Hatchards? Darcy clenched his jaw. He had hoped to find her here, to speak with her before he could dwell too long on the implications of his uncle’s schemes. Instead, he was left with nowhere to direct his restless frustration.
He hesitated for the briefest moment, his fingers flexing inside his gloves. If she had gone to the booksellers, she would return soon, would she not? But no—he could notlinger. He had no right to wait upon her return, not when they had made no engagement to meet. It would cause questions.
He could simply… go to Hatchard’s himself. It was not as if he did not frequent that establishment often enough.
“How long has Miss Bennet been out?” he asked.
The manservant frowned. “Oh, better than an hour, sir. Come to think of it, perhaps closer to an hour and a half.”
Well, that was inconvenient. She could have been there and back by now, had her errand been a quick one. Or she could be lingering over her selections, relishing a day out. Unchaperoned, of course—the woman was incorrigible in that regard.
Then again, she might have met with one of the ladies from the ball last night. The man did say she had received some sort of note, and surely, her company was much in demand just now, as was his. That did seem a plausible enough explanation. And if that were the case, she could be hours yet, or she could be on her way home at that very moment. There was simply no way to know.
“Thank you.” With a nod to the manservant, Darcy turned and descended the steps once more, his temper no less agitated than when he arrived. He would return home.
When Darcy’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of his townhouse, he barely had time to disembark before another vehicle arrived just behind his. The horses, slightly lathered from a longer journey, slowed as a gentleman stepped down from the conveyance, glancing up at the townhouse with quiet scrutiny.
Darcy’s gaze flickered over him. He recognized the man—not personally, but he knew that crest on the door, and he knew something of the man by reputation. Anthony Langton, a Derbyshire landowner, one who had been away in the country when the election had been called. Lord Matlock had despaired of his vote already, but here he was, in London.
Langton turned, catching sight of Darcy, and with a polite expression, he approached. “Mr. Darcy, I presume?”
Darcy inclined his head. “Sir.”
Langton tipped his hat. “Forgive the intrusion. I had hoped for a moment of your time. I hope now is not inconvenient?”
Darcy studied him. He had never spoken to Langton before, but he knew his name, his lands. A practical man, if his reputation was to be believed, with a habit of keeping his own counsel.
“Of course,” Darcy said at last. “Would you care to step inside?”
The gentleman nodded once, and together they entered the townhouse, moving toward Darcy’s study. Once inside, Darcy gestured toward a chair, taking his own seat behind the desk.
Langton did not settle immediately, instead glancing about the study before finally speaking. “I shall be frank, Mr. Darcy,” he said. “I returned to Town only this very moment, for I have been hearing rather interesting things about this election.”
Darcy remained silent, waiting.
Langton exhaled slightly. “I have never placed much trust in Stanton, and from what I have heard, he has only confirmed my misgivings. But as for you—” He hesitated, his gaze sharpening. “I know little of your politics. Some say you are moderate, while some call you too radical to be depended upon. Some say your connections are weak, while a handful praise you for breaking with certain… traditions. You are a Darcy of Pemberley, but a few even paint you as something of a…” He chuckled. “You will forgive me—something of a Robin Hood with your notions about taxation and land access.”
Darcy arched his brows. “I think you will find the truth to be somewhere between those extremes.”
Langton grunted as he shifted in his chair. “I will admit, I had hoped another man would stand—Gresham, perhaps. I trust his judgment.”
Darcy did not bristle at the remark, though he noted it carefully. Sir Edmund had been a quiet supporter of his campaign, but his reluctance to put himself forward had left a void that Darcy had been forced to fill. “Sir Edmund Gresham is a fine man,” Darcy acknowledged. “But he has chosen to lend his voice to another rather than stand himself. That being the case, I hope to earn your trust in the same manner.”
“You might,” Langton said slowly. “Stanton promises much, but I do not believe half of what he says. I am yet to determine if you will prove any better.”
Darcy inclined his head, accepting the statement for what it was—a cautious overture. They spoke for a few minutes longer, the conversation remaining polite but noncommittal. Finally, the gentleman took his leave, and Darcy escorted him back to the front hall.
As the door closed behind his guest, Darcy exhaled, rubbing a hand briefly along his temple. He had known there would be skeptics. He would have to work harder to convince them. Turning, he addressed his butler. “Has the post arrived?”
“Yes, sir. It was delivered earlier. It is waiting on your desk.”
Darcy nodded, already moving toward his study, but then hesitated. “Was there anything from Miss Darcy?”
Benedict paused, his expression carefully neutral. “No, sir. Nothing from Miss Darcy today.”
Darcy frowned. That was… odd. Georgiana had promised to write regularly, and yet it had been several days now without a word. More than a week, in fact. Perhaps she had simply been enjoying herself too much to write.
Perhaps.
