But this—this was different.
Elizabeth had been swept into it, unaware, unprotected. She had been left ignorant while they all watched, waiting to see if she would prove guilty or useful. And he—he had been left in the dark as well. Forced into the role of her safeguard without even knowing why.
A cold fury settled beneath his skin. He turned sharply toward the door, barely restraining the urge to slam his fist against the desk before him.
“Where are you going?” Matlock called after him.
Darcy did not stop. “To Gracechurch Street.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elizabeth left a notefor her aunt, a quick scrawl explaining that she was going to Hatchard’s to browse for books. It was plausible enough—she had made a habit of visiting the bookseller during her stay in London, and it would not raise suspicion. Even if her aunt were home, she doubted Mrs. Gardiner would question her errand.
Still, her fingers trembled slightly as she sealed the note.
A part of her wished she could simply tell her aunt the truth, confide in her as she once might have done before all of this began. But she could not risk drawing her uncle’s household deeper into this mire, not when she was still struggling to grasp the shape of it herself.
And what if… what if her uncle reallywasengaged in this… business?
She left the house quickly and hired a hackney, keeping her face averted from anyone on the street as she climbed inside. The streets of London bustled around her, the usual chaos of foot traffic, carriages, and vendors filling the air with the hum of daily life. But Elizabeth barely saw it.
Her thoughts were fixed on one destination—Darcy’s house in Mayfair.
When the carriage pulled up to his townhouse, Elizabeth hesitated before stepping out. She had only been here once before, and even then, it had not been by invitation. Now, for the second time, she was arriving unannounced, uncertain of her welcome—but with far more at stake than before.
The butler, a man she vaguely recognized from her past visit, opened the door with his usual impeccable composure. His brows lifted only slightly at the sight of her.
“Miss Bennet,” he said. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” she returned, clasping her hands in front of her to steady herself. “I have come to speak with Mr. Darcy. Rather urgently, I am afraid. Is he at home?”
The butler inclined his head slightly. “I am afraid not, miss.”
She blinked. “You will think me fearfully impertinent, but do you mean he is ‘not at home tome’ or… not at home at all?”
A tick appeared on the butler’s cheek. “Mr. Darcy left earlier and has not yet returned. He gave no indication of when we would expect him back.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank, though she had half-expected this answer. She had not sent word ahead, and Darcy was hardly a man to linger idly at home. He had people to meet, things to orchestrate. After all, he was a terribly important man, now.
She hesitated, glancing past the butler toward the empty hall beyond. She could ask to wait, perhaps. But what then?
It would behighlyimproper. Positively ruinous, and not only for herself. She was here alone, without a chaperone, without any plausible excuse for waiting in a gentleman’s home.
No, she could not risk that.
Besides, she reminded herself, she had no claim on Darcy.
Theirs was not a conventional connection based on attraction or mutual affinity, but one born of manipulation and need—he was to shield her, and she was permitting him to make use of her for his own political ambitions in a way that might also save her reputation. He had agreed. But she could not demand more than that.
He owed her nothing.
And she had already asked for too much.
Swallowing her disappointment, Elizabeth exhaled softly and gave the butler a small smile. “Thank you. There is no need to trouble him with a message. I will return another time.”
The butler inclined his head. “Very good, miss.”
She turned, stepping carefully down the stone steps back toward the waiting carriage. The street was still busy, the passing throng oblivious to her hesitation.
