Darcy’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking back to her. “And do you?”
“Not in the slightest.”
Darcy finally exhaled, his shoulders relaxing—though only slightly. “You… you should not have come here alone.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, lifting her chin. “You mentioned that already. But I thought the scandal of my presence would be preferable to the consequences of doing nothing.”
Darcy’s lips twitched—whether in annoyance or reluctant amusement, Elizabeth could not tell. He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth hesitated, the stiffness in his tone prickling against her already frayed nerves. Still, she complied, smoothing her skirts as she perched on the edge of the chair, refusing to appear rattled.
Darcy remained standing, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the letter and key as though they might reveal their secrets if he stared long enough. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel. Elizabeth shifted in her seat, the urge to fill the void with some sharp remark simmering on her tongue.
But when he finally spoke, the gravity in his voice stole the words from her mouth. “I believe,” Darcy said at last, “that you have stumbled into something far more serious than you realize.”
Elizabeth stiffened. She had expected condescension, perhaps a lecture on propriety or another veiled warning about her reputation. But his tone held none of that. It was… something else. Concern, perhaps. Or something bordering on it.
“And what,” she asked carefully, “do you suggest I do about it?”
Darcy did not answer immediately. Instead, he picked up the letter again, his brow furrowing as he examined the unfamiliar handwriting. The key gleamed dully in the dim light, its presence on his desk both absurd and ominous. “This key,” he said, tapping it lightly with one finger, “as you have no doubt concluded already, was meant for someone who knew what to do with it. And the fact that it found its way toyousuggests that someone—French or otherwise—believes you are involved in matters of… diplomatic delicacy.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave an uncomfortable jolt. “Diplomatic delicacy?” she repeated. “Mr. Darcy, I assure you, I have never been less diplomatic in my life.”
His gaze flicked up, sharp and assessing. “This is not a jest, Miss Bennet.”
“I am aware,” she snapped, then forced herself to inhale slowly. “But surely you cannot believe I am mixed up in whatever… nonsense this is. I am not a diplomat. I am not a spy. Iam a gentleman’s daughter with no more intrigue in my life than the occasional unruly bonnet.”
“I do not believe you are complicit,” he said quietly. “But that does not mean you are safe. Someone else is undoubtedly waiting for this, and when it is discovered that it came to you, instead…”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. The absurdity of it all—the idea that someone, somewhere, believedshewas involved in espionage or smuggling! And yet, the key lay there, solid and undeniable.
“My uncle,” Darcy continued, his tone growing darker, “has been monitoring certain French diplomats. He believes they are using trade routes and diplomatic immunity as a cover for something more nefarious—smuggling messages, perhaps even prisoners.”
Elizabeth blinked. “And you think they believe I am part of this?”
Darcy hesitated. “I believe… they think you have access to something—or someone—they need. Perhaps they mistook you for a courier. Perhaps…” He trailed off, his frown deepening. “Perhaps it has something to do with your uncle’s business.”
Elizabeth’s breath hitched.Uncle Gardiner. He dealt in imports and exports, but he was as honest as the day was long. The idea that his business could be tied to something illicit was unthinkable.
“My uncle is a respectable tradesman,” she said stoutly. “There is no way he would involve himself in anything illegal.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, as though conceding the point—but not dismissing the possibility entirely. “Perhaps not knowingly,” he said. “But if his ships or warehouses have been used without his knowledge…”
Elizabeth shook her head, unwilling to entertain the idea. “No. That is impossible. He built that business—he and my aunt. They know every detail of it. Why, my aunt still does all the cloth ordering, though she no longer needs to. They could never miss something like this.”
Darcy’s eyes softened just slightly. “I hope you are right.”
Elizabeth stared at the key. She had come here hoping for answers, but all she had found were more questions.
Before Darcy could say more, a sharp knock sounded at the door. His gaze flicked toward it, his expression darkening. “Enter.”
The butler stepped inside, holding out a sealed note on thick, cream-colored paper. “A message from Lord Matlock, sir.”
Darcytook the note with a terse nod, but Elizabeth saw the flicker of something in his eyes—apprehension, perhaps, or reluctant understanding. Whatever was written in that note, she had the sinking feeling it would not ease the tension knotting in her chest.
Darcy opened the note, his eyes scanning the contents swiftly. His face hardened with each line. Elizabeth watched the transformation, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension.
“Well?” she prompted when he remained silent.
