That alone sent a sliver of unease through her. If someone had sent this to her deliberately, then it was not a mistake. It was a message.
And if the messenger was waiting, then they expected an answer.
Her first instinct was to take the letter straight to her uncle. But then she hesitated. If this was a mistake—a simple mix-up of names—then why had the messenger insisted on delivering it toher?Why had her name, and not her uncle’s, been written on the outside?
Elizabeth read the note again, hoping some new meaning might emerge from the careful script, but the words remained as inscrutable as before. A shipping error. A misfiled manifest. It sounded like a mundane business concern, something her uncle would handle without a second thought. But it had been addressed to her.
Surely… Might this be connected to the letter and the key?
The earl had said they had been watching for something… Perhaps Darcy knew, or the colonel, but the earl had not seen fit to say more to her. All she knew was what Darcy had told her, and his information seemed rather vague. Smuggling, perhaps? Her hands trembled slightly as she folded the note.
What if someone had deliberately used her uncle’s name, his reputation, his very business, to smuggle something—or someone—under false pretenses? Under his very nose? Surely…hecould not be involved himself… could he?
The thought turned her stomach. She had never questioned her uncle’s honesty. Not once. But how well did she truly understand his work? Was there some corner of it, some tangled business dealing, that he had kept even from his own family?
Elizabeth shook her head sharply. No. That was impossible. Mr. Gardiner was an honest man. He would never involve himself in something unlawful.
Would he?
She had no way of knowing. Shebelievedhe was honest, but even then, did she dare show him this? Surely, if she did, he would do what any decent man would do—he would investigate. He would march down to the docks, demand answers, and if there was something amiss… if there was danger…
Her breath came quicker. No! She could not risk it.
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. What could she do?
Darcy—his sharp mind, his careful way of sifting through problems, of weighing every consequence. He had the resources to comprehend this sort of thing better than she did. And his cousin, a colonel in His Majesty’s Army, might have the connections to uncover what was really happening.
But going to them again meant… It meant trusting a man she hardly knew, one who escorted her about merely for the sake of appearances… over her own family. Involving them in something that was growing ever deeper.
She exhaled slowly and straightened her shoulders.
Turning to the manservant, she forced her voice into careful control. “Tell Mr. Temple that I will attend the matter.”
Wilson dipped his head and withdrew, his quiet footsteps fading down the hall. Only when she was alone, did she let out a shaky breath. She would not go to Uncle Gardiner. Not yet. What if he was innocent?
What if he was not?
Either way, she needed to know what this was before she let him walk blindly into it.
And for that, she needed Darcy.
“Ah, the conquering heroarrives,” Richard drawled the moment Darcy stepped into the study. He leaned back in his chair, one boot resting on the opposite knee, his smirk firmly in place. “I trust you have recovered from last night’s triumph?”
Darcy cast him a dry look as he handed his coat to a waiting footman. “If by triumph you mean an evening of relentless conversation and measured performances, then yes, I have endured it.”
Lord Matlock, seated behind his desk, chuckled as he swirled his brandy. “Endured? My boy, you exceeded expectations. I daresay I have not been this pleased with you since your Cambridge days.”
Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Stacks of correspondence, lists of names, and letters from Derbyshire landowners were spread across the desk in neat piles, as though the entire election might be decided here and now with the right set of calculations.
“Well?” Matlock gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”
Darcy stiffened but said nothing, lowering himself into the chair across from his uncle.
Matlock tapped a finger against the open ledger before him. “I had word this morning from Linton and Harcourt—both are secured. Harcourt was already leaning our way, but after last night, he all but pledged his undying loyalty to you as well as your heirs to the third generation—provided you ever get any. As for Linton, he was skeptical at first, but he seemed rather taken with your ability to hold a conversation outside of hunting and estate taxes.”
Richard snorted. “Imagine that. My cousin, socially adept.”
Darcy ignored him. His mind turned back to last night—the long string of conversations, the careful maneuvering, the way Elizabeth had charmed men who might otherwise have dismissed him.
