Darcy exhaled sharply and raked a hand through his hair, as though the simple act might clear the lingering thoughts from his mind. He could not afford distractions—not now, when every move he made would be scrutinized, every word weighed for meaning beyond its intent. Yet thoughts of Elizabeth clung to him like the autumn mist outside his windows, impossible to shake.
It was absurd. She was merely part of the strategy, a convenient ally in an inconvenient situation. And still…
Darcy shook his head, willing himself to focus. There was work to be done, and daydreaming over an impossible woman would not drive Stanton out of Derbyshire.
He returned to his desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Letters needed to be written—to Sir Frederick, to trusted landowners in Derbyshire, to allies who could help him solidify his position in London. He would draft a response to the magistrate, offering assurances of his commitment to Derbyshire’s welfare while quietly requesting more details about Stanton’s land acquisitions.
This was no longer about reluctance or obligation. Stanton posed a real threat, not just to Derbyshire, but to the very principles Darcy held dear. It was time to act.
Elizabeth sat by thewindow of the Gardiners’ modest London townhouse, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her teacup as the sounds of the city filtered through the glass—carriage wheels clattering over cobblestones, the occasional call of a street vendorhawking his wares. The rhythm of London life had once seemed invigorating, but now it seemed to press in and steal her breath, tight and suffocating.
The letter and key rested in her reticule on the table beside her, their presence as heavy as if they had been made of stone rather than paper and metal. She had taken them out more times than she could count in the last few days, studying them by candlelight, by sunlight, even under the dim glow of the hallway sconce when she thought no one would notice. But they remained stubbornly mute, revealing nothing.
What am I to do with you?she thought bitterly, glancing at the reticule as though it might suddenly offer an answer.
She had not told her aunt and uncle. The guilt of it gnawed at her, especially when Mr. Gardiner’s laughter echoed from his study downstairs or when Mrs. Gardiner’s gentle voice called to the children. They were good, sensible people—surely they could help. But what if involving them only drew them deeper into whatever dangerous web she had stumbled into? She could not bear the thought of dragging them further into this mess, especially when it was her own foolish curiosity that had set everything in motion.
Still, it felt wrong to keep secrets from them. Elizabeth sighed, resting her chin on her hand and staring out at the street below. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the cobblestones, and for the first time in days, she felt no prickling sensation of eyes on her back. She had been careful—taking different routes when she left the house, glancing over her shoulder, lingering in shop windows to see if anyone loitered behind her. Nothing. No strange faces, no lingering glances.
Perhaps whoever sent the letter realized their mistake and moved on. But the key in her reticule suggested otherwise. Someone knew where she lived. Someone expected her to act. And someone was waiting for that key.
What if it was all a mistake? Perhaps the letter and key were meant for someone else entirely, and they had simply been delivered to the wrong address. But that seemed unlikely. The note wrapped around the outside of the letter had been addressed toher, and the instructions were clear. No, it was not a mistake.
What if someone wanted to frame her? The idea sent a chill down her spine. She had been caught in a compromising position once already at Lord Matlock’s party. What if this was another trap, designed to paint her as a conspirator, to ruin her name and, by extension, her uncle’s?
Or perhaps… Perhaps the key was a test. A way for someone to gauge whether she could be trusted, whether she would play along with whatever scheme was unfolding beneath London’s polished surface. But what kind of test? And who was behind it?
Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Mr. Darcy.
If only she could see him again without the pretense of political appearances and social expectations, she might simply ask him what he thought. There was a part of her—an increasingly stubborn part—that trusted his judgment, even if he was insufferably proud and rigid. He had a sharp mind, and more importantly, he knew things—things she could not hope to understand from the safety of her drawing room.
But she could not just march over to his townhouse whenever the mood struck her. She had already done so once, had she not? And the move had been ill-judged, at best. Doing so again would not only raise eyebrows, but it would also invite precisely the kind of scrutiny she was trying to avoid.
Still, the memory of his earnest gaze and the way his presence seemed to anchor her in moments of uncertainty lingered at the edges of her thoughts. She had not seen any of the French dignitaries or their aides at the garden party, which had been a relief. But the lingering fear remained, a quiet whisper in the back of her mind.
Someone is watching. Someone knows.
Elizabeth rose from her chair and began to pace the room, her reticule swinging from her wrist. She could not sit idle any longer. The letter and the key were demands for action, and action was something she could manage—even if it terrified her.
What if I… She hesitated, chewing her lip as a dangerous idea began to form.
What if she simplyreadthe letter?
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked toward the reticule, where the folded slip of paper rested alongside the key. The idea seemed obvious now, embarrassingly so. She was the only one of her sisters who could read French, after all—her father’s one indulgence in her education had been securing lessons from the local vicar’s wife, who had spent time abroad in her youth.
Of course, Lydia had taught her something just as useful: how to sneak into their father’s correspondence without leaving a trace. Elizabeth could still remember Lydia’s mischievous grin as she demonstrated how to steam open a wax seal and reseal it without arousing suspicion. At the time, Elizabeth had scolded her sister for such antics, but now… well, she supposed it was a skill worth having.
Her heart quickened as she retrieved the letter from her reticule. The paper almost felt as if would burn her fingers now, as though it knew she was about to cross a line.But she pressed on, lighting a candle and holding the envelope carefully over the flame, just enough to soften the wax without scorching the paper. When the seal loosened, she slipped the letter out, her fingers trembling slightly as she unfolded the crisp sheet.
The handwriting was elegant, the ink dark and precise. But as Elizabeth’s eyes scanned the lines, her brow furrowed.
It was French, yes—but none of it made any sense.
Le corbeau chante à minuit. Les fenêtres sont fermées mais le vent est fort. La clé ouvre la porte qui ne doit pas être vue.
The raven sings at midnight. The windows are closed, but the wind is strong. The key opens the door that must not be seen.
Elizabeth read the lines again, then a third time, hoping they might suddenly rearrange themselves into something logical. But it was nonsense.
