Code. It had to be a code. But why? And for whom?
Her stomach twisted. This was far worse than she had imagined. She had expected instructions—some clear indication of what she was meant to do with the key. But instead, she was left with riddles in a language not even her proficiency could unravel.
She refolded the letter with care, resealing it as Lydia had taught her. But the knowledge that it had offered no clarity gnawed at her, leaving her more unsettled than before.
For the first time, she admitted it freely to herself:I need Mr. Darcy’s help.
The thought was as galling as it was comforting.Hewould know what to make of this. Or, at the very least, he would have the resources to find out. But she could not simply call on him unannounced, nor could she risk sending a letter that might be intercepted.
She pondered the possibilities, but none seemed safe—or sensible.
Finally, she slumped back into her chair, pressing her hands to her temples.
Think, Elizabeth. You are cleverer than this. There must be a way.
But even as she tried to devise a plan, that familiar sense of dread crept over her again. She was in far deeper than she had ever intended, and the walls were closing in fast.
Chapter Twenty
Darcy entered Brooks’s witha long, determined stride, his gloves removed, and his coat already half-off before the footman could assist. The familiar murmur of gentlemen in quiet conversation filled the air, mingling with the scent of pipe smoke and spirits. Today, the club’s usual comforts were an afterthought. There was work to be done.
Across the room, Lord Matlock and Richard were already seated at a table near the large bay windows, their heads bent in conversation. Richard was laughing at something his father said, but when his eyes flicked up and caught Darcy’s approach, the grin widened. “There he is,” Richard announced, pushing back his chair. “The man of the hour.”
Lord Matlock did not rise, but lifted an appraising brow. “It is about time.”
Darcy dropped into the chair opposite them, shaking his head at a manservant who offered him a drink. “I had other matters to attend to.”
Richard gave him a knowing look, his grin taking on a sly edge. “Other matters… or oneparticularmatter?”
“I do not follow.”
“Oh, come, cousin! I can hardly turn round but I hear reports of Fitzwilliam Darcy escorting about some lively young lady from Hertfordshire, smiling like a sot and acting the perfectly smitten escort—a thing, I might add, of which he has never been accused before.”
Darcy shot his cousin a glare. “That is your father’s doing and no more.”
“And it has paid off in spades,” Matlock grunted. “I wager you spoke with a dozen more men at the garden party than you might have if I had let you go in there to stand by yourself.”
“Strategic it might be,” Richard chuckled, “but I was quite expecting Darcy to be off… er…furtheringthis convenient alliance, Father, rather than coming to speak with us today.”
Darcy bristled, but before he could retort, Lord Matlock waved a dismissive hand. “Enough. We have more important things to discuss than your cousin’s… companionship.” His tone implied more, but he did not elaborate. “Stanton has the advantage of you, both in connections and experience. We need to solidify your support.”
“And what do you propose?”
Before the earl could answer, Mr. Harcourt appeared from across the room, weaving past groups of gentlemen deep in conversation, his eyes already fixed on their table. Conversations dipped as he passed, men tipping their heads in acknowledgment, others pausing mid-sentence to track his progress. When he reached them, he didn’t wait for an invitation—he simply pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it with the air of a man accustomed to being welcomed wherever he went.
“Darcy. Matlock. Fitzwilliam,” Harcourt greeted, taking the empty chair without waiting for an invitation. His sharp gaze settled on Darcy. “It seems you are the talk of more than just the social circles these days.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I had hoped to avoid such attention.”
Harcourt chuckled. “That is not how politics works, my friend. You should know that by now.” He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood. “I’d a letter from my steward this morning. Adams is, as you know, brother to Mr. Watson’s steward at Waverley, and he hears much. According to him, word from Derbyshire is… favorable.”
“Favorable?” Darcy echoed skeptically.
“There has been a deal of talk. Not just about Stanton’s usual bluster, but about you, Darcy.”
Darcy arched a brow. “Talk?”
Harcourt nodded. “And not just in Derbyshire, but those that are here in London, too. The smaller landowners—the ones Stanton assumes are in his pocket—are starting to wonder if there might be another way. They have seen you at gatherings, heard what you have to say. Some had letters by your personal hand. It is not just your name anymore. They see a man who offers something new.”
