“My uncle may have his own agenda, but he also has resources. If we can determine what this letter and key are connected to, we may find a way to protect you—and your family.”
Elizabeth’s eyes softened slightly at the mention of her family, but she quickly masked it with a wry smile. “And in return?” she asked. “What do you gain from this arrangement? You can hardly relish the notion of your name being linked to mine.”
Darcy hesitated, considering his answer. It would be easier to dismiss her question, to claim it was mere obligation or convenience. But he found he could not. “In return,” he said slowly, “I gain an ally. Someone who is not part of my uncle’s world. Someone who can see things… differently.”
Elizabeth stared at him for a moment. Then, to his surprise, she sucked in a breath and nodded slowly. “Very well,” she said softly. “We will work together.”
A strange sense of relief washed over Darcy, though he could not say why.
Finally, Elizabeth stood, smoothing her skirts with a steady hand. “It seems we both have much to consider, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy rose as well, moving around the desk to escort her to the door. But as they reached the threshold, he hesitated. “Miss Bennet, if you receive anything else—letters, messages, anything—do not hesitate to come to me.”
Elizabeth turned to face him, her eyes searching his for a long moment before she nodded. “And if you need an ally, Mr. Darcy,” she replied softly, “you know where to find me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Darcy stood at thethreshold of his club, the heavy oak doors a final barrier between his former life of quiet stewardship and the public battlefield he was now forced to enter. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and political ambition, as if the very walls of the establishment had absorbed generations of whispered schemes.
He was not here by choice.
The messenger had arrived at Darcy’s townhouse far too early that morning, bearing the earl’s summons with the kind of officious urgency that brooked no delay. Darcy had been forced to abandon the last of his preparations for Georgiana’s departure, leaving instructions for Mrs. Younge to ensure everything was in order. But it had not been enough.
He had intended to walk Georgiana to the carriage himself, to offer a final word of reassurance, even if their last conversation had been tense. Instead, he had been summoned here—to dance to his uncle’s tune.
The thought soured in his mind as he entered the private room at the back of the club. Lord Matlock was already seated, a brandy glass in one hand and a stack of correspondence spread across the table, as if he had been there for hours and had made the place his private study. The London morning papers were neatly folded beside him, their headlines already buzzing with news of Parliament’s dissolution.
“You are late,” the earl remarked without glancing up, his voice carrying the same note of authority that had chased Darcy through every stage of his youth. “When have you ever been late?”
Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “The election will not happen more slowly because I arrived ten minutes later than you expected.” His voice was clipped, sharper than usual, but he made no effort to soften it.
Lord Matlock finally looked up, his hooded eyes gleaming with both familial fondness and political calculation. “Ah, but appearances, Fitzwilliam. If you wish to be taken seriously, punctuality is not just a courtesy—it is a declaration of intent.”
Darcy sank into the chair opposite him, suppressing a sigh. He wanted to be anywhere but here, preferably seeing his sister off properly, ensuring she was settled and safe before embarking on whatever farce his uncle had planned. But Georgiana was likely halfway to Dartford by now, with only a hurried conversation in her room to serve as their parting. She had not even looked at him as he had spoken, her eyes fixed on the window, her answers monosyllabic at best. The memory of it sat heavily in his chest, mingling with his irritation.
“Then let us proceed,” he said tightly. “I assume you did not summon me here merely to chastise my keeping of time.”
The earl leaned back, steepling his fingers, clearly unbothered by Darcy’s sour mood. “The general election was just announced officially this morning, but Stanton’s allies are already moving.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, forcing his mind to shift from thoughts of Georgiana to the looming political battle ahead. But the sting of unfinished business lingered, a bitter reminder of how little control he truly had over the course his life was now taking. “What is your plan?”
Lord Matlock’s smile was thin and calculating. “You will attend the Ashworths’ garden party tomorrow. There, you will make your first public declaration of candidacy. Not in a grand speech—that would be unseemly at a social event—but through strategic conversations. The right words whispered to the right people.”
Darcy exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to the correspondence on the table. “And you believe this will sway the undecided voters?”
“The ones who matter,” Matlock replied. “The gentry and landowners who control the local networks. These are the men you must charm.”
Darcy’s lip curled slightly at the word. Charm was not his preferred weapon. “And Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked, though he already knew the answer.
Lord Matlock’s smile grew. “She will be by your side. A symbol of your connection to the people who desire change. The voters will see a man not entrenched in aristocratic tradition, but someone who values honesty, intelligence, and unpretentious alliances.”
Darcy resisted the urge to groan. “You believe a woman of no fortune and questionable reputation will bolster my political image?”
The earl chuckled. “It is not about her fortune. It is about what she represents. You are a Darcy, Fitzwilliam. Your name carries enough gravitas. What you lack is approachability. Miss Bennet gives you that.”
Darcy clenched his jaw but said nothing. There was no arguing with his uncle when he set his mind to something. And perhaps, in some twisted logic, the earl was right. Elizabeth Bennet had a way of disarming even the most rigid of men—including himself.
By noon, Darcy foundhimself following his uncle up the steps of Matlock House, his discomfort growing with every tick of the ornate clock in the entry hall. The butler informed them of the arrival of Miss Bennet and the Gardiners some minutes earlier, and he could hear their voices drifting from the drawing room ahead of him.
