Prologue
May 1803, Paris
The End of the Peace of Amiens
The air in Parishad changed overnight. Ancient streets, once thrumming with lively conversations and the hum of commerce, had grown tense, crackling with unspoken threats. War again.
Darcy could feel it as a living thing—something unseen, hunting, shifting in the shadows. He tightened his grip on the walking stick he’d borrowed from the rooming house. Not that it would make much of a weapon if it came to that, but it gave his hands something to do.
He’d lost Richard. Of course, he had. His cousin had run off to meet with someone, a half-baked plan to secure papers. “Stay here, Darcy,” Richard had barked, and then disappeared into the chaos. As if Darcy could stand by and wait for fate to collect him. That had been hours ago, and the rooming house was no longer safe.
Sir Thomas Ashford had been their lone voice of reason since yesterday. Originally in Paris on some vague business matter—Darcy and the others never knew what, nor did they care—the man was some twenty years their senior and a friend of half their fathers. Such a friend, a man who remembered Paris from better days, was a valuable ally when a young man embarked upon his Grand Tour.
But there was to be no Tour for them now. Ashford had held them all in check when the initial waves of panic struck, and reminded them who they were—Englishmen, not cowards. Wise counsel in a foreign land, and Ashford was someone with the right connections to get them all out of the middle of a war zone.
If only they knew where he had gone just now.
So, Darcy and the others—nearly a dozen British sons of wealth and privilege, not a one of them older than two and twenty—had turned out. They were a panicked lot, and three of them had promptly rounded the first street corner and marched right into the hands of the French.
Now, Darcy was navigating the streets alone, his mind half on the ships that might yet be waiting at Calais, half on the soldiers that seemed to multiply at every corner. All he wanted… he just wanted to go home. To hear his father’s welcoming voice, catch Georgiana as she leaped into his arms, drink in the familiar air of Pemberley, and sleep in peace once more. But that did not seem likely now.
The rumors had begun flying as early as last night—British citizens detained by the dozens. Some dragged out of their beds, and some plucked from the street as they tried to leave. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just the thick tension of a city closing its grip, clenching its teeth as war loomed once more.
A noise behind him. Darcy’s pulse quickened. He kept walking, slower now, glancing casually to the side—nothing. Just a couple of boys, no older than twelve, darting between stalls. Still, he had the distinct impression of being watched.
Then he saw them.
French soldiers. Four of them, walking with that casual swagger that made their purpose clear. A man in uniform could always be dangerous in times such as these, but these men were something more. Their eyes were hunting. Darcy turned his head forward, heart thumping now. He was wearing a French coat and a French style hat. Perhaps they noticed nothing odd. No need to rush. No need to panic.
He didn’t need to. Not yet.
But they were gaining. He could hear their boots against the cobblestones, feel the weight of their gaze, and his stomach twisted into icy knots.
Keep walking, Darcy.
His shoulders straightened, spine taut with pride, as if he could outpace fear with posture alone.
“Vous, là-bas!” A voice, sharp and commanding.
Darcy didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. He kept his pace steady. A marketplace was up ahead, thick with carts and milling bodies.Blend in. He’d make it into the crowd, lose himself for a few minutes, then slip down one of the alleys.
“Arrêtez!”
They were closer. He swallowed hard, muscles tightening. His instincts screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go. Panic bloomed at the base of his throat. This was it. They’d seen him, a British aristocrat, in a city that no longer had room for him.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, jerking him back with enough force to spin him halfway around. Darcy staggered, heart lurching in his chest as the soldiers closed in. One, with a face like a bulldog, grinned in triumph, stepping closer, barking French at him—too fast for Darcy to catch.
They were trying to bind him, hands already tearing at his coat, when someone crashed into the soldiers from the side. A blur of movement, and suddenly, one man was knocked off balance, stumbling into his comrades.
Darcy blinked in shock.What the devil?
“Sorry, terribly sorry!” The voice was bright, too bright, a half-hearted attempt at levity in the middle of a disaster. Charles Bingley. One of the young twits from the rooming house.
Only, he did not seem such a twit now. What the devil was he doing?
Before Darcy could process it, Bingley was already grabbing his arm, dragging him sideways, feet stumbling over each other as they veered off the path. “Time to go, Darcy,” Bingley panted, still grinning like a lunatic, eyes darting behind them.
The soldiers shouted—one swore loudly—but Bingley did not stop. He was pulling Darcy through the crowd, weaving between carts and startled vendors, knocking over a crate of apples with a crash that sent fruit skittering across the cobblestones.
