Beside him, his companion—shorter, sharper, with a face like a fox—exchanged a glance with LaPointe before murmuring something in French, too low for her to understand. But it was the way they were looking at her that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle like it was on fire.
Elizabeth took a step back, nearly colliding with a servant carrying a tray of drinks. Her pulse quickened as she looked around for a way out, but she saw… there, something terribly odd. One of the minister’s men had just placed a small folded slip onto the tray, the motion subtle but deliberate. The paper could hardly be seen, but there it was, regardless.
Elizabeth tried to ignore it. The note could be anything—a harmless message or arrangement for the evening. But then why the furtive glance? The servant deposited the drinks at a side table, then disappeared into the crowd.
Her stomach churned as she realized how deeply compromised she must already look, standing among these men, the French minister himself having addressed her. She had to make it seem as though she had purpose—some explanation for why she had been there at all.
She glanced toward the side table. If the note were important, surely it was better to deliver it directly to Lord Matlock. Her gaze flicked around the room, but her aunt and uncle were nowhere in sight. Her pulse pounded as she stepped toward the table. One small action. One quick correction. That was all.
Her gloved hand brushed the edge of the note just as a sharp voice cut through the air behind her.
“Young lady, you are standing in the path of the servants.”
Elizabeth startled, her foot catching the edge of a chair. She collided with the very servant returning to collect the tray, the tray tipping as the paper fluttered to the ground. A mortified apology tumbled from her lips as she crouched to gather them, her movements hurried and clumsy. Her hand closed instinctively around the note, the folded edge pressing into her palm.
“I am so sorry,” she stammered, rising to her feet. The servant gave her a tight-lipped nod and moved on, balancing the tray once more as though nothing had happened.
Elizabeth hesitated. The note felt oddly heavy in her hand, though it was only paper. She glanced at it, her curiosity piqued by the dark, flowing script visible through the fold. It was not hers to read, and yet she could not seem to stop herself.
Her gaze darted around the room. No one was watching. Carefully, she unfolded it.
The words leapt off the page:
L'échange de prisonniers se déroulera comme convenu. Assurez-vous que l'envoyé soit retardé. Notre homme s'occupera du reste.
She swallowed. Glanced around. That could notpossiblymean what she thought it did! Surely her French was bad. Or her imagination was wild. But what shethoughtshe read was something about prisoner exchanges and delaying envoys and someone handling something.
Elizabeth stared at the note, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her translation skills might be suspect, but the implications were clear. This was no innocent message.
Her mind raced. Who had written it? Who was it meant for? Andwhyhad it ended up in her hands?
“Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped up, and her blood froze. Standing before her was one of the British dignitaries, his expression thunderous and his gaze sharp as a blade.
“What, precisely, do you think you are doing?”
Chapter Three
Darcy stood by thewindow of his uncle’s study, the faint hum of the party filtering through the thick oak door behind him. The Earl of Matlock had spared no expense in designing this room—a fortress of polished mahogany and leather-bound books, its deep green curtains framing a view of the moonlit gardens. Darcy had always admired its quiet dignity.
Tonight, though, it felt suffocating.
The door opened, and the earl strode in, his movements brisk and his expression faintly amused. “You look as though you are about to be tried for treason, Darcy. You could have joined the party.”
Darcy turned, offering a shallow bow. “I apologize for interrupting your evening, Uncle. I offered to return at a more convenient time, but your butler insisted.”
The earl waved this off, crossing to the sideboard and pouring himself a glass of port. “Nonsense. This is an excellent time. There are several gentlemen here tonight whom I would very much like for you to meet.”
Darcy’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I suspected as much.”
The earl glanced at him over the rim of his glass. “And yet you came anyway. Progress.”
Darcy did not reply. He had come, but only because Richard had worn him down with his endless arguments about duty, unrest, and the threat of revolution. And because, deep down, Darcy knew he needed guidance—though he doubted he would like the answers his uncle would give him.
The earl settled into the chair behind his desk, gesturing for Darcy to take the seat opposite. “I assume this is about Stanton.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Miles Stanton has turned the tenants against him with his abuses. His steward is raising rents arbitrarily, fencing off land, and accusing honest men of poaching. Sir Frederick has been doing what he can to mediate, but his influence only goes so far. The farmers are at theirbreaking point.”
