The days had stretchedon with an agonizing slowness, each one more frustrating than the last.
Darcy had thought—foolishly, naïvely—that once Elizabeth was safe, his mind would settle. That he could return to his life, to his purpose, with nothing more than a lingering sense of gratitude.
He had been utterly mistaken.
She had occupied his thoughts before. Now, she consumed them.
The first day, he had sent a note—just a brief inquiry, no more than a line or two—Is Miss Bennet well?The response had been prompt, polite, distant.
Mr. Darcy’s concern is appreciated. I am quite recovered. My uncle and aunt send their regards.
Nothing more.
Clearly, she saw their obligations to one another as ended.
He had thrown himself into appearances, into meetings, into all the functions his uncle urged him to attend. But without her at his side, every gathering felt twice as stiff, twice as tedious. He was still a subject of interest, but the warmth she had lent him—the approachability that had made him more than an heir to Pemberley, more than another boring young master—was glaringly absent.
He had not realized exactly how much she had set him at ease. How much he had relied on her.
But now, it no longer mattered. Now, it was a waiting game.
The election period had ended yesterday, but there were still votes to be tallied—votes from the Derbyshire polls that had yet to be counted in London. He had done everything he could. The matter was out of his hands now.
That, perhaps, was the worst of it.
His stomach had been a constant knot of unease, churning with each passing hour. The election was impossibly close. Too many men had voted for Stanton before his crimes had come to light. If he won—if those last Derbyshire votes did not swing in Darcy’s favor—then what? Would Stanton be arrested, leaving a vacant seat to be scrambled over once more? Or… would he simply carry on in his office, undisturbed and unchallenged, as if Darcy’s efforts meant nothing?
No, no, that would not be. The evidence against Stanton was now undeniable. The earl had taken it to—who, precisely? Darcy was not sure. The Home Office? TheSecretary of State for War? Perhaps even higher. He did not know, and for the first time in his life, he did not care. All he wanted was for Stanton to be stopped.
And now, at last, it was happening.
The French diplomats had already been escorted—a polite term for what had truly occurred—from the country. Their departure had been neither quiet nor dignified. It was one thing for foreign representatives to overstay their welcome, quite another to be caught consorting with smugglers and traitors.
Darcy had heard of their exit the night before. The earl’s sources had reported that the men had been taken under armed escort to Dover and placed aboard a ship bound for Calais, their diplomatic credentials revoked. An exile disguised as a return. They would never be allowed back, not under this government. Not after what had been uncovered.
He had imagined them standing at the rails of that ship, watching England shrink behind them, knowing they had played their game—and lost. It should have been satisfying.
But it was not enough.
Stanton’s ties to those men had now become a noose tightening around his own neck. He had been clever, too clever, leaving no clear evidence in his name—until now. Now, there was proof.
The men who had taken Elizabeth had been dragged from their hiding places in the dockyards by Bow Street Runners and militia officers acting on Richard’s information. Some had been caught at the warehouses, others had been discovered trying to flee the city under assumed names. The earl’s men had been thorough. Darcy had insisted upon it.
And Stanton’s name had been on many of their tongues when questioned.
Darcy had stood by while the reports were read aloud—what each man had admitted, what they had denied, what had been pried from them through careful interrogation. It had taken days, but in the end, the picture had been made clear.
Prisoners smuggled from all corners of the country, including Derbyshire, under false identities. Money changing hands, being funneled through different purchases to hide its true origins. The ships carefully selected to avoid suspicion. Some had been caught, some had escaped. Some had vanished entirely.
And it had all led back to Stanton. His ledgers, signed in his own hand, had been discovered. Testimony from the men captured at the docks corroborated the truth. It was over.
And yet, Darcy’s pulse still burned with fury when he thought of it.
Of Elizabeth—locked in the dark, terrified, alone.Shehad suffered because of this.
Because ofthem.
Darcy had played his part in it. He could not chase them down or uncover their secrets—his high visibility at the moment forbade that—but that same visibility made it possible for him to press the matter with powerful people. Because of him, the guilty had been exposed for what they were. And now, justice was finally coming. Stanton might still be walking free at this moment, but it was only a matter of time.
