive.

Then something shifted.

A different tone. A shuffle of movement on the stairs. A disturbance.

Darcy’s brow furrowed, his mind stumbling, trying to process it before it could fully break through.

Then— that voice.

Sharp. Cutting. Familiar.

Darcy’s entire body snapped to attention.

“Mind your hands, sir!” came Elizabeth’s unmistakable tone, cool and clipped despite the fire beneath it. “ And your eyes! I will thank you to put them back in your head where they belong!”

The words hit Darcy like a trigger pulled.

He was on his feet before he fully knew why, the chair scraping back with a harsh clatter. Fitzwilliam’s voice reached him—something questioning, something alarmed—but Darcy was already moving. Shoving past the table. Striding toward the door.

The words replayed in his mind—a warning, not a scream—but his pulse was already pounding violently, drowning out thought.

The stairs were before him.

He rounded the corner.

And there they were.

Two men.

Both staggering slightly, the stench of cheap spirits thick in the air around them. Their postures were too close, too familiar, their weight tipped slightly forward, that telltale lazy confidence of men accustomed to women tolerating their presence whether they wished to or not.

Elizabeth’s expression was carved from stone—her chin lifted, her dark eyes blazing with a quiet, deadly fury—but there was a slight tension in her shoulders, the kind that spoke of bracing for impact.

One of them had his hand on her sleeve, despite the fact that she had hooked her arm in an attempt to pull away.

The moment registered. And Darcy saw red.

The next second happened on instinct. His stride never faltered—his arm shot forward, his hand closing into a fist before he fully thought to do so—

Contact.

A satisfying crunch.

The shorter of the two men reeled back, a sharp grunt of pain tearing from his throat as he stumbled, clutching his jaw.

The taller man turned, blinking blearily, as if his ale-soaked mind was struggling to process what had just occurred. Darcy had no intention of waiting for him to catch up.

Behind him, Fitzwilliam had reached the scene. He was already moving, his hand clamping onto the second man’s shoulder with a casual sort of strength that belied its iron grip.

“You might leave now,” Fitzwilliam said, voice dangerously light, as though offering a pleasant suggestion rather than a command.

The man, still sluggish, frowned. “We meant no harm—”

Darcy turned fully toward him, deliberately stepping closer.

The drunken man finally registered the look on Darcy’s face. And turned pale.

“ Out. “ Darcy’s voice was low, controlled, but there was murder in it.

The two men hesitated for the briefest moment, as if debating whether the appeal of the lady before them was worth risking a broken jaw—but with one final glance at Darcy and Fitzwilliam, their resolve crumbled.

The shorter man muttered something under his breath, rubbing his jaw as he stumbled toward the door. The second man followed, shoulders hunched, eyes avoiding theirs.

Silence.

Darcy turned. Elizabeth was still standing in the doorway where she had been, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her lips pressed into a thin line of defiance.

She looked him straight in the eye.

And he could see it—

The stubborn tilt of her chin. The fury still simmering beneath the surface. The refusal to look even slightly shaken.

She was furious. And she was not backing down.

“You opened the door?” he barked. “After I explicitly told you not to? To keep it locked? What the devil were you thinking? ”

She arched her brows, utterly unrepentant. “I was thinking that you two cads were talking over what to do with me while I sat up here like some porcelain doll. I was thinking I would much rather have a hand in my own fate, thank you very much.”

Darcy dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Only daughters,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Too often indulged, thinking the world operates according to their whims.”

Elizabeth lifted her chin. “We do not think that, Mr. Darcy. We know it.”

Darcy growled something incoherent, pushed both of them back inside the room, and bolted the door.