“A matter of opinion,” Linton murmured, sipping his coffee. “The ball the other night certainly caused a stir. I daresay your name has been spoken more in the last two days than Stanton’s.”
Harcourt chuckled. “Not for lack of his trying. His supporters are getting desperate. Word is, he has been promising to introduce certain reforms that would—” he waved his hand vaguely, “—redistributecertain privileges.”
“A polite way of saying he is making offers to the wrong sort of men,” Beaumont muttered.
Darcy steepled his fingers. “And what is the consensus here? Do we believe such offers will tempt voters?”
“They may sway the smallholdings men—some former merchants who do not understand what they are being offered,” Gresham replied. “But the larger landowners remain skeptical. It is why we meet, after all.”
For the next two and a half hours, the conversation wound through every concern regarding the election. Some men were firm in their support of Darcy, recognizing that he represented a steadier, more honorable path forward. Others still withheld judgment, their skepticism tempered only by the growing discomfort they had with Stanton’s methods.
Darcy engaged where necessary, offering assurances where he could, but all the while, he felt time slipping past him like grains of sand. The meeting felt endless. He resisted the urge to check his pocket watch, focusing instead on maintaining his patience. He could not leave first. That would be poor form, and form mattered in politics, no matter how little he cared for it.
At long last, the group began to shift. Men stood, chairs were pulled out of the way, and the gathering gradually broke apart into smaller discussions as gentlemen made their farewells. Darcy finally allowed himself the relief of preparing to take his leave when Sir Edmund, still seated beside him, spoke in a low voice.
“Would you be amenable to a private word, Mr. Darcy?”
Inwardly, he groaned. He had already endured the morning’s posturing, and now, more conversation? But Sir Edmund Gresham was not a man he could afford to ignore. “Of course,” Darcy said with determined politeness.
Sir Edmund stood, adjusting his coat. “I shall instruct my man to send my carriage round to your house. If you will permit me to ride with you, I shall not take much of your time.”
Darcy inclined his head, signaling to his driver to prepare to depart. Moments later, they were seated together in Darcy’s carriage, rolling through the city streets.
Sir Edmund wasted no time. “I had a letter from my steward yesterday,” he began, his tone grave. “It concerns my estate in Derbyshire.”
Darcy, who had been bracing for yet another redundant political conversation, frowned slightly. “And what concern of that is mine?”
“The concern,” he said, “is that my land was being used for something I did not permit.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened slightly where they rested against his knee. “Oh?”
“Aye. My steward uncovered unusual activity along the northern border of my property,” Sir Edmund explained. “A small building—a hunting lodge, really—was being used to house men temporarily. We might never have discovered it, but a tenant’s sheep went missing, and while tracking it, they came across the place.”
Darcy’s unease deepened. “What makes you so certain it was housing men? What did they find?”
Gresham leaned forward slightly. “The lodge itself was nearly empty when my men arrived—only a few scattered belongings, a ripped blue coat, and signs that someone had been eating and drinking there not long before. But they found a fellow crouching in the fells just beyond the lodge. The man they captured—a Frenchman, Darcy—was in a poor state. Starved, unshaven, desperate. They guessed he could not keep up and fell behind when others ran. My steward questioned him, and in his panic, he claimed he was being smuggled back across the Channel.”
Darcy’s eyes sharpened. “Back?”
Gresham nodded. “Yes. NotintoEngland—out. And what is more, he thought my men were there to retrieve him for that very purpose. He kept babbling about a ship that was waiting, about payment, about someone failing to arrive with the proper funds. He was expecting to be extracted and taken south, likely to the coast.”
A cold understanding settled over Darcy. Stanton's smuggling went both ways—contraband goods brought into England, prisoners secreted out. This was precisely what the earl had been speaking of.
“When my steward pressed him, he mentioned names—not all of them familiar, but some were.” Sir Edmund’s voice lowered slightly. “He spoke of the docks, and a ship called theEleanor.”
Darcy’s fingers curled into a fist against his knee.Gardiner’s ship.
“Naturally, after finding this fellow, my steward and his men searched the lodge again,” Sir Edmund continued. “The ashes in the hearth were fresh—someone had been burning papers, likely as they fled. But among the half-burnt pages, they found lists of names, schedules of movement. Some too charred to read, but others…” His expression darkened. “Others still bore signatures. One of them was Stanton’s.”
Darcy inhaled sharply.
“My steward retrieved what he could,” Sir Edmund said. “The ledgers were not left carelessly—they were meant to be destroyed. But some pages survived. Enough to make it very clear that Stanton has had his hands in this. They sent those pages to me with the letter and I have them in my possession. It seems Stanton’s interests extend beyond mere political rhetoric. This was not just a matter of bribing voters, which everyone knows he has done for years. He has been involved in something far more serious—contraband, prisoner smuggling, dealings that put Derbyshire and its people at risk.” He let the words trail off, leaving Darcy to complete the thought himself.
The earl had been right… and the implications were damning. Stanton had not simply been dabbling in illegal dealings—he was orchestrating them. And now, thanks to Sir Edmund’s steward, there was proof.
Darcy’s thoughts spun rapidly. This wasit—the leverage they needed. The proof that Stanton was not merely a rival politician but a criminal, one whose actions could be publicly condemned, whose reputation could be destroyed beyond repair.
Sir Edmund watched him closely. “I offer this information to you, Mr. Darcy,” he said after a moment. “Not merely to aid your campaign, but because I believe Stanton must be stopped, and you are the best man to do it. The question is—how will you use it?”
