Elizabeth smiled slightly. “It is rather absurd, is it not? But I fear I am quite a greedy creature, and moreover, a vain one The key was rather pretty. How could I send it back?”
The tall man’s patience was unraveling quickly. “Enough.” He straightened, glancing at his companion. “She is stalling.”
Elizabeth felt a bead of sweat at the back of her neck but did not let her expression falter.
“Who has them now?” the wiry man asked softly.
She met his gaze evenly. “I wonder that myself.”
He studied her for a long moment, then exhaled. “You will tell us eventually.”
Elizabeth lifted a delicate brow. “That will be difficult, as I do not know how I am to obtain fresh information to tell you.”
The taller man turned toward the door. “Let her sit with the question for a while.” The door shut behind them with a resounding thud.
Elizabeth exhaled slowly, wrapping her arms around herself.
So. They did not intend to harm her—at least, not yet. They believed she knew something, that she had been meant to act.
Which meant they would wait.
Good. That would give her time.
She turned, scanning the room, searching for anything she might use to her advantage. The flickering lantern cast just enough light to reveal the uneven planks of the floor, a rickety wooden chair, and…
A small, dust-covered window near the ceiling.
Her lips curled into a slow, determined smile.
They had underestimated her daring. Or her recklessness.
And that would be their first mistake.
The streets of Mayfairwere quieter at this hour, the hum of society dulled to the occasional passing carriage or the flicker of candlelight through drawing-room windows. He did not hesitate as he turned onto St. James’s, his path set—Brooks’s. Richard would be there. He had to be.
His mind was already working through the possibilities as his boots struck the cobblestone.Where was she?Had Elizabeth truly gone willingly? If so, it would be the first time in her life she was not at least somewhat contrary. Why? And with whom? That was the worst of it—the uncertainty, the doubt gnawing at him like a festering wound. He could not believe she had betrayed him—his instincts rejected the notion outright. But the possibility existed, whispering at the edges of his thoughts like a specter.
And if she had not gone willingly?
His jaw tightened, his pulse a steady roar in his ears.
The moment he reached the steps of Brooks’s, he did not pause. He strode through the entrance, nodding curtly to the steward who moved aside without question. The scent of cigars and brandy lingered in the air, the quiet murmur of political discussions and idle wagers filling the space. A few men glanced up as he passed, some with recognition, others with curiosity. Darcy ignored them, his gaze sweeping the room until—
There.
Richard lounged in a corner, his long legs stretched out before him, a half-empty glass of brandy in one hand as he conversed with an older gentleman Darcy did not recognize. His cousin’s expression was relaxed, the slight smirk on his face suggesting the conversation had taken an amusing turn. He had no idea—none at all—what storm was about to break over his head.
Darcy closed the distance in four strides. “Fitzwilliam!” he said sharply.
Richard looked up, his brows lifting at Darcy’s tone. “Cousin, you look as if you are ready to call someone out at dawn. Do I need to prepare my pistol?”
Darcy did not bother with pleasantries. “I need to speak with you. Now.”
Something in his voice—his stance, perhaps—must have struck a nerve, for Richard’s smirk faded. He murmured a word of parting to his companion, then rose smoothly, his easy manner replaced with quiet assessment. “Very well,” he said, setting his glass aside. “Let us find somewhere private.”
They moved swiftly to a small, unoccupied card room near the back of the club. The door shut behind them, sealing out the low hum of conversation beyond. Richard turned to face him, arms crossing over his chest.
“Now,” he said, his voice calm but edged with expectation. “Tell me what the devil is going on.”
